Vocal
The Masterpiece of Gabin Lemaire
We were foolish to think Paris would hold us. At the first sound of chains being cut at the gate, I jerked upright. Gabin was smeared in red clay and ash, thrashing across the canvas with an artist’s exertion, somewhere between running a marathon and having an orgasm. He recoiled from his trance and swayed with angelic beauty. His bare chest rose and fell, and he staggered away from the canvas that towered above him. The studio was in disarray. Candles flickered in a staccato across the floor like a Catholic altar, and I crawled among them to snuff them out as Gabin kicked the articles of his craft under 16th Century tables. He dumped oils and charcoals down the neck of an ancient Roman wine amphora as he swore in his native French. Both of us considered hiding, hoping against hope that Rembrandt and Caravaggio might have stretched the canvas far enough to conceal us.
By M.C. Finch 2 days ago in Writers
The Human Animal :An Unofficial Spooktober Challenge
I want you to make me uncomfortable; really gross me out and make my stomach churn... No, really, I'm serious; that's the point of this unofficial Vocal challenge. I want to see how horrifying you wonderful monsters can be. Give me your gross, your gory, and your grim stories - why?
By S. A. Crawford3 days ago in Writers
Notes from the Mind Palace.
I don’t want a hero for the sake of having one. I don’t need saving, and I don’t want someone who thinks I do. I’ve carried myself through storms that would have drowned softer hearts. I’ve rebuilt myself more times than I care to admit. Strength has been my armor, my identity, my survival.
By Syl De'Vil4 days ago in Writers
Notes from the Mind Palace
I am a woman made of words, but don’t mistake that for someone who can be won with them. Words are my playground, my refuge, my rebellion — but they are not my currency. I’ve heard too many promises spoken with honeyed tongues and hollow hearts. I’ve watched too many men decorate their intentions with poetry while their actions whispered the truth.
By Syl De'Vil4 days ago in Writers
If Only
There are women who learned love the hard way, women who stitched themselves back together with stubborn hope and quiet magic. Women who walk through the world with a softness that looks effortless but was carved from storms. Women who survived what should have broken them and still somehow learned to laugh again.
By Syl De'Vil4 days ago in Writers
Quarter 3 Performance Report
Trying to be consistent and faithful to my own promises, here's a short report on my Vocal achievements in Quarter 3: July tally: 30 stories published in 13 communities (4 new added), with a total of 39 communities covered; 2 Top Stories; entered 2 official challenges and 2 unofficial challenges, won Raymond Taylor's One Work challenge that was a lot of fun; placed in 1 official challenge; 683 total earned reads; 157 stories of other authors I liked and commented on.
By Lana V Lynx4 days ago in Writers
The Ghosts of Halloweens Past
I don’t know about you, but I can’t get enough Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday and fall is my favorite season. I especially love stories that take place on Halloween. Therefore, I’d like to propose we read each other’s Halloween stories from the past, the ones we may have missed.
By Leslie Writes5 days ago in Writers
Green
Grasshoppers sing upon inhaling graves a sweet tune of melted moss and time. The rocky mound is slanted, and from the base of the hill you can hear the crickets mourn. Inside the earth, the insects writhe without struggle or fear that their end is growing near. Instead, they continue their song, their opened-mouth stuffing of the dirt and the possession of the grave. Sloped and splattered with mushrooms and the rich smell of moving damp soil, is where his still body still lies. I put my bony hand against the stone, pretending it's his fleshy palm and request his final rest to be a meaningful one. So rest now, my newest friend, under the crooked necks of the lilies of the valley and the freshly packed soil and allow your soul to travel with mine. Come now friend, Ignore the mourners with their songs and tears they will return each spring to praise your decaying body which will lie here through the years, fresh with a halo of gravel and a crown of flies. Come now friend, ignore the scythe and my eyes as dark as night. I'm here to help to release you from fright.
By Kera Hollow9 days ago in Writers
