literature

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

Cracking the Code
Cracking the Code by Steven R. Struthers Jacques Bissonet was finding life to be rather agreeable, particularly on this warm and sunny spring day. He was sitting outside a cafe in Lyons, the city of his birth, and drinking a glass of Veuve Cliquot, his favorite wine. Things were going well; he had no worries, and his bank account, while not exactly flush with cash, was in a healthy state.
By Steve Struthers6 years ago in Humans
Nervous Ambition
The washed gray hardwood floor of my studio apartment was sticky to the touch. The whole space reeked of something nasty. I looked down to my feet and saw that a mysterious juice had been leaking from my trash bin. How this got all over the floor was the bigger mystery. All I could see were shiny footprints from where I had stepped. “This is disgusting.” I grimaced as I tied the black bag up. With each tug, the waft of rancid leftovers creeped up my nose. The smell tickled my nostrils, and my nose gave a vigorous wiggle. The wiggle moved up to my cheeks, then my eyes, and eventually my eyebrows gave a shimmy. To be honest, I should’ve been used to this little dance, I always left it too late to take the trash out.
By Internet Proverb6 years ago in Humans
Ghosted by Bigfoot
I guess Bigfoot isn’t going to call me back. I put down the branch after three more solid swings against the tree – TAK! TAK! TAK! – and even though it’s the third set I've done it’s still way louder than I expect for wet wood striking wet wood. I sit back down on the rock, check my watch, and wait some more anyway. Cold Oregon rain taps on the hood of my insulated parka, gentle but insistent, reminding me that I am a very long way from the cozy little lodge I’ve rented for this jaunt. The last leg of my great American cryptid tour. I sip some coffee from my thermos and get comfortable, or as comfortable as you can when you’re sitting on a rock getting steadily rained on in the middle of the woods.
By Ben Whitelake6 years ago in Humans
Lottie
Lottie waited in the hallway with her class. School was about to start. She looked down at her smock. The number 7 in raised stitching was expertly placed. She rubbed her thumb over the threads. It was her desk number, her food hatch locker number and her assigned workbox ID. It was an intimidating number for her- two strokes that connected with an assertion she felt she didn’t have. She preferred the look of 6 or 8. Both looked like they were in the middle of a beautiful dream. But 7 was her.
By Katanya Jaunitis6 years ago in Humans
Little Black Book
She woke to the familiar sound of muffled screams and the feel of the walls reverberating around her. But today she woke not in her bed, but on the floor. Her head began to pound. Something crusted in her eye. Blood.
By Lolita Libra6 years ago in Humans
Narcissi: A Woman Named After the Flower, Not the Man
The dull glow of the slop slid under the door. Narcissi and Amantha sat, looking at it. A little glow in the absolute black. Just enough to illuminate itself but nothing around it. Just enough to let you know it was there and when it was gone. It was the only light Narcissi had seen in five years. It dawned on her she didn’t even know where she was. Was she miles underground or were there trees and sunlight just through the back cement wall?
By danny glaza6 years ago in Humans
Making the Unreal Real
Introduction Henry met Eden for coffee to talk about a project he wanted to work on with her. A manuscript was shared in advance. He was trying to do something good but she was not interested. He asked her to write something with him but she said no. So nothing directly came of it. Later Henry would realize Eden was only an imaginary friend, if a friend at all. As far as their relationship would go, she might even have been an enemy. She would go on to hurt him and then disappear, never to be seen again, at least in the real world. Despite knowing it shouldn’t have mattered, Henry still only wanted Eden to like him. It was as if they were linked by some distant past that he couldn’t comprehend. As if only through working together they could undo damage done by their ancestors. Before she disappeared—and then even more so afterward—he would spend sleepless nights trying to understand this.
By Neil Greene6 years ago in Humans
Blue Collar vs. The Sea
After the first coconut, you’re already sick of them. Somewhere at about the two-hundredth or so, you would literally chop off a toe to have all coconuts turn into just regular old clean water ...or sweet tea ...yeah, sweet tea.
By Ryan Keller6 years ago in Humans
The Cure
“Last Call! Who wants another round?” Jenny exclaimed, as she was finishing her shift. Glasses clinked, drinks spilled, just another night. A lone woman walked in and sat at the corner of the bar. Jenny walked up to the woman and politely asked if she could bring her a drink. “Water with lime” the woman responded quietly with an accent Jenny couldn’t place. She pulled out a black notebook and began writing. She was not a young woman, her silver streaks gleamed under one of the few lights in the dim bar. She wore a beautiful purple woolen coat that made her skin look bright and youthful despite her wrinkled brow. Just then, two men started yelling at each other. This wasn’t looking good; she went over to deescalate the situation. With a little reasoning everyone calmed, one of the men left and all was well. Jenny went around to check on the patrons and close out everyone’s tab. She was on her way over to check on the woman with the silver hair when she noticed that she had left. She didn’t owe any money, so Jenny went on and wished everyone a good night as they left the bar. It was her and the cook in the kitchen that were left to close. It was Jenny’s responsibility to bus tables and clean up the front of the house. Dave, the cook handled the back. As she was cleaning, she found the woman’s notebook. She put it in the lost and found basket which was cluttered with sunglasses, gloves and other personal junk that had been left behind. When the work was done, her and Dave locked up and he walked her out to her car. Jenny appreciated this. Her and Dave had a good working relationship. He was a hard worker and made some amazing food to be served out of a corner bar. Jenny wondered how long it would be before he found a better job and some new creep would be in the kitchen closing with her every night.
By Ray Rose6 years ago in Humans
The Scholarship
“When I was young I was poor. So poor just like you guys. My parents were pig farmers and I grew up in the countryside of Vietnam. There was never enough to eat. Even though we farmed pigs we had to beg my father for the smallest scrap of meat. We were so happy when we even got a nibble of it. Compared to how we lived you, guys are so rich. When I was old enough I left the country to go to Saigon. I sold everything from scraps of wood to coal to cooking oil. I worked hard to build up my business until the war when the Viet Cong took it all away. And I had to start all over again in this country. But I knew how to work hard. I never took a day off. And look where I am now.” Mr. Tran stretched out his arms dramatically indicating to the neat, parallel rows of grapevines covering the verdant, rolling hills of the vineyard that conspicuously bore his name on every bottle, every wineglass and every advertisement that doubled as art throughout the tasting room.
By Annie Lam6 years ago in Humans
The Best Little Bookstore in Brooklyn
The door unlocked with a click and Marjorie exhaled. A bright tone resounded above her head as she stepped from the already blazing sunshine to the safety of air conditioning. She meandered to the checkout area at the farthest corner; when designing the place, she envisioned customers entering and feeling at peace, not immediately bombarded with a line and clang of the cash register. Each detail was made so book-lovers would feel as at home here as she did. The length of the lines had dwindled over the years, and that charming clang had been replaced with the empty noiselessness of an iPad, but her bookstore remained as charming as ever. The perfect hidey-hole in the middle of Park Slope, if she did say so herself.
By Suzy Weller6 years ago in Humans
Stations of the Cross
“Que onda, niñita?” The boy isn't much older than Jorge. His face is handsome, still soft beneath the shadow of his first beard, but Lace has seen him passing pills and powder at the corners. She knows that behind his back there's a gun, the same way she knows that Los Zetas gave it to him.
By Laura Elizabeth6 years ago in Humans