literature
Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.
The Black Notebook
The pain lay somewhere beneath the darkness. It was like a constant, raging fire. It bellowed and howled, taking his oxygen in all its fury. And when he felt that the fire had suffocated itself, a trunk with a glowing belly of embers would belch sparks into the sky and slowly it would start again. Ceaseless and all consuming.
By Aislinn McKenzie6 years ago in Humans
My Madam's Keeper
“You know I don’t like it when you do this, Gert. This taking without asking! It is very naughty...and inconsiderate of you, especially when I was thinking of making apricot jam for Koos.” Gert bowed his head, his clouded eyes briefly closed against the passing storm of words pelting from the lips of his madam. His naked, timeworn feet shuffled morse code signals in the dust, toe dots and heel dashes declaring his misery and shame. She sighed chidingly, “Never mind. I’m going for a swim now so take your apricots with you and go water the vegetable garden.”
By Penny Potell6 years ago in Humans
No Good Deed
“No Good Deed” He grabs his bike from a wall mounted rack in Bay 16 of the carwash and hustles home, hoping to excite his wife by the mere early arrival of his presence. The fanfare is less than expected. MJ gives his wife a nice kiss on the cheek and hug from behind. “I’m glad you’re home Goose but I did not pencil in any sweet hubby time”. “Great”, MJ says chuckling. “Next time I’ll call your assistant.”
By Jason McMaster6 years ago in Humans
La Trassiera
LA TRASSIERA - by Natasha Norford La Trassiera was a sumptuous stone-villa seated high on the craggy cliff tops of the Engadine Valley- styled lavishly, lined with stone, brilliant and serene- proudly positioned above the lake and villages below, and swathes of forest behind.
By Natasha Norford6 years ago in Humans
Mol's Voice
Mol’s hands still stung, raw fingers flexing nervously at her sides as she waited in line with the rest of her classmates. Her mother always insisted on clean hands. Obsessively so. No child of hers left the house without scrubbing themselves from elbow to fingertip with those awful bars of lye, as if they could scour away their poverty as easily as the dirt beneath their fingernails. Her mother was convinced, for reasons that eluded Mol, that if her children’s hands were clean then no one would notice the ill fitting shirts with mismatched buttons, or the darned elbows on threadbare blazers, or the slap slap slap of too big Oxfords that “You’ll grow into,” and “You’d better not come home with those scuffed up!” Glancing down now, Mol rubbed the toe of her right shoe against the back of her calf, just to be safe.
By E S Soppitt6 years ago in Humans
Graced
Her feet were on fire. It was the burning that had disrupted Grace’s sleep so abruptly this morning, but it was the realization that today’s event had come to fruition so quickly that made her bolt wide awake. As she lay on her back in bed, she could feel the burning through the sheets but didn’t bother to turn on the light or lift the cover to look at her tortured feet. She knew she could no longer deny what was happening. And to her, the problem wasn’t what was happening but rather why.
By Cheshe Hawkins6 years ago in Humans
The Seeing
The Seeing For many of us, something lingers on from first love. For me, Jonny lingers. Although the bad things about Jonny are what had me go, he taught me lessons that have always lived on. One of the best lessons he taught me was seeing. Up until Jonny, I never looked deep enough to be fully alive. Mostly, I skimmed the surface of a feeling, or glanced quick at a sunsetting sea. I missed the intricacies of life’s scenes that evoke the meaning I’d been seeking.
By cheryl Lister6 years ago in Humans
