Fable
Rabbit Stew
Rabbit Stew Locals and weathermen all said that this year was the coldest on record for Cleveland and the surrounding area. Teresa had no trouble believing that as she carefully maneuvered through fresh snow, knee deep in places, as she followed rabbit tracks, hoping to capture the cottontail as it flailed in the soft snow. She had read somewhere that rabbits lost most of their maneuverability in fresh snow over six inches deep, and the forested snowscape in front of her certainly qualified. If successful at capturing it by hand, Teresa planned to surprise her invalid grandmother with rabbit stew.
By Cleve Taylor 5 years ago in Fiction
Never Whistle at the Northern Lights
It was a cool, crisp October evening and I just spent the last 2 hours studying for my physics exam tomorrow. I need a break, I'm tired and my eyes are sore. I'm already anxious because I'm not quite understanding physics and I always panic before a test. "I just need to stay calm and focused. Maybe a walk will help," I thought to myself. I grabbed my jacket and phone. "I'm just going for a walk, I'll be back soon!" I shouted to my mom as I opened the front door.
By Alison McLaughlin5 years ago in Fiction
The Mythology of Beasts
It was the third sunny night in a row. The Spring Equinox had come and the entire arctic circle was to stay bathed in weak sunlight until early October. They called this area of the world 'Land of the Midnight Sun', a title way too glamorous in the eyes of Sophia, who thought of it more as an expansive, white shithole.
By Jamie Jackson5 years ago in Fiction
Nature of The Beast
The old man’s gaze was fixed on the fire, his profile glowing against the black of night. The skin on the side of his face stretched taut over his high cheekbone, the eye that I could see like an onyx marble reflecting the orange and yellow flames, his chin strong and reverent. His hair wasn’t long and thick in the way Native Americans look in National Geographic. It was modern and military cut, neon white in the contrast of darkness. The clothing he wore was indistinct, dark pants and a leather jacket. He wasn’t even sitting “Indian style”, but rather like a man who’s frame is large enough to cradle the universe- the stump beneath him a humble throne, callous-covered bare feet planted solidly on the ground, elbows on his knees. In his hands, he held a cup that offered steam to the smoke of the fire.
By Christa Leigh5 years ago in Fiction
Curious
Anna Williams grew up in a wealthy family. She had everything she could ever ask for; she was raised by a nanny, taught by the finest tutors her father could buy, dressed in ribbons and lace. If she ever left the manor, it was to attend parties at the homes of her parent’s friends, and she was often left at home for such events in any case. Anna felt trapped in her home, in the routines and familiarity. To entertain herself, she explored her home and the surrounding gardens. She wanted to see every room in the house, look in every closet, open every drawer. She even looked inside all of the little boxes and bottles that were sitting on vanities and tables. She was frequently disappointed to find them empty, but was always delighted to find various accessories and makeups in the vanities, or pens and stamps in the writing desks.
By Tristin Roholt5 years ago in Fiction
The Undistinguished Prince
Ab-lukam Ahmed was born third in King Ahmed's line, with absolutely nothing to distinguish him—his face was not beautiful and did not grow a fulsome beard; his voice did not ease, persuade, or command; he had no genius with the sword and shield; and his father's voice did not saturate with joy whenever Ab-lukam walked in the room.
By Christopher Fin5 years ago in Fiction
A Whimsical Wombat Tale
Once upon a time, not so very long ago and not so very far away, there lived a whimsical wombat named Wiggle. As one might expect, Wiggle was often given to bouts of waggish whimsy. This was indeed the case on this day when Wiggle threw open the front door of his house and launched himself across the threshold, intending to skip all the way to wherever he was going (he had not thought of a destination just yet).
By Jim Sprouse5 years ago in Fiction
The Journey to The Pond of Souls
“It was a different time. Back when all these fizzling gadgets didn’t exist. Back when there were none of the clanking bells of industry to drown the songs of the animas. Back when there was magic in the world. That didn’t mean the world was any better. In fact, it was much worse. Most spirits were malevolent, evil creatures. Most magic was used for greed and anger. But, in that chaos and hell, she was born from fire with a face chiseled of dark bronze and a spirit forged from determination, she was brought into this world to serve, but she was never meant to. Kiya, a beggar, was thirteen years old when she made the journey.
By Arjun Gupte5 years ago in Fiction
A Shark Named Lani
In the cool ocean waters, beneath the wan light of the moon, is a world free of Man; free of them but concerned by them all the same. The silvery light that beamed down failed to make it far into the indigo waters, but near the surface swam two graceful creatures, their pale bodies gliding in and around the beams that shown through the water.
By Travis Pittman5 years ago in Fiction
