Fantasy
Pinnacle Posture & Exalted Discipline
Weight of the world will drag us down. Under this weight we must not frown. As royal blood Sol is our crown. Sol’s posture is rigid & tight. Fearless & true loves the upright! All things are pure within his sight. Our sun is strong under pressure. His power cannot be measured. To watch the world is his pleasure. Some will say God is just a grouch. When we’re rigid he’s on the couch. As he is poised we tend to slouch. Only his best can keep in step. All the rest were left as they slept. Always the best the light has kept. A walk with Sol is a mission. Obstacles melt in his vision. His course he sets with precision.
By David Duran 5 years ago in Fiction
The Royal Smith: Preview Part I
James Reichert doodled simplistic and poorly drawn images of swords on the piece of parchment in front of him while his teacher, Lord Benjamin Lerich, droned on about the fragile, political relationships of their kingdom. A subject that the Lord and young Prince would normally have fervidly discussed with one another. In fact, James would be on his second sheet of paper due to the sheer amount of notes he would usually take during the lectures, only drawing symbols to help connect related information to one another.
By Paul Willis5 years ago in Fiction
Boxed
I killed a goldfinch yesterday. I felt nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true; the moment before I struck it, I felt something like lust. I envisioned the stupid bird split open, blood seeping through its brightly ruffed throat, and I was aroused. But then, after the murder, as with all of my killings, I felt nothing. Certainly not remorse.
By P. D. Murray5 years ago in Fiction
Brown Box
When it arrived, nobody really thought much about it. An unmarked package wrapped in a brown paper bag dropped off on the stoop of an inn at the crossroads in the middle of the night. The keeper of the inn discovered the package just as the sun began to rise on the horizon amid her early morning chores. She had very little time this morning to think much of it, and so she called for one of her sons to store it in the attic to be fetched later.
By Michael Bivens5 years ago in Fiction
The One That Got Away
The One That Got Away By
By Jamey O'Donnell5 years ago in Fiction
To acknowledge the Truth is to thirst for more.....
“Damn” she muttered into the silence as she checked her watch. The word cut through the empty silence around her. She grabbed her notebook and phone hurriedly stuffy them and her printouts into her bag. The flashlight fell to the floor leaving her in darkness. She continued to mutter as she slowly made her way back to the door. The dim light of the stars her only guide. She followed the path she’d made through the thick layer of dust that covered the carpeted floor.
By Chaurice Williams5 years ago in Fiction
Letter from the unknown
Sunday morning. Cloudy autumn day but this is the first weekend for Rosie after a long time, so it`s a wonderful day. No need to rush, so girl decided she could afford to sleep in. However, you can`t sleep all day long. The clock on the nightstand showed that it`s 11 am already and a huge desire for black coffee made her get up. A cold shower helped to wake up and after Rosie switched on the coffee machine, she decided to go through her mail. Bill, fresh newspaper, another bill – nothing special. Wait! What is this? A weird looking black envelope with no stamps or address. Perhaps somebody threw it into Rosie`s mailbox by mistake.
By Ana Frowley5 years ago in Fiction
HIDDEN WONDER
Not much had to be said the moment Diedra heard the news of Sol’s death, she just understood it was her grandmama’s time to go, she sat on the floor silently with her face between her knees and her arms wrapped around her head, trying to hide the tears coming down her cheeks, more than sadness Dre, as everyone called her, felt at peace knowing that her grandma had lived a full happy life, Dre and Sol had a special connection after all Dre was raised by Sol who was wonderful, smart, creative and possessed a vivid wondrous imagination, Sol told the best stories, As a very young girl Dre thought all the stories, the places and fantastic creatures truly existed, Dre was always looking for signs to prove the stories were real and not just fantasies, like looking at the mudslides trails far away on the mountain after a rainy night and wondering how a giant snake fell from the sky with such a force and heaviness that took all the trees down, or the little people living in the old sewing machine helping to make wonderful dresses out of fabric from old clothes. Dre had a happy childhood because Sol was always there, Sol was the wisest most caring woman Dre had ever known and because of that Dre chose not to attend Sol's funeral, she wanted to remember Sol the way she was, a beautiful, kind and strong woman.
By Allyofmine5 years ago in Fiction
The Marigold Clearing
Elle walked towards the marigold clearing, which was surrounded by trees; it was her favourite place. The air was clean, the birds chirping, a small creek’s water bubbling slowly on it marry way, oblivious of the world around them. Sitting with her feet tucked under her, she brushed her fingers along the marigold peddles. The sun shining made the field even better.
By Amanda Hutchinson5 years ago in Fiction
Repeat
Long before there were iPhones there was a world separated into three parts. There were people who lived at the top of the hills, people that lived at the edge of the sea, and the people who lived at the bottom of the ocean. The only thing keeping everyone connected was said to be hidden in a brown box.
By K. Waterss5 years ago in Fiction
Is it a tree or is it me?
Is it the tree, or me? Is it real or a dream? The pear tree had been planted on the day of my birth. It started to bear fruit when I was three years old, it was at its most productive from five years to forty five years, which is the normal and average for a conference pear in this part of England. Then into a steady reduction in the yearly crop of the best cooking pears you could find. Now it was past its best, just the occasional show of blossom and even more rare, a small crop of fruit, to remind of its past glories. All exactly like myself. The most creative years seem to be behind me. The tree and I are both sixty years old; yet I still strive to burst out with meaningful production, still keen to claim my former place as a success and a worthwhile provider. Like the tree, my roots are firm in the ground, the spirit is willing but the bees no longer buzz around the blooms and no one expects to harvest my out put. When you start to make comparisons they become uncanny. The conference pear is almost self fertile and I never needed outside inspiration to start creative work. The pears were best picked before full ripeness, stored and then cooked with skill. My writing was best when a skilled editor got me to rework the final draft before any publisher saw it. The last fifteen years have been an ever increasing rate of failure and ineptitude. Just as the tree lost is productive vigor, so did I. Now young people do not even realize the tree is a pear tree, one that once provided well for the household, similarly they do not know I was once a popular author. My work no longer in fashion and never was good enough to be called a classic. Out of print, out of mind, just like the tree.
By Peter Rose5 years ago in Fiction
