Short Story
The Whispering Canopy
The Whispering Canopy Within the heart of the Verdant Timberland, where daylight moved through the clears out and the discussion was sweet with the fragrance of sprouting blooms, stood a tree not at all like any other. This antiquated monster, known to the timberland tenants as the Whispering Canopy, was rumored to hold the intelligence of the ages. Its branches spread wide and tall, making a common cathedral that shielded a bunch of animals. The take off of the Whispering Canopy never fell, indeed within the harshest winters, and it was said that in the event that you tuned in closely, you may listen to the tree talk in a delicate stir, sharing insider facts and stories from times long past.
By Abdul Qayyum2 years ago in Fiction
Starlight Manor
Once Mayuri departs from the guest room and Lise enters, Alois all but disappears out of her sight. His only words to Lise before he goes, before she can ask him any of the thousands of questions bouncing around in her jumbled brain, are to stay put and not follow him. A command—as always.
By angela hepworth2 years ago in Fiction
Paul Stewart: The Kingmaker of Vocal
Heavy the crown that wears the man. Weighty the responsibility that said man wields. Said man being me. There is nothing throwaway or even remotely slight and insignificant about what I do. A well-timed comment and a like from me can lead you onto great and wonderful things around these parts. Eclipsing my own success entirely. Just one first place and a plethora of Top Stories are all I have to my name. While those I paved the way for and who I helped encourage and inspire, have overshadowed me.
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Fiction
Untimely Eyes
Education is not what it was when I was a lad. These young people are rather wild, untamed. They are cruel, selfish, prone to deception and betrayal. It is almost as if, when I was young, we were all tacitly cooperating; now, in this bold, nineteenth century, they seem to be at odds in a rather Hobbesian, red of tooth and claw world. Some of my colleagues find them disgusting or ridiculous. I must confess, though I am somewhat embarrassed to do so, that I find most of them rather frightening.
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Fiction
Run Through The Jungle
Author Unknown - April 17th 1968 The Devil himself reached from the jungle and dragged me into hell. A minute before, the jungle across the shallow valley swayed in the spring breeze. Minh glared over the stock of his RPD he had arranged in the brush nest. It was well concealed, and the veteran of three different colonial wars hated how we moved along our trench atop the gently rising hill. Bao and Tran smoked and lounged against the dirt wall. We dug while they smoked, always. I hated them.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Fiction
Forced Compliance Not Necessary. Top Story - May 2024.
Some people knew this would happen. The chips in our heads, I mean. Everyone laughed. Isn't that funny? The crazy part: even the conspiracy nuts had a mobile phone. Everyone walked around with the "chip" glued to their hand, eyes glued to chip.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Seasons
I shiver as I pull open the heavy glass door and step out onto the frost-riddled porch. My breath rises like smoke in the cold, and the rushing of the creek fills my ears. Nearby, as I walk toward the gate, I hear the beavers splash in alarm as they sense my presence. I bury my hands deep in the pockets of my thin hoodie, and hunch my shoulders up protectively against my ears. The cold air bites at my cheeks and nose, and the tips of my ears already hurt. It’s barely 30° out, and beneath my foolishly bare toes, the dead brown grass twinkles with frost. The sky is too overcast to see the stars there, but with so many ice-stars beneath my feet, I am satisfied.
By ThatOne_Girl2 years ago in Fiction
Pretty. Content Warning.
The red and blue lights of the ambulance fluttered dimly in the summer sunlight, the black asphalt of the highway the only dark tone amid the golden fields and bright blue sky. I was strangely conscious of the peaceful surroundings around the accident as I ran towards the crumpled Rav-4 on the side of the road. Flames licked the edges of the battered hood, and the dark figure slumped in the front seat was not moving. In the back of the car, mercifully intact, I saw two small hands slapping desperately in the windows. Susan reached the car before me, her lighter figure swifter than my more lumbering bulk. She jerked open the back door and unbuckled the child, scooping it out and setting the young girl on the ground as I set to work on the front door.
By ThatOne_Girl2 years ago in Fiction
Walking on wheels
I’m not sure Dad knows what he’s doing this time. He seems to want to strap something onto my feet. He calls them skates, and he’s convinced that I saw someone else with them and wanted to try. Doesn’t he know I’m only four? Has he forgotten all the time I spent learning to walk?
By Andy Potts2 years ago in Fiction
