Short Story
Decrescendo . Top Story - February 2024.
I'm wearing the hand-me-down leggings of a girl who got cancer and lived. Fraying and soaked at the kneecaps. I crouch by snow-sunken tires - pawing our car deeper into the hillside with ungloved hands. Futile, numb effort.
By Erin Latham Shea3 years ago in Fiction
The Fruitless Quest
It was that time of the year when the scorching sun beat down relentlessly causing everyone to lazily sit under the trees. Towards the the center of the village there was a big oak tree which offered the most suitable shade, its shape was like of an umbrella and had a sitting capacity of about 120 people. Unless it was a village gathering it always contained about 15 people who normally sit for a chat. Amongst them you would never miss Darkman, his character was magnetizing with a high voice that you would not miss a word he says. His role was to tell stories and lies which kept the crowd giggling all the time. He once came with low mood and majority followed suit.
By Cuthbert Boyboy Banda3 years ago in Fiction
Misplaced Earrings
Earrings so gold and black. Like icicle spikes that dangles from a ball so small. A black eye silhouetted with golden liners and yet, it sits in the center of the earring where the spikes lay. These pair of 2’s that wears on both ears, is made to staple a show we’ve experienced, and played. A gift of some sort from someone so dear. A high school friend who’ve parted and now entered revered. These earrings have yet to arrive. Soon it will be exchanged, soon it will be renamed.
By The Kind Quill3 years ago in Fiction
Without Her, I Am Lost
In the beginning, it was dark and snug. I liked it, I think. I had nothing to compare it to. All there was, was Her. Her footsteps were my cradle, the rhythm and rush of her blood my lullaby. I knew the scent and hot silk of her as my own Self. She surrounded me, protected me, defined me. Poured herself into me to grow me from nearly nothing. Cell by cell. Inch by inch.
By Sam The Doula (Blooming Miracle)3 years ago in Fiction
Dim light
The city of dim light, the gate of time, Magic, Dragon, prophecy, adventure, courage, friendship, love, sacrifice, faith, hope.In a quiet village called "Eye of the sun" surrounded by majestic mountains, there lived an intelligent and curious girl named "Leila". Leila was famous for her love of exploring and wandering in the forest next to the village, where she would spend many hours looking for new adventures.
By Samir hosny3 years ago in Fiction
Melodies of the Heart: Giuliana's Musical Journey
Giuliana was a girl with a heart as big as her dreams. From the moment she could walk, she was captivated by the magic of music and the allure of dance. Her days were filled with melodies that she hummed softly to herself, and her feet seemed to have a mind of their own, constantly tapping out rhythms on any surface they could find.
By Brandon Shimada3 years ago in Fiction
Symphony of the Streets
Once upon a time in the bustling city of Brooksville, there lived a young boy named Steven. Unlike most kids his age, Steven had an unusual fascination – he was head over heels in love with garbage trucks. While other children were engrossed in video games and cartoons, Steven found sheer joy in the rhythmic dance of these waste-disposal giants.
By Brandon Shimada3 years ago in Fiction
One Writer
One Writer A writer sits in front of an antique typewriter, ready to pour his thoughts onto paper: "Writing was my lifeline, the very thing that saved me from the depths of despair. Yet, I didn't write about trivial matters or indulge in the ridiculousness of love letters penned for unrequited affections. Words became my refuge, a sanctuary from the pain and anguish that plagued my existence. As a shy teenager with seemingly no prospects in life, I became a dreamer. A dreamer who would weep and beseech the moon to deliver the essence of my words, so I could tend to them with greater care. These words I wrote became my only flame, providing warmth in the face of the world's coldness. They acted as a protective shield against the venomous words of the women on the bus, who sought to pry into my life and label me as insignificant. Their hurtful remarks echoed sentiments that had only been expressed by one person before. And so, I transformed these women into the greatest villains within my poems and short stories, finding joy in their demise and giving my life a satisfying conclusion. In reality, I severed ties with my predetermined destiny, leaving those women on the bus to spew venom amongst themselves while I forged my own path. All of this and more, being a dreamer and a writer, was akin to granting wings to a condor, allowing it to soar far above the vultures. I discovered that I held control over my own destiny if I fought tirelessly, never relinquishing my beliefs. Compiling all my words and crafting a book in 2019 also played a crucial role in my salvation. The dream I aspired to was grander than ever, and the pursuit of that dream continues to this day. The struggle is ongoing, a constant reminder of my unwavering commitment to what I have written and the incomplete work that lies before me. I realized that if I am willing to fight until the end, without surrendering my beliefs, I hold the power to shape my own destiny. Piecing together the words and birthing a book in 2019 was a salvation in itself. The dream, however, reaches far beyond that milestone. The fight for my dream is far from over, and I embrace the perpetual struggle as a testament of my love for what I have written and the work that remains unfinished. If you have experienced the same, then you know that words hold the power to heal. They possess the cure within their very essence. So, cry, smile, and fight. Be the architect of your own world, one that brings harmony to our own. Write the words that can save you from a fate you do not desire. Sketch the destination you wish to reach. Have you felt the same? If so, then embrace the power of words as your remedy. The cure lies within the act of writing." As the typewriter emits its final sound, the writer removes the sheet, crumples it, and tosses it into the trash can. Frustration seeps in. "This is what the world does to all writers," the writer laments. "Come to me now with your hollow flattery, and I will discard it just as I did this crumpled page. How cruel you are." The writer closes the typewriter, placing it within a box of memories, and steps out onto the balcony to savor the last sips of his mint tea, seeking solace in the tranquility of the moment.
By Antonio Madrugada3 years ago in Fiction
