Love
Marigolds Dancing Beneath the Aurora Borealis
Snow sparkles under the dazzling display of the Aurora Borealis. The landscape before me looks untouched; pristine. It stretches out for miles without sight of a footprint or figure to mar the beauty, and I revel in this moment of tranquility.
By Megan Baker (Left Vocal in 2023)5 years ago in Fiction
Anything But Flowers
She said her name was So-Chee. That's not how she spelled it though. "X-O-C-H-I-T-L, it means flower," she said. Honestly, I didn't think it did her justice. I mean, flowers are pretty... sure, but she...she was stunning, enchanting, ravishing, breathtaking, perfection.
By Ryan Barbin aka “Dirt”5 years ago in Fiction
The Golden Shore
They met where their farms did, in a meadow of gold, dotted with dandelions and sprinkled with marigold blooms. Past the farthest ear of corn or stalk of wheat, the meadow hid. And on this meadow grew a spot where the earth bubbled but never broke. And on this hill grew the steadfast behemoth of branch and bark. And after their work was done, they would join together every day at the base of the sturdy oak on the hill. And they danced.
By Michael Oberschewen5 years ago in Fiction
Pieces of a Bouquet
Abby Forrester scrubs last night’s spaghetti off her white plate. She has a dishwasher, but she doesn’t think it gets dishes clean enough. She glanced at her Emerald-cut wedding band on a towel of the edge of the sink. It’s four o’clock- Masen will be home anytime. Abby and Mason have been married six years, but it still feels like perfection. Abby moves on to the glasses while singing “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” by Creedence Clearwater Revival when a bouquet of flowers gently whips in front of her face.
By Jessica Mathews5 years ago in Fiction
They All Mean Something
It was always a somber day when Dr. Death was in. He was a genial enough man, if a bit reserved. He always remembered the nurses’ names, asked about weekend plans as he signed in. He wasn’t much for conversation. He rarely made eye contact. He was a small, thin man, with a pall of solemnity. His clothes were always a size too big. He had thick-rimmed glasses and a high, shiny forehead, topped with thick but graying hair. His sneakers squeaked as he walked down the hospital hallways, announcing in a near comical way the decidedly un-comical man. He hunched slightly forward as though carrying the difficult years of his career physically on his back.
By Brett Lalli 5 years ago in Fiction
Branches of Silence
My favorite part of the day is observing the deep emotions of those who pass by me. Occasionally, I will be ever so lucky to witness one who understands the importance of stillness, one who takes the time to be my companion, even if just for a moment. I admire people, I really do - their creativity, their ambition, their eyes who have seen so much. However, I do not envy them. I was made with a purpose and I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of the care I get to show people. My branches bring shade on bright summer afternoons; my leaves bring art projects to imaginative children; and my massive trunk brings protection to the delicate.
By Alex Kelly5 years ago in Fiction
