Short Story
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
Saber Tooth
The snowfall was increasing, and the distance of clear visibility was rapidly diminishing. Ellie was anxious, whining to be off leash so she could frolic in the snow, but I saw the coyotes before she did which forced me to immediately increase the tension on her leash.
By Kale Sinclair3 years ago in Fiction
I Made Snowmen with My Children. Content Warning.
I made snowmen with my children. Wintry world whipping wind around fingers and faces. Breathless giggles condensing into clouds. Running through the trees, crunching fresh footprints. You stopped making footprints a month ago.
By Rebekah Crawley3 years ago in Fiction
Wallet World
Hi. I bet you wanna know my name, well I’ve got news for you, I don’t have a name. I’m not a person, I’m actually just a piece of property. An important piece of property I might add, but I don’t think my owner caught that newsflash. I am a wallet and if you haven’t been living on planet earth for well, ever, then you should know that I house some of the most important belongings for my owner including: a driver’s license, money, credit cards, state issued ID’s, even MVP cards for when you wanna knock a couple of dollars and cents off some of that high priced food you’re likely to purchase at food lion.
By Joe Patterson3 years ago in Fiction
Snowy Reverie
Andrew? Andrew woke to a delightful sight - a veritable winter wonderland just waiting for him. He leapt out of bed and slid into the warm clothes he had left out. They were his favourites. As he slipped on his thick grey socks, he couldn't hide his huge bright smile, pulling on his thermal layers and then his blue jeans, black t-shirt and wooly sweater. Can you hear me?
By Paul Stewart3 years ago in Fiction
