Excerpt
Healing
Excerpt from the book I'll never write #8 It was a cold Monday morning. The kind that almost felt cruel as the chill seeped into the skin underneath the layers of fabric. Christine had not experienced this for as long as she could remember. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept through the night and woke rested. It was as if she had spent the last 12 months in a limbo-state. She was only half there for the last 365 days. The pain kept her awake most nights and only medication could send her to sleep. More often than not though, she would wake not feeling rested. Waking slowly off medication is not the same nor is it as nice as waking to the golden morning light. The understated shadows that were being formed by the shutter style blinds told her it was mid morning. The birds chirping that once annoyed her now held contentment and delight. She felt calm, content and desire. Desire of wanting to get up and face the day. Even if it was just for a cup of tea.
By Chiara Ann Vicary4 years ago in Fiction
Intrinsic Knowledge
They had reached a mutual agreement. An agreement that would alter both their lives for the rest of their lives. A functional family business carried generation to generation is the dream of many American families... families not much unlike theirs. For a parent to have a son or daughter follow in his or her footsteps is a century old tradition representative of familial pride. Surely, the bond struck here in the auspicious sterility of her kitchen would be no less than those of earlier entrepreneurial families. always eager to please their every whim, to meet their approval by any means necessary. Now, her recently regained father, the missing link in her life had come to her unsought... self motivated... self-determined asking her to come into business with him. This, in her opinion, was the highest honor a child could receive. The opportunity of being ally...cohort in an already successful business operated by one's parent. She intuitively gathered all information readily accessible to her in this elated state. Questions of intent and predetermined matters of business flew rampantly through her mind.
By CarmenJimersonCross4 years ago in Fiction
Negotiations with the Dead - Part One
Negotiating with the Dead - Part One Dear Margaret Atwood, I have begun reading your book Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing. I am far too shy to write to you or trouble you with the wonderings of my mind. I doubt you reading this would add anything to your day, but as I read I find that I very much want to reply to you like we were having tea and having a conversation. You say to me the words that you have written in the book and I reply in a way that is so quiet, you can't hear me and I can't interrupt you. I doubt my reflection on your thoughts would add anything to your great vault of knowledge and experience, but I'd like to dissect them more carefully.
By Stephanie Van Orman4 years ago in Fiction
The Lost Star
Tom, flashing his torchlight with deep thoughts about his penultimate battery porch, felt the bizarre wind on him while walking along the cold desert. He looked around and paused for a moment whether to march forward or set up a camp for the night.
By Govardhan Pinni4 years ago in Fiction
A Night Owl's Writer's Block
I spun around in my office chair, head tilted back, willing an idea to pop into my brain. After a half dozen rotations, I was plenty dizzy but had no new ideas. I dragged my feet on the floor, and my chair squeaked to a stop in front of my computer screen.
By Jessie Johnson4 years ago in Fiction
