Young Adult
The Last Dance
No matter how many times you take yourself out of an equation, that sole memory will always remain. It's been five years since we shared our last dance on the frozen pond behind your mother's house, yet I've been playing the memory over and over again as if it had just occurred yesterday. It's been five years of me pleading for you to come back, of me pleading for your return.. and although I know you will never come back, I can't ever find myself to allow myself to move on. Five years. Five years since our last dance. The last time we held hands. The last time we shared a kiss. Dammit Claudia, why did you have to go? You promised me you'd stay. You promised me that you'd get better. You promised. We were supposed to grow old together. We had plans to grow old together, watching the sky change colors as you laid your head on my shoulder. You weren't supposed to end your story before the climax, Deb.
By 'Lissa Stufflestreet5 years ago in Fiction
The Great Horned God
There was always a chilling breeze right before the witching hour. A chill that would send splinters down your spine. Nothing certain of it ever came. There were never any demonic women out dancing naked beneath a melting moon. Yet children were told to be tucked in long before that time came. Safe in their god protected dream. No businesses stayed open to welcome weary travelers who were lost after making that fateful wrong turn. The men always tripled checked their front and back doors to be well secured. But let me reiterate this key thing… nothing ever happened. At least… nothing that we could see.
By Valarie King5 years ago in Fiction
What Happened to Evan Wheeler: I'm not dead.
Part 2 I feel like the sun comes up a little faster when I have things to do. I woke up at 6:00 AM this morning, and the sun was already shining bright as if it was mid-day. I got out of the bed and slowly started to make my way down the hallway to the bathroom.
By Alexus Sylvester5 years ago in Fiction
Another Load of Bull
The sound of the sheet of paper being ripped from the typewriter’s platen brought him back to the present moment—though he wasn’t at all sure how he’d gotten there. Corbin had no memory of rolling the paper or typing to begin with, he only knew that he had done it. For that matter, he didn’t remember typing the few pages upon which he now placed this one.
By Randy Wayne Jellison-Knock5 years ago in Fiction
