literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
The little black book that saved a hero.
The little black book that saved a hero. In 1748 a Black baby named John was born enslaved in Virginia. His owner was an important military man. As John grew up his owner saw something special in him, and taught him how to read and write. That way John was able to help him more. John was fascinated by reading and writing. He always thought they were skills that would serve him well for the rest of his life. And he was right!
Marisol GonzalezPublished 3 years ago in Humans238 Pages
The first and last words have always been the hardest to write. There is something in the beginning of an idea that instills a sort of uncertainty which soon becomes a sort of paralysis which soon becomes yet another unfinished story at risk of never being told. I want to tell my stories. They want to be told. They deserve to be told.
John DodgePublished 3 years ago in HumansThe Book Will Do the Rest
Mel hated taking the city bus. Waiting in the cold, the awkward movement around other strangers crowded around a dirty shelter. That spike of anxiety as the bus pulled up, Mel always worried she wouldn’t have enough money on her card or that she wouldn’t find a seat. Or worst of all, the excitement of finding an empty row, only to have a stranger ask her to move her bag two stops later.
Emily GrayPublished 3 years ago in HumansThe Gourd Keeper
Rebellious, eccentric, and imaginative Aquarians like myself buck against creative confines. Allow me to illustrate my point by spinning you this yarn:
Wendi ChristnerPublished 3 years ago in HumansBlue Horse Tears
I was 23 and living above a carpet refurbisher in a rundown studio when I won the portrait contest. Marcy walked through my open door while I was blowing smoke at one the dirty windows. “Letter for you” she said, handing it to me. I observed the insignia in the top right corner of the envelope, an imperial array of royal lines surrounding the decapitated head of an elk. The letter itself was succinct and grand. It informed me that I’d been honored to join the important lineage of those admitted by the National Institute of Visual Culture as recipients of the Tri-Annual Outstanding Achievement in Figuration award. I looked at it for a few minutes. My painting hadn’t even been that good. I had made it as a joke, a satirically serious self-portrait which combined bits of Rembrandt, Klimt and Katz; the painters I hated most. It had nothing to do with my actual work which comprised of my piecing together cuttings of romantic poetry, computer manuals, and pieces of broken glass as my own daily newspaper which I delivered in the night to the steps of random residential houses. Nobody really cared about my actual work, myself included, but the portrait had been a joke. So long I had tried and failed to make something genuinely beautiful and now the ugliest and most contrived of my pieces had become cause for recognition. Marcy called from the next room asking why I never make more coffee when I’ve taken the last of it. The letter told me that there was no need to recollect the painting as the Institute would be adding it to their permanent private collection and enclosed was my cheque for the prize money. It thanked me for my participation. Out the window, across the concrete pavilion a truck was making an early morning delivery to the Medical Supply Outlet. In the next room Marcy turned on the radio which announced that the day was going to be overcast and that somewhere a baseball game had been won. I decided to take a trip.
Phantom’s Fortune
“Saturday; March 13, 2021 4:44 am” The smooth leather cover of the little black book was familiar to my hands, it’s warm ivory pages inviting my pen.
One Magical Morning
Lucy winced as another drop of water yanked her out of a warm, fuzzy dream and into cold, wet Seattle. A storm had knocked out the power the day before, and now there was a leak in the roof. She sat up and groaned, went and got a bucket from the closet, and called the maintenance guy, Greg. He told her that he had his hands full and that he’d be there as soon as he could. She checked the time on her phone.
Sage IkedaPublished 3 years ago in HumansParade Loop
“I came here without thinking. Tickets purchased in a fever, like I do every time” I scrawl the line in my black notebook, and like the way it lays on the page, but I don’t want to get cocky.
Cassandra LorienPublished 3 years ago in HumansThe Laureate of the Streets
A fragrant vagrant traversed the pavement with trepidation, as if walking a dusty tightrope. She was well known amongst anyone who was a no one. Famed among the faceless but spat at by politicians and graceless graces.
Chloé LamontPublished 3 years ago in HumansA Smile Face Before Suicide
Ayesha was employed in ICICI Bank's mutual fund division and was a final-year MA in Economics student at SV Commerce College in Ahmedabad's Relief Road. On July 6, 2018, she married Aarif, a mining supervisor who works for a private company. However, due to the suspected physical and mental abuse of Aarif, Ayesha had been staying in Vatva since 10 March 2020.
Notes to Henry
Henry stirred in his bed sheets, wallowing in a warm comfort. His eyes slowly gazed across the room, until they eventually fell upon his nightstand. A sticky note was placed on the shaft of a lamp, and a light, gentle scrawling told him to head into the bathroom. Henry scoffed and grinned at the note before turning his attention to the window. It looked like a beautiful day in the middle of the fall. Orange, red, and yellow trees gently swayed, and the water down by the lake glistened with the rising sun. The whole scene looked even more picturesque due to his failing vision, giving everything an oily and blended appearance. Henry immediately thought about how he often went down to that lake to go swimming or skip rocks with his old high school friends.
Richard PasqualiPublished 3 years ago in HumansAdieu
Boiled leather. Hot Glue. Fresh paper. Ink. Cloth. These were the smells that accompanied my birth. Pressed into existence by the steel slats of a mindless machine, I rode out on the conveyor belt beneath rows of swinging, flickering, white factory lights beside hundreds of my brothers and sisters. We had no idea where we were, who we were, or where we were headed. All we could hear were the rumblings and ramblings of the massive humans, the clamp-click of machines, and the soft whirring of the fans above like metal suns.