Fable
The Minotaur's Story
Bullshit. Bullcrap. Cock and bull story. Like a bull in a china shop. The Minotaur had heard all of the idioms, all of the stereotypes and prejudices associated with the bulls. He'd heard them on the wind, of conversations carried from far away. The phrases were chucked so casually into conversation that he wondered if anybody stopped to care about how the bulls might feel.
By Leigh Hooper4 years ago in Fiction
Valley of the Bull
As the sunlight crested over the valley’s edge, its warm rays and bright light fell upon a dark figure in the center of a large pasture. The figure stirred, first failing to turn away from the intruding sun and then lengthening in a deep stretch, welcoming the new day.
By Sean M Tirman5 years ago in Fiction
The Thunder Buffalo
The Thunder Buffalo There was a final rain, many years before this story begins, that almost everyone took for granted because they had no clue it would be the last. The people of Thunder Valley grew bitter at the parched ground, for they had not taken the time to cherish the smell, the colors, and the sensations of a pouring sky. Their children grew up thirsty for water, but their parent’s longing descriptions of the rainy seasons of the past were all there was to quench the gargle of dry stomachs and the crack of parched lips. The fertile soil once yielded ample crops and grazing for livestock, but the years passed, and lives of people and animals with it. Thunder Valley shifted in a single season from green plains to brown and barren terrain. The people of thunder valley were forced to steadily migrate, and the only one who remained was a cattle herder who lived near a well, not quite dried up but hardly full.
By Jarrad DeGruy5 years ago in Fiction
The Forgotten Art of Listening
Somewhere in a hidden wood, a garden is nestled and hidden from view. The garden’s silent haven sits quietly, calmly, as the world beyond moves in a rush of color and confusion. No human has stepped foot on the lush, soft ground since the beginning, but that’s when the realms were closer and the veil between the worlds rippled and swayed.
By Rachael Hamilton5 years ago in Fiction
The violin, puppet, and firefly
The Old Man : Both of his wrinkled, veins laden hands helped in thrusting him forward as he tried to get up from his sofa, sending in the ages-old springs in it into action, followed by a twang sound and there he was, looking out to the horizon, where an orangish hue welcomed his tired eyes, as a slight commotion of light entered his dilapidated room, caressed by specks of dust spiraling the borders. His eyes circumnavigated the perimeter, starting from the gramophone, which played a melancholic tune since eternity, that clay puppet dressed as a ballet dancer, that piano, accumulating tons of cosmic dust and his violin perched over. There was this strange tune that kept playing on his mind, that tune which stayed buried, instead, kept buried by him, as it needed both the violin and the piano. That tune that was last played, ten years back! What is all this tomfoolery? Why is his mind playing tricks with him, convincing him to play that tune? This unsurmountable urge drove him mad as he stood his ground, fighting within himself, to prevent his soul from reaching for the violin, as he knew it won’t be possible to stop himself after that. As beads of sweat started to form on his forehead, he gave in! His hands reached for the gramophone, turning it off, and out went to the violin, and slowly picking it up, then tingling the strings, carefully, assuring himself that they are in tune, and after a moment or two, his eyes towards the horizon, now dotted with some migratory birds, waiting for the sun to set and the moon to take its place in the cyclic order of the day, he started to play. The first sounds of the bow touching the strings sent goosebumps all around his body, and as he kept getting engulfed in the melody, he entered a different universe. Their universe. That universe where the violin and the piano played together, happily, ever after. Ever afters are a farce! There’s nothing called Ever afters! It all ends and becomes a part of the cosmos from where it took birth! His half-closed eyes looked towards the piano stool, where she used to sit, and play along, her eyes on him, a smile laced across her face, throughout! How he missed that. How he missed her! His companion for fifty years. His hands trembled for a second, there was this ball of uneasiness spiraling near his throat, his vision blurred by those teardrops, eager to come out, and then he heard something. A sound on the piano. Is that really her? Or is he hallucinating? He didn’t want to know. He really never cared, as his hands, with this sudden energy, found a direction and continued with the tune. His ears seemed to not believe what it heard. The sounds of his violin punctuated, at correct notes, with the piano! It had to be her, it had to her, his heart danced with joy! His focus improved and improved as the tune reached that crescendo, and with a giant thud, he fell to the ground! The violin spiraled away, breaking into a few pieces, as the Kashmiri, dusty mattress sent out a couple of sleeping flies to the air, along with globules of dust, suddenly shocked with this event! The clay puppet kept looking on!
By somsubhra banerjee5 years ago in Fiction
Harvest
She always started harvesting on full moon night, in the middle of her birth sign. Always. The magic was best that way. But, of course, she never wanted people to know her birth day, so she'd go out in the garden at all times of the year. And at all times of the month, too. You never knew who was watching. Or at what hour. She learned to dabble - dig a little here, dig a little there, pull this, plant that, wander to that corner, kneel in this row for a bit. It was worth the extra time, because she was certain-sure that no one knew where she kept her rare and powerful plants.
By Meredith Harmon5 years ago in Fiction
The Nymphs
The meadow is always deadly quiet early in the mornings. A small stretch of lively grass on the side of a hill, surrounded by the most beautiful pines, stretching toward the clouds above. The only occupant of this small slice of heaven was a thin, silver haired man whose back was stooped with age. The man had chosen the meadow to age in peace and grow the herbs and plants he’d collected throughout his life. The herb man enjoyed the peace it brought him to walk about his property, not a soul around to bother him, just the tittering of the few animals in the woods. He’d just finished building his new home and had finally established the small garden surrounding the house, his pride and joy. Neat rows of only the most exotic herbs and plants with only a slim walkway to break up the greenery, which was finally blooming even in the end of the winter months. The man was clearly very precise and paid great attention to detail. Each type of plant had its own tiny plot, and each plot was lined by a thin silver thread that glittered in the cold morning light. Upon awakening, the herb man always started his day with the same tea and a walk about the trees, listening intently to the animals chatting among themselves. He liked to imagine the conversations they must have and how entertaining it would be to understand them but he was content simply enjoying the company from afar.
By Madison Stewman5 years ago in Fiction
