Life
They Lied
I have been going back and forward on where to start this and how to start it, it seems to be my biggest challenge when telling a story. Stories have to have a beginning, middle and end but my stories never do. It’s more like they latch on to part of me and Im actually never sure when it began or even if it ends. They follow me.
By Ella Loftus27 days ago in Writers
Is it me you're looking for?
The phone rang. He searched everywhere for it. His excuses of old age were wearing thin; his wife’s patience had worn even thinner long ago. He found it in his raincoat pocket. They laughed together at his joke. ‘Saving it for a rainy day.’ He had missed the call from his son in New Zealand. He wouldn’t ring back, not all that way. It must be expensive, it’s the other side of the World, isn’t it?
By Keith Butler27 days ago in Writers
The Room That Didn't Flinch
The Room That Didn’t Flinch The room never flinched. That mattered more than people realised. It was always the same temperature, the same light, the same chair legs scraping the floor in exactly the same irritating way. The clock didn’t tick. I’d bought it on purpose after one client told me ticking made their thoughts speed up until they couldn’t catch any of them. People think therapists like silence. We don’t. We like predictability.
By Teena Quinn 27 days ago in Writers
Bless em all. Content Warning.
Nancy pulls the blind tight against the sunlight. In this side room, the ward’s buzzers and beeps are muffled, distant. The fluorescent light flickers, highlighting white stubble on Rod's face, as he lies against the pillows. Ken stares as the taped cannula metronomically drips colourless liquid. Wife and son sit sentry at his deathbed as the monitor counts out his heart’s closing rhythm. Nancy’s tears slip down her face as she holds his thin, liver-spotted hand. Ken, face harrowed by helplessness, plucks at the bedsheet.
By Keith Butler28 days ago in Writers
Calling Elvis
I cried buckets that day. The rain-soaked mourners huddled at the graveside, black umbrellas like broken wings. The crowd pressed closer, pushing me towards the grave and the memories I would carry forever. Scents that would always cling to this day: the smell of damp soil and grass, cheap aftershave and wet wool.
By Keith Butler28 days ago in Writers
Two People, Going In Opposite Directions
Fiction prompt: Start or end your story with two characters going in opposite directions (literally or figuratively). What this brought back to me was a friend I met in recovery. He was every bit a Heyoka (they are contrary). When looking it up to give a description, it was attributed to the Sioux; the Lakota, and the Dakota people.
By Denise E Lindquist28 days ago in Writers
My Aversion To Poetry
Introduction This is just the devil in me that I have written about so often when it has got me down and upset, but writing this piece I feel in a good mood and on top of things, because where I used to think I was being forced into something, now I feel it is entirely my own choice and in my own hands.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred 28 days ago in Writers
