Love

Hopeless Romantic
“God I wish this moment would last forever…” she wept. He didn’t want to cry but that sentence broke through that barrier. Tears built up and formed out of his eyes. He let out a whimper after holding his breath in as if he was holding that emotion inside his body. He stood as strong as he could. He hugged her tighter. She ran her hands from his shoulders to his middle back. She hugged him tight around his waist. Then the release of emotion expressed itself. She grabbed him as hard and tight as she could. He let it all out.
By Kohl Younger5 years ago in Fiction
The Marigold Theatre
Sat in the middle seat of the middle row, his arm across the back of the two seats on either side of him, looking wistfully at the stage was Aaron Benson. He had been in the exact same position for the past two hours. He was the only one in the very small theatre. The silence sang a sweet melancholy song. A familiar melody; a low-whisper that entered his head and pulled memories down from the top shelf. Today makes 10 years since he had been trying to put his play on stage. He looked around – to the far right, just before the 3 black steps that lead onto the stage, was a green emergency door that opens to an alley just off a mildly busy London street. The door seemed to have a beckoning glisten around it. Tempting. If ever he felt like giving up and running away, it was today.
By Azuoma Obikudu5 years ago in Fiction
To Lay Amongst the Wheat
Hues of gold and yellow danced along her pale skin, haloing her form sprawled out amongst the wheat. Cicada song enveloped the atmosphere, a hypnotic hum broken only by the rustle of leaves in the warm, dry breeze. Time hung over us, brought to a standstill by yet another quiet afternoon in the endless summer. But I didn’t mind. I never wanted time to creep forwards again.
By Jeanie Mae5 years ago in Fiction
The Girl With The Iridescent Wings
The marigold fields in the Valley of Bileagan-Fidhe. That’s where Kalen first saw her: the girl with the long golden hair and dainty iridescent wings.
By Chloe Galiza5 years ago in Fiction
Little Yellow Suns
Mother’s garden was always fun to play in. Small in size, she had a way with design that made you feel like you were in the flower forests of Alice in Wonderland. Mother found her peace in the 20’x10’ frame she kept her flowers in, and I would spend hours going on grand adventures while laying on the stone pathways and talking with the flowers. This morning was like many others, and I was scratching the top of the soil between a large sage plant and a rosemary bush. They were just large enough that there was a space open in the soil in between, and I liked to see what kind of life I could find underneath them. Some days it was simply gnats and spiders, others days I would hit the jackpot and find a worm or two.
By Jami Larson5 years ago in Fiction
Marigold Letters
Marigolds remind me of sunset, and sunsets ain't no good to go on thinking about. But there they are, your "little gift", waving through my window. Remember the flower box? It's still right there, hanging on that evergreen outside our bedroom window, just outside of my stubby reach. It's blooming well enough, despite my neglect. I have neither the long limbs to reach that box, nor the stomach to lean out that far, nor the inclination to care. I can imagine you caring, imagine you leaning out the window again, your lean frame balanced half-inside, half-out like some crazy stork with a water-can, your whistling work-tune never breaking. I can almost hear it, even now...
By Christopher Fin5 years ago in Fiction
Yellow is my favorite color
"There is something about the smell of a cigar bar before the patrons start flooding through the doors," I thought to myself as I walked through the front door of Le Tabac Allume, a small cigar bar on the edge of the campus district in the center of town. The place had about ten tables, and a tiny, four seat bar by the small piano by the entrance to the humidor nestled in the back. I looked over at the tables, didn't see my wife, so I went to the humidor and picked out a nice Arturo Fuente, paid for it, and asked for a cutter. I neatly cut the end off, then carefully warmed the foot until the cigar was sufficiently hot enough to smoke.
By Jim Hale5 years ago in Fiction
Marisol's Story
In Mexican culture marigolds are planted around altars for Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead celebrations. The marigolds magic is that its scent and beautiful bright color attract souls back from the land of the dead. It’s for this reason that Marisol had a bouquet of marigolds on her desk at work. She hoped that her deceased beau would return to help her find another partner. So far, it hadn’t worked. It had been four years and Marisol wasn’t even sure if she was ready to fall in love again.
By Danya White5 years ago in Fiction
Intuition
On the second Saturday of the month, Harry and Divah sat beneath a tree. It was a sacred tree, to them at least, for they met there like this once a month. Divah did not know that today would be very different from the previous Saturdays during which they met; but the hair on Harry’s neck prickled up as a silence fell between them. He had something to tell her, but he just couldn’t spit it out.
By Brittany5 years ago in Fiction
Hues and You
Adriene was a flower at heart. A gloomy, inauspicious flower. They sat in a field of marigolds. Looking at one another as the yellow flowers looked upon them. They hadn’t met before, but there was a palpable chemistry, like there was a huge strand twisting across the space between them, connecting their gaze metaphysically. The sun was high, and in front of them. Depending on perspective, it lay perfectly central between them, beaming with vigour and blessing their side of the Earth with unmountable optimism.
By Will5 years ago in Fiction
Christmas Carols In July
“And a partridge in a pear treeeee…” Lil sings. Even though it is the middle of summer, she’s belting out her favorite Christmas carols with her five year old cousin. Why not.
By Kaiz 5 years ago in Fiction
Goddess
She was painted in the most florescent of colours but now they have vanished and left her naked in the tones of the colours shadows. The palette God used to create her would have made Claude Monet shed a tear. When she smiled, rays of colours from every end of the spectrum went running in every direction, looking for an untouched part of the canvas on which to leave a mark – and now the marks are indelible charcoal smudges.
By Peter Dennis5 years ago in Fiction