literature

Whether written centuries ago or just last year, literary couples show that love is timeless.

Carry On, Little Gabby
The pen was smoothly gliding across the paper like a ballerina dancing, or a bird drifting in the wind. Gabby was deep in thought as she took notes on a project she had privately been working on. Tabitha’s stern words pierced the air of the quiet building.
By Reilly Carter6 years ago in Humans
Godmother
The death of Keisha wasn’t a surprise, but rather a long awaited event. Keisha expired in the county hospital at 7:24 pm on February 24th, 2021 having succumbed to an illness she had been fighting for a little over two years. Two years, four months, and seven days to be exact−two weeks after she gave birth to Michael and started treating the stage 4 ovarian cancer found during a routine ultrasound in her first trimester. So, Keisha’s death did not simply mean that she shed her mortal coil, but she also shed her motherly duties and gave full parental control to Melissa, her best friend who had already been helping with Michael’s childcare throughout his entire twenty-eight months of life.
By Alena Malaika Asuma Otieno6 years ago in Humans
The Scarab Notebook
April was an ordinary girl. Every morning she woke up at 7:30am, an ordinary time to wake up she always thought, to the cry of whatever default alarm her iPhone came with. She would get dressed, in attires made of neither high-end retail nor charity shop items and head downstairs to have breakfast with her parents. At breakfast she would pour herself a bowl of Wheaties and add 1% skimmed milk. April had often asked to change the cereal, on account of its bland taste and boring character. However, no matter how well-constructed the request April’s Mom always responded the same way: "Wheaties! Helping you through ‘til lunch April!"
By JAMIE MCCLELLAND6 years ago in Humans
A Parting Glass
The snow blew cold as the war waged on. Cheeks and hands turned red, and the streets turned white before turning to a sodden, muddy mass.
By Debra Kollitz6 years ago in Humans
Catalonia
From the silence a gasp echoes though the dense sea air. Swaying on the large smooth waves a lone life raft is cradled by the sea, up and down, down and up, gently rocking, serene and hypnotic. The sea as mother. From the raft a man awakens and heaves forward towards the sky raising his arms as he grasps at the heavens, he screams, “I am blind”! The sea air has wrapped him in its cold embrace. A thick dark fog limits his vision to but a few inches. He mutters, “Am I dead”? Frantically he searches for vision as he gropes around him, seeing and hearing nothing. He freezes and holds his breath as fear overtakes him. “I must be dead”, a tear drips from his eye. Setting as stone, not moving, not breathing, not hearing, not seeing, he is, alone. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for an angel, or a monster, for Poseidon? His mind races as to what is next. His body begins to shiver, and he knows he is alive. Slowly, he hears his heavy breathing; then the gently lapping waves, but nothing else, only silence. Finally, his eyes begin to focus and slowly he can see his hands, then his arms, his torso, and then, he feels the pain. Pain shoots as a lightning bolt through his head to his toes and he cries out, “Lord”! ‘What have I done? Where am I”? ‘I don’t know”! The pain strikes again, pushing him forward, he writhes as he pulls his head forward so violently that he lands face first into the water that covers the rafts the thin cold floor.
By Timothy Kiser6 years ago in Humans
The Little Black Book
The sound of a fist slamming against the kitchen counter made Charlotte wince. She winced again as she heard something shatter. She laid in her bed with blankets covering her face, her blankets a shield from what was just beyond her bedroom door. It was a warm July evening and she could hear the laughter of children from the street, a sweet sound that drowned the noise from the kitchen. The sound comforted her, making her both curious and a little jealous of those children. She had been breathing heavily and the air under the covers was getting hot now. Charlotte slowly lowered the blanket down under her nose and scanned the room, making sure she was safe, a habit. Her book on the dresser caught her eye.
By Courtney 6 years ago in Humans
Thirsty Work
Austin entertained the thought of death as the plane angled up for a steep ascent. It churned his stomach, and he gave into self-pity.
By Larissa Huang6 years ago in Humans
A Great Adventure
“Thud!”, “I’m running away, and never coming back!”, Jack yelled vexedly from his room. He had just gotten in an argument with his mom about where he could, and couldn't go. Jack wrapped his swiss army knife, a pencil, a black notebook, and his teddy bear in a red blanket, tied it to a stick, and set off.
By Sarah Feldkamp6 years ago in Humans
The Beginning of Ben and Maria
From the first moment, Ben was awestruck. Since the age of 15, he had begun to keep a strange Little Black Book of what he someday desired in a wife. Not a book of “big goals”, but a book of little details that had simply been thoughts, that he would sketch down over time. Then in this one moment, all those thoughts and sketches began to become reality on this warm January Eve.
By Clark B Mitchell 6 years ago in Humans
Lost
In a picture perfect era I’m wondering why I don’t wonder more. Why I shy off from doing my part in this life? Why I bounce from love to love to love to love? Not because I necessarily have the options to hop around like that but because I’m trying to find the best most suitable lover to me where he’s protective, obsessive, clingy, and believes in sharing the roles in a relationship. With my wind of insecurities I hold on to the idea of someone. Someone I may have let go of too many times and now I’m on my own again. I shouldn’t be allowed to drag people down no matter what I’m going through or for how much they do love me. I shouldn’t be held in a corner where they are ‘supposed’ to ask how I am when I was probably already in a state that everybody seems to ignore because since it’s not them they flat out just do not care. I bring this up but it won’t change a thing. Or at least it won’t change the right things. Which upsets me and makes me question if I’m doing all of this for nothing? In ways I don’t want the truth to that answer. Like at all. It’s paining that these existences cause so much in problematic ways of showing experience towards those that need to keep in touch with us. But why must I forgive somebody for tormenting my life to bad, horrible, pitchy extents? They are not sorry nor remorseful for anything they’ve put me through and it’s just sad. Sad that I could ever believe in this type of involvement.
By Keanna Barry 6 years ago in Humans
Anamnesis
Her hands were beginning to shake as she looked down at the small black notebook placed before her. It laid there unopen, its spine was creased and deep lines were beginning to crack along its centre. Beside it, a single grey pen shared the otherwise empty desk. The window directly behind the desk let in streaks of purple twilight through the spaces between the dusty blinds, gently lighting up the small study with the fading memory of a bright autumn’s day. The lady sat upon a mahogany chair with only a stiff cushion for support, its original colour had faded beyond recognition. She drew in a pained breath and gingerly pulled herself towards the desk before placing her shaking hand over the pen, and then leaned back into the few creaky splat rails that remained on the seat. Her gaze never left the notebook as an excitement began to grow within her at the idea of opening it for the first time and putting her pen to paper, anxiously awaiting the words that would begin to flow from her mind and onto the pages. The notebook would be her portal to limitless possibilities; in it she could write her hopes and dreams, her most secret thoughts; she could be pensive or careless, explore new ideas, justify her beliefs or simply jot down words without aim. Above all, here she would find something that would finally understand her, and see clarity in her thoughts. The anticipation was becoming too much, the lady slowly wrapped her fingers around the pen, grasping it awkwardly, and with her other hand placed her thumb on the edge of the cover, ready to dive into the notebook’s crisp paper and unleash its fragrance of almond and vanilla. As she was about to flip onto the first page, the lady paused and observed her pale hand slightly hovering over the coal black cover. The hand was thin, its pearly white skin was taught over skeletal fingers. The lady studied it in shock; dark blue veins rose and fell over its bony ridges, and countless brown spots dotted its wrinkled back. Nervously she turned her eyes to the other hand only to see the same image. Fear and confusion gnawed at the back of her mind, and her heart began to pound as her breath quickened. She could feel a familiar anxiety growing; her eyes began to dart back and forth, when finally they looked past her hands and fell back towards the notebook. A calmness slowly returned as she saw its blackened leather, and her breathing slowed. She became excited at the idea of opening up its cover, wanting to revel in the freshness of its pages and then to simply write.
By Samuel Good6 years ago in Humans
Maeve's Beautiful Mornings
Maeve felt the cool of the morning penetrate the thick downy jacket she wore and her jeans did even less to keep her warm. She thought back to a moment similar to this nearly a year ago. The fresh morning air had a different effect on her then and she reflected on the irony that while she was poorer she was also warmer, better prepared for the cold. Maeve was less accustomed to the bitter dawn having lived within the four walls of a house for the last 11 months rather than the substandard shelter of an alley or a shop front. She remembered the day that had changed her life entirely.
By Liv Field6 years ago in Humans