Short Story
Burial Rites
My Uncle Delroy had passed away back in Jamaica and, no matter how much I disliked funerals, I was duty bound to go home and pay my respects. As the years ticked by like the hands on a clock, there were fewer old folks left to die and fewer reasons to visit the country of my youth. Delroy was my father’s brother, but Papa had passed on several years ago. Uncle Delroy was the last of his generation on that side of my family, but Mama was still living and if I didn’t show up for the funeral, it would be a community scandal.
By Randy Baker3 years ago in Fiction
Yellow Snow
It was the first snowfall of the winter, and Ellie was determined to make the most of it. Unfortunately, she needed to do one, crucial thing first. Pee. Leading the way down the condo stairs, she safely guided her owner out into the wondrous chill of a winter day.
By Kale Sinclair3 years ago in Fiction
Anger's Point Of View
Settled in the background of every encounter, I am present, waiting to spill over. I am observant but hasty when I am released unto the very person or thing that beckoned me. I am anger in the raw, misplaced, and searching for an outlet. Most times I am neither in the right place nor do I come forth at the right time. I run rapidly within the heart and I race through the mind. Even in my absence, people are aware that I may surface at any given time. It seems that I get the best of those who are unsuspecting. I tend to go rogue in situations that calls for my support, my intervention is a fire that's hard to put out. At times, I can be a domino effect, a leader of destruction. Sometimes I am not seen, but I am heard and I am felt. I am misplaced and don’t know how to balance my footing. I want, no I need an understanding. Very few people are inclined to figure me out, but even with them, the perception of me keeps a fraction of them blindfolded. The contentious dialogue of everyone who describes me has rendered me a threat, a missile ready to explode. I can’t explain myself to anyone, as their understanding of me was never meant for a resolution, but more like an action to quiet my storm and redirect my route. I am an earthquake who shakes the the minds of those within my possession. The focus of my wrath is to destroy any sign of good will or happiness that I may come across. I then ask myself, why must I make other people feel uncomfortable? Why am I misplaced? Why am I misunderstood? It’s as if no one wants to get to the gutter of my wreckage but take pride and tell stories of how they fought me with fire in their tone. I am misplaced because I haven’t been acknowledged for the undercurrent of the matter I represent, but I have been exploited and misjudged. How do I not emerge to a day inside the clumsiest person who steps in a noticeable mud puddle of rainwater? How do I stay hidden when I’m at the theater watching a movie but the person in front of me loudly screams at almost every scene? How do I ignore the fact that the piece of tissue that I’d been unknowingly walking around with on the back end of my shoe is stuck with gum? How do I keep silent when I am provoked? Those questions will go unanswered and I will remain present in the person who has misplaced me. The burning that I'm destined to release is sometimes misguided. I am a brewing war in people's minds and hearts. I am a tsunami of emotions that threaten to swallow anyone who carries me whole. I am a contradiction of strength and weakness. Although I am misplaced, I am a well known stranger in this world. I am present in everyone but tamed by no one. I take pride in the ways that I crash through people’s lives, leaving a trail of destruction in my wake. I am a storm that ravages everything in its path without mercy. I am a force to be reckoned with. To learn to control me is to understand me. I am misplaced but I am fair. I am misplaced and I am timeless. I am a reminder of everything that has gone wrong in people’s lives. Where can I begin if I never end? I am a mirage of opinions and misjudgement. I am a trail of fire to some of the most unexpressed and deepest hurts. I am abashedly misplaced, because in this world, I was already determined but not truly explored.
By Laydee B Writes3 years ago in Fiction
Pond Socks
It was the dead of winter, and Timmy McDowel was sure that Ridgewood pond was finally frozen enough to skate on. Hustling to get dressed, his bedroom door opened. Being a red retriever, Ellie immediately began nibbling at the thick socks Timothy was pulling onto his feet. Giving in to her demands, Timmy tossed a stinkier sock across the room.
By Kale Sinclair3 years ago in Fiction
Dancing Shadows
The campfire crackled, sparks dancing into the inky sky. A chill wind whispered through the skeletal remains of the drowned town, stirring the memories buried beneath the surface of the manmade lake. I stroked the worn pair of ballet shoes tied to my backpack while huddling close to the fire. Oblivious to the haunting history clinging to the air like a shroud, my friends howled at the moon, dancing and singing. The submerged steeple of the town's church, its spire a ghostly finger pointing to the heavens, cast a shadow on the night ahead of us.
By T.L. McConaughy3 years ago in Fiction
Two Parakeets on a Wire
So, I says to the ole lady who's hell bent on calling me Stella her favourite few words, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea", she laughs, he gets her the beea from the fridge and one for himself, too. They were watching other people talking which apparrotly amuses them just as much as I have and start gettin' kinda silly, you know in the way humans do when they have nothin' to do but drink beea and munch on chips. Out of nowhere while I am dozin' on this kid swing they had in my prison cell, Jimmay gets up and stumbles by and says, right at me mind ya', "Hey little Stella, I bet you want out of there; have you ever used those pretty wings?" He unlatched the opening where they stick there fat hands to give me the same crap of tropical bird blend every morning and then he tries to touch me; I felt so helpless, kinda violated if ya' know what I mean. So, he ruffled my feathers a bit and he backed off sayin' "didn't mean to scare ya' little Stella" and he plops down next to my ole lady and starts watching people talk again. At first I hesitated and just pushed the little door open a bit with my beak; I perched up on the edge neither in or technically out of the joint. I see that the window is clearly open and decided, it's now or never. I flew the coop, never looked back and wound up at a park full of little people shouting and sitting on the same kind of swing I had, but bigger of course. The sky starts to get dark and part of me thought I should get back to my ole lady and Jimmay, you know, kinda spooky like the Stockholm syndrome. I mean, they fed me and thought I was cute and all. Then, I overheard some fowl feathered tree mates laughing about me. I didn't understand them at first with their pigeon like accents but I did make out that they said I was a male named Stella and it was hilarious to them that I didn't even know what I was. They went on to say that if I survive the night I'd best wind up in a zoo with "his kind". Geez, I was terrified. A zoo? I didn't have a clue what they meant and thought it best to leave the tree then, before it was too late. I flew straight back to Jimmay and the ole lady's apartment but the window was closed. I sat all night on the ledge and said, "Jimmay, gemme anotha beea" over and over but noone came. I was mortified. I could see through the glass my tropical seed blend, my full water bowl, my little swing and started to bawl my eyes out. That's right when you flew by. What are the chances of somebirdy lookin' like me in this town? I followed you, discreetly at first so as not to spook ya' and well, I just wanna say thanks for sharing with me the survival skills you've mastered. Here we are, eh? A paratweets sharing fruit in a junkyard, haha. - STELLA! - "Now that was loud!" - Could you shut your trap for once? - "Sorry master, I was taught that talking was a real treat". - We are tropical birds in a dump on Long Island, that's it, that's what we are. We ain't show birds no more, we're homeless, and my name is Mister, not master. It's short for Mister Avery Johnson. Got it? - For once Stella was quiet, his head drooped to the side sadly. Making humans laugh was how he'd spent the last three years and here he was with his mirror image staring at him with grumpy eyes. His last words to Mister Avery Johnson, or anyone for that matter were, "I promise not to say another peep".
By ROCK aka Andrea Polla (Simmons)3 years ago in Fiction
Cleopatra
Welcome, history buffs and humor fans, to a rollercoaster ride through the chronicles of human progress! Today, we're unloading the shocking life and seasons of Cleopatra, the sovereign who swaggered through history with more show than your number one unscripted television show. Snatch your popcorn, lock in, and return prepared for an excursion once again to the days when domains conflicted, relationships sizzled, and Cleopatra ruled!
By Michael Oregbuyide3 years ago in Fiction
Murmurs of the Frozen Backwoods
Snowflakes moved like ethereal ballet performers in the snowy evening, their fragile pirouettes finishing the world in an embroidery of white. The moon cast a powerful gleam upon the quiet scene, transforming the woods into a charmed domain.
By Manjit@6400..3 years ago in Fiction
