Short Story
Bad Coffee
Kira twirled her index finger repeatedly around the metal utensil submerged in her caramel latte. She despised the waiting game as much as she despised the beverage, but she remained content. It was her who showed up twenty minutes earlier than she and Sarah scheduled. At her fifth observation of the time, it read 10:54am. She had six minutes left to prepare as much of her speech as possible, be it Sarah would give her a chance to speak.
By Monai the Poet 5 years ago in Fiction
"Him"
Whoever you are. Dia was scavenging in a dumpster when I found her. It had been years since I had seen a child her age. At first, I didn't know if she was real. The Blight had wiped out the reproductive organs of virtually every man on earth. Oddly, she looked at me the same way. As if to say "what are you?"
By E.D. Nonam5 years ago in Fiction
A Memory of Rain
That memory: the staccato drum on the old, corrugated iron roof of the shed, the rivulets forming in dust so dry, it was like face powder, and then, her mouth open as splashes of earthy rain hit her tongue, cold, startling, wonderful. That memory was so cherished – she inhaled these imaginings deep into her heart.
By Michèle Nardelli5 years ago in Fiction
A Modern Moirai
A Modern Moirai I know it is a little bit crazy to spend hours and hours at my cutting table, turning a rainbow of colors and patterns of perfectly good cottons into precisely crafted strips and pieces, wild shapes and harmonious images. Crazier still to think that somehow assembling them into meticulously sewn blocks and squares and rectangles and circles will result in something better than existed before I took scissors and rotary cutter in hand and sliced and clipped my way through the stacks of fabric. And yet, who is to say that cutting and shaping, stitching and blending fabrics is not an echo of the acts of the gods of old? The three Moirai, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, do the same thing with our lives. Clotho and Lachesis spin and weave our stories until Atropos takes up her mighty shears and clips the thread, ending our time here with a single snip.
By Susan Imbs5 years ago in Fiction
A Question Of The Equestrian Plait
I'm a country girl at heart, even though big cities always try to suck me into them. Cities are like sponges. Once you are inside them they don't make it easy to escape. They seem to overload you with dull matters of life, like bills. There are always many more of those in cities. They are expensive places. Good to hide inside away from the crowd. Yet the crowds are vast. Ironic really when one thinks. Vast overcrowded places where no one speaks to anyone unless one has to. Good for tying up one's shoelaces of life I guess. One always seem to be at a starting point in a city or at end game. I always dived in and out as fast I could longing to be in the countryside again.
By Black Dog Productions5 years ago in Fiction
The beginning and the end
They never found it. They looked, but they never found it. But they knew about it. The newspapers reported it. That’s why they looked for it. “Aircraft Pay Nightly Call,” said the Montana Record-Herald (September 10, 1917) about flights over Helena. The Western News in Hamilton (September 13, 1917) reported, “Helena Excited about Airplanes: All Kinds of Reputable Citizens Confirm Reports of Night Prowlers.”
By Anne Millbrooke5 years ago in Fiction
Freeing Azria
7 years ago the world broke out into the biggest, most violent, war the world had ever known. Several nuclear weapons were launched and weaponized contagions were released. Pockets of survivors scattered the land but most of the population was dead or dying. Those left alive had to raid and pillage. Grocery stores and gas stations and restaurants were favorite targets. Some survivors resorted to raiding other groups.
By Billy Rose5 years ago in Fiction
It’s Members Only
They religiously practiced every day at the palace. The tall white walls of the studio climbed up as if they were to reach the sky. Really, the palace itself existed already, and love filled the room as the pointed toed ballerinas practiced the rituals, reaching beyond their limits with the world as their stage. From afar, they were recognized by some highlighted traits. Innately born with all the intrinsic features, they had the abilities to do magnificent things. They hone in their craft. And every night they dreamed about it, and every day, crystal clear, they tapped into the pursuit of their success.
By Alice K.S.5 years ago in Fiction
Going Home
Going Home D. A. Ratliff I hadn’t planned on going there. Fate brought me to speak at a seminar in my home state, and the fact that I was only an hour’s drive from my old homestead gnawed at me. I tried to push it away, but the itch was there and needed attention.
By D. A. Ratliff5 years ago in Fiction
