Love

The Catfish and the Storm
The Catfish and the Storm The wind blew softly off the bay. The mangroves trembled at the waters edge, their scraggly roots reaching into the brackish water searching for a drink. Thomas walked along the shoreline, his feet dragging in the clean white substrate. His breath caught sharply when he rounded the corner by the fire pit.
By Jean-Pierre Ducasse5 years ago in Fiction
Seeds of Hope, Seeds of Healing
"Do you even know how to grow a garden anyway? Do you even know how to grow a garden anyway?" The words echoed in my mind, sweeping over me again and again like ice-cold ocean waves. I moaned, but couldn't escape the taunting echo that grew louder each time instead of softer. Then the sound of gunshots ricocheted across my memory and I woke.
By TheaMarie Burns5 years ago in Fiction
Love Eternal
Silence. Silence is all that remains now, and it reminds me of the day the bombs went off. The walls of the shelter were thick enough to block out the screams, but you could still hear the pounding on the thick, steel walls as people begged to be let in. To be saved. Pleading to be given at least one more day on this now forsaken planet.
By Luke DeWitt5 years ago in Fiction
Finding Self
“I’ve heard enough of this nonsense!” I cried. I ran into my room. I knew it would be my safe place but even there I no longer felt peace and tranquility. I slammed the door to break the voices in my head. I breathe and feel my lungs work like a faulty filter struggling to clear my mind. I begin to choke. I throw myself onto the bed with frustration because I want to move about but I want to do nothing at all. What was once comfortable now feels like a lump of sand. I needed control and I have lost that.
By Sophia Baez5 years ago in Fiction
The Locket
He did not understand today. He sat in his room awaiting for the group to arrive. His room was gray, the only color he had ever known. The walls were the same from floor to ceiling. The ceiling itself was this same wretched neutrality. The floor was dull to the point of no different. He had other colors in life such as the green blanket upon his bed, colored images in textbooks, and small objects and signs placed throughout the metallic confines of the ship he lived endless days, months, and years to in a drab existence. Always there was only gray, nonetheless. He had a small end table near the bed, the bed itself, a closet, and a desk filled with his drab uniforms. All of which were gray. The room was without windows. He had no understanding of day and night, but grayness was everywhere. In his hands, however, he held the locket she had given him. It was not gray. The heart was rose gold with a ruby inlaid, and he only knew this because she had said so. He only knew it was as beautiful as her voice. The chain gleamed like her eyes singing life as it had done when he first met her months ago. He held it tight in his hands as he had done endlessly since...well, since he did not understand today nor did he understand since either. He only knew that his gut was tied up in knots and his heart was empty. He saw the door handle turn, and they entered his room. He looked only down as they entered.
By Joseph Murch5 years ago in Fiction
Him
It feels like so long ago… I don’t know how much longer I even want to keep writing. It all seems so useless at this point. What happened? What did I do? Why do I deserve to be punished for your actions? What did you do? What was so important that you just had to go and abandon me huh?! We had everything, and then you ruined it all…
By Richard Wooten5 years ago in Fiction
No Flights to Reykjavik
I don’t have many things left, but I have more than most. But really, that all depends on if one’s memories and imagination can now be considered a quantifiable, valuable asset. Since present reality is so disturbing, I tend to believe it is.
By S5 years ago in Fiction
Heart Rack
A humanoid silhouette patiently steps around debris and garbage in the dim gray world of the city. The light of the late afternoon sun barely filters through the small holes of the thick dark clouds above. The hooded figure pauses and turns to check the road behind, watching the thin rays of light play across the broken bases of structures that had once towered out of sight. The figure makes little sound as it changes it's course, moving down an alley. The darkness envelopes the figure entirely and there are only quiet footsteps. No sound of stumbling.
By Ben Luten5 years ago in Fiction
Wishful Thinking
“Your lenses on?” Ra shook his head, kicking a piece of red-orange clay with his boot. “Wrists?” He stretched out his pale, sinewy arms that looked naked without a familiar wristband.
By Jane Palash5 years ago in Fiction
Invisible Me
You kissed me one night, but I know you don’t remember. Not that you don’t remember the moment—though you might not—but you don’t remember me. I’m telling you because for the past three years I’ve been invisible to you. I’m told if I’m unable to talk about, it’s better to write you a letter you’ll never read.
By Gwen Cole5 years ago in Fiction
John & Martha
“To Martha, with all of my love. From John” I ran my fingers over the inscription, now worn from years of close handling. The chain was broken and tarnished, which was fine -- I would never have worn it, anyway.
By Marleigh McVeigh5 years ago in Fiction
Mr. Tucker and the Priest
I’ve heard a lot of people talking about how they wish they could have gotten the chance to grow old. Do you ever wonder if you’ll grow old, when your hair will start to turn gray, or maybe even when your body will start to ache from old age? All of these have already happened to me, but it happens quicker when you’re a dog.
By Hanna Taylor5 years ago in Fiction