literature

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

  • Emily Chang
    Published 8 months ago
    5:30 PM

    5:30 PM

    Sunday, December 31, 2017
  • Dasha Bukovskaya
    Published 8 months ago
    White Noise

    White Noise

    The sound of muted laughter and glasses clinking filled up the Gatsby-style ballroom. I sipped on champagne and reflected on my childhood based on the mannerisms of the people around me. Kids run around like little drunks, seriously. I smiled to myself thinking of the wind in the trees and a dog barking to hear another answer back. Maybe a few birds chirped as they carried small twigs and strings to their nests under construction complete with imaginary caution tape. Back at home, another noise entertained my trained ears that paid attention to even the most subtle things. My TV was playing the news as the anchor discussed the weather. That reminded me of the puttering of the rain on the roof that lulls me to sleep on winter nights. Meanwhile, snow drifts down with delicacy and elegance, the quiet before the storm is noise in itself. The engine of a car. Footsteps in gravel. A telephone ringing. Music of blaring headphones. The hum of electricity in every light. The sound of the earth spinning. The sounds of cells reproducing. I could hear it all. The cacophony makes me feel so serene, the noises of babies being born contrasting with the last breath of a dying human being reminded me of the balance of life. I could never miss the sound of a shooting star that would make me think of the Little Prince on his own tiny planet with a rose. I wished every time to gift everybody with my talent, which would allow for a certain peacefulness and understanding of the things that matter most. What I don’t understand is why people only have the capacity to pay attention to what is in front of them may it be a film or another person. If they could hear the complex mechanisms that could make their computer run, for example, they would appreciate it more. The mechanisms and the factory workers slaving away to give you such a pristine product. My eyes scanned the room and the fabric of men and women’s clothing rubbed together as they danced to vibrations of guitars and vocal cords. A child would cry and worry given these talents and someone elderly would just be sick and tired of the white noise. I thought about it for a while. I took another sip. Maybe it was called white noise because, in the end, I will approach the light at the end of the tunnel where all the sounds will combine to open up the portal to paradise. I saw a handsome fellow across the room and we locked eyes. I heard his heartbeat quicken, an honest truth that he was intrigued. That emotion rubbed off on me, as my talent gave me the ability to muster my courage and make my way over to him.
  • Sharlene Alba
    Published 8 months ago
    Embers (Ch. 11)
  • Nychole Lee
    Published 8 months ago
    Love You to Death (Pt. 3)

    Love You to Death (Pt. 3)

    There Dania was, just as cold as the cold bathroom tile. She was alive. She could still feel that silent pain. She could still think and hear, she just couldn't get her body to comply with her demands.
  • Monique Star
    Published 8 months ago
    Perspectives of She Who Wished to Be Perfect

    Perspectives of She Who Wished to Be Perfect

    Cheri and I had never fought before. In fact, to prevent most conflicts in our relationship, we mostly resorted to compromises when we reached disagreements, we allowed each other to have social lives beyond our relationship, and she even recommended we keep locator apps on each other's phones to evade rapid texts asking where we were. I guess we weren't prepared for everything, though.
  • Alice Schellinger
    Published 8 months ago
    Complex

    Complex

    "You're very quiet, Nini."
  • Sharlene Alba
    Published 8 months ago
    Embers (Ch. 10)
  • SKYLERIZED
    Published 8 months ago
    Mohammad’s Fall

    Mohammad’s Fall

    Various portraits lined the convention center on the Riverfront in Wilmington, Delaware. All of them depicted the image of the prophet Mohammad. He himself walked around the place like it was Jannah. Dressed in a hoodie, hat, and sunglasses, the prophet meandered around the place unnoticed. He delighted in the pictures of himself. He enjoyed seeing himself as the spark to over a millennium of bloodshed that would arise around the faith associated with his name. He smirked like a serial killer wrapping his hands around his victim’s throat. He walked with a slow and deliberate gait.
  • Arrow X
    Published 8 months ago
    Nata (Pt. 2)

    Nata (Pt. 2)

    I grabbed a pair of shorts from my closet and ran out with him. Our school didn’t have a gym, but there was a tennis court, basketball court, a soccer field, and a track field. We walked to the track field and Kenny said we should do five laps.
  • SKYLERIZED
    Published 8 months ago
    A Dollar a Year

    A Dollar a Year

    Green bills unfolded and folded in is hands. Jertavious Dawe spoke under his breath each count of the money. The dollars in ones and fives mostly, turned over like water off of a mill. The circulative motion of the greenbacks enticed the young man of only eight years. His brother came into the house and saw Jertavious alone and almost in trancelike mode in his Newark, Delaware home.
  • SKYLERIZED
    Published 8 months ago
    Who Gets the Spaceships?

    Who Gets the Spaceships?

    Barton Scholes, a black man, sullen and beat from the divorce agreement, sits on his patio overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Bethany Beach, Delaware. Worth north of 250 billion dollars, this man had been a paragon of good business sense. The owner of multinational technology internet giant Encontrar, the Delaware Times, and a manufacturing and spaceflight company Superspace, among other properties, the man commanded a sizable piece of the market. His wife stood adjacent to him vaping an e-cigarette.
  • Dylan Dames
    Published 8 months ago
    The Bay Wall

    The Bay Wall

    Two big seagulls swoop down on a French fry that floats in the sea. They wrestle with it, flapping their wings aggressively as the fry predictably splits in two. The birds fly away. I pick up another three fries and fling them into the wind. The bay wall I’m sitting on is rough, and I consider diving into the low tide.