Classical
The Axe And The Pellet Gun
My mother cried when she saw my hands— torn, and bleeding, and quivering, the way that baby rabbit had shaken with fear after I’d wrestled it from the teeth of the family labrador. For she had warned me of the cold, as I went out in the morning, and gave me my father’s old brown coat. She told me to be vigilant of the axe, and gave me a sip of her richly black coffee, which had been obsidian in the halflight of the kitchen. I had sighed, and tried to refuse, but she was my mother, so it was futile. Throughout that day, until I came in with the flesh of my palms marred with splinters, and ripped about so that it had the same hollow color of white seashells, I smiled at the thought of my mother tilting that mug to my lips, and holding my nape, though I was nearly a man, in the way she had with soup when I was sick, as a little kid.
By G. Arthur Clynes4 years ago in Fiction
Tears for Medusa
In the center of Medusa's lair was a statue of her father... As Apollo's golden chariot disappeared below the western horizon, dragging Helios in its wake, the skies above Greece blazed violet and gold in a final celebration of the day even as the darkness of night marched up from the eastern horizon. Artemis began her own journey across the skies, carrying Selene behind her. That night a stranger came to the city of Cisthene by way of the sea. He left behind a life dedicated to Ares, and set out to build a new one dedicated to peace. As he took his first good look at the city, a shadow fell across his face as an owl darted past him; seemingly urging him onwards to enter the city. The sacred bird of Athena, goddess of wisdom. The man interpreted this as a sign that he was making the wise choice in coming here, and set out to build his new life.
By Hank Ryder4 years ago in Fiction
A Girl Named Lenore
January 1st, 2021 I must be crazy! So many things have happened this week. My grandfather's memorial service was Monday. It was hard; really hard. I loved that man more than life itself, but at least he isn't suffering anymore. I remember seeing him the night when he died, the whole family was there in his house. I say "whole family" like there is more than 10 of us, but hey, it was nice that everyone could see him one last time. Everyone else had gone to bed, but I stayed up. We were talking, his voice was soft and weak almost like it wasn't there. I felt a part of me snap when he finally passed. Sort of like a part of me died too. I miss him. I miss him so badly. He left me his Banshee though, so it's like he's still here! She's a beautiful owl. He called her a barn owl, but I don't really know enough about them to know the differences between them. Except for snow owls. I only know about them because of those Harry Potter movies. She was heartbroken too she cried the whole time Grandpa was passing from this world to the next. Almost like she was calling his name over and over again. That's the way of life though. "It's appointed once unto man to die" or whatever they say.
By Caleb Myers4 years ago in Fiction
Within the Dominion of Dreams
Everything is at peace. Only the babbling of the brooks we encounter and the faint chirping of birds is heard. A passing hum of the wind through the trees as it swept between their boughs, heavily laden with fruits and leaves; the grass whispering and waving. I feel its blades brush at my knees as I walk upon an earth unlike the one I’ve known, a world about me that is at peace. The sky, an iridescent blue, appears as an overarching crystal. The clouds are feathery, drifting carelessly, amidst a dream of their own. And while no fellow companion is to be found, I am not alone. As I cross the field, their presence remains with me. A presence of a spirit - a timeless creature. They bear no distinguishing features, and are shrouded with a heavy cloak. It floats about them as if spirit and shroud are one. At times I see them; at times I do not. We speak to each other as if we have known each other for a long time.
By Karis Wnuk4 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Dolia
It was all bones. He was all bones. Bones and dust and remnants of a civilization long past. Yet even after all those years, the man in the dolia still lived. In part. In spirit. He lived and wandered as an echo of tragedy. Not of war or deceit, but disaster by fire, water, and time. He hadn’t died the day when the mountain came crashing down. That was a different matter entirely.
By M.E. Royce4 years ago in Fiction
Vision
Some other time the vision would return. Not this moment of course. That would just be silly. The clouds were forming on this indecent exposure. That was starting to develop. This time he was sure to catch it as it developed. Not at a passing fix. Shifting up and around the past. Aggravating the stitches in the remix. Running through the track of his mind he had to think of another way to voice his opinions. Buzzing forever and whatnot.
By Alex Jennett4 years ago in Fiction
The Good Husband
Ten years, four months…ten years, four months. “Ten years, four months!” He grunted as he winced from the pain of his teeth grinding against his jaw. The dirty stained yellow cup with the white and blue pills stared emptily at him and he smiled wanly then grimaced. He wasn’t going to take them today! He shuddered as he remembered his nightmare from the night before of the zombies and monsters that clawed him as he slept. Or maybe he had imagined it all? He shook his head sadly as he wondered when he would be able to separate reality from the thoughts that brewed in his head. He chuckled quietly for he knew that he could no more discern and dissect the thoughts than he could swallow these here pills without gagging. He still gagged even after swallowing them for ten years.
By Elizabeth Cordes4 years ago in Fiction
