Classical
In Like A Lion
The murder of crows circled above, dread harbingers of his army’s advance. Pasha gazed at the hill before them taking in every curve as though it were a beautiful woman lounging on a chaise. Atop the promontory sat a squat square keep, its angles jarring against the rolling cliff. It was many generations older than Pasha dared hope to recite, the head and seat of some trumped up local lordling. All Pasha knew was that he lay in their way.
By Matthew J. Frommabout 3 hours ago in Fiction
My Pen is
My Peace is My Pen Arguing happens again, the police at the door making reports of domestic abuse. Screams can be heard down the alley from my bedroom window. Gunshots ricochet from the bricks of my home, on the floor we sleep. We wake to see the damage, blood spilled in the streets where we played. Let’s see who can catch this football in the vacant lot of a church that supplied the neighborhood with supplies such as clothing and food. The neighbors running trap houses as kids wait for seven o’clock to hear Mr. Frostee tunes blaring from around the corner. I can remember begging for dollars from the locals just for a vanilla soft served cone. My mother always liked hers dipped. We get ready for dinner, another soulful meal prepared by the man and woman that loved us.
By Charelle Landersabout 19 hours ago in Fiction
One Table With The Wifem One Bar With Lads
One Table With The Wifem One Bar With Lads They sat across from each other in the low gold light of a Thursday evening. Two men who had known each other since their voices were breaking and their chins were bare. The pub was loud but not wild yet. The kind of noise that carries laughter and old stories without asking for trouble. Tom lifted his pint and said, answer me straight. If you had one free night, no work tomorrow, no excuses, would you book a quiet dinner with your lady, candlelight, clean shirt, proper conversation, or would you come here, shoulder to shoulder with the lads, and drink until the stories turn reckless. No middle ground.
By George’s Girl 2026 about 21 hours ago in Fiction
Johnny on the Spot (But I’m the One Who Saw It Coming)
I’m the kind of woman who doesn’t fade into the wallpaper. I’m no dangerous siren with a vial of venom tucked into my handbag or scandal stitched into my stockings. But I do carry a certain gravity. The kind that shifts the air when I walk in. The kind that feels a storm brewing long before the first thunderclap.
By Gaurav Gupta3 days ago in Fiction
A Christmas Carol
I was going through some old documents I had when I came across this. I wrote it for somebody I cared about a few years ago. She loved the Christmas Carol Story but brought up that she wished things turned out better for Scrooge and Belle. So I wrote an ending that met that criteria. This person isn't around anymore so instead of this collecting dust I figured you could have it. Hope you enjoy!
By Donny Foley3 days ago in Fiction
