family
A Bull's Purpose.
The box opened and light burst into his room for the first time in forever. If he could move his legs, he would have used them to shade his eyes. After they adjusted, he saw a woman's face. She was smiling and although it had been a while, he recognized her. There were more lines on her face and her hair looked different, but he would always remember Angela's eyes; she had come back for him.
By Matthew Puzycki5 years ago in Fiction
Once for Me and Once for Chuckie
Now that Chuckie and me are five we’re allowed to go to Grove Park by ourselves because it’s so close our mom can see us if she stands on our porch. And guess what? The park is right by the train tracks! If a train comes while we’re on the swings, we jump off and run across the field and climb the fence to pump our arms at the engineer. Sometimes he waves or even blows the whistle!
By Caroline Fremont5 years ago in Fiction
Crack the Whip
Rebecca absent-mindedly sipped her Sunday morning coffee, as she peered through the frosty pane. Winter had been particularly long with countless storms and cold, so very cold. Despite her dislike of winter, she marvelled at the sparkling drifts and swirls laying just beyond the window. Trees became indistinguishable beneath plump layers of crusty snow. An icicle, too heavy to sustain itself, fell crashing to the ground, bringing her back from reverie. Shards of ice scuttled outward as if in a game of crack the whip. Images of children spinning outward flooded Rebecca’s mind.
By Sherry Ryan5 years ago in Fiction
The Curious Incident of the Bull in the Nighttime
I love the night. I love the quiet, the stillness, the shimmering lights on the horizon spied from an upstairs window, the coolness of the air, the almost inaudible hum of a main road or motorway far off in the distance that was imperceptible during the hustle and bustle of the day but now seeps in through an open window carried by the night air.
By Jamie Jackson5 years ago in Fiction
La Faja Roja
Once upon a time, in a land far and away from here, there lived a young boy with thick brown hair that fell across his forehead in rich, luxurious curls. Bertrand was full of zest and ambition and maintained goals greater than most envisioned. On the surface, his life appeared to others to be perfect, he was surrounded by maids and nurses providing for his every whim, but it was anything but dreamy in reality.
By Sandra Dosdall5 years ago in Fiction
Uncle Walter
“Grandpa, Grandpa, Uncle Walter is here.” I shook Grandpa’s hand, but he couldn’t hear me. He lay on the bed, still and white… as he had for several days. “Uncle Walter’s here Grandpa.” I knew everything would be all right now. Uncle Walter had come.
By Ronald Gordon Pauley5 years ago in Fiction
A Father's Love
Raja Sahib's wife was very angry with his occasional drinking. After heart ailments and liver problems, the doctors declared alcohol poisoning for him. Later Raja Sahib had given up alcohol but the circle of friends with whom he used to sit and do this job would sometimes make this mistake by forcing him to regret it and fighting with Begum was a different matter for Raja Sahib.
By Mohammad Arif5 years ago in Fiction
A Black Ink Oddity
There are seven billion people on this planet, and I always have to remind myself that every one of them live each day in seven billion different ways. I’ve developed an indispensable way to remind myself of this fact; I scribble words across the edge of my arm every morning. With my pen outlining the blue veins climbing my arm, important words marry my skin, and recently—especially since my sister’s funeral—I don’t feel inclined to washing it off. I like writing notes on the back of my hand. I’m not a forgetful person or anything, and it’s not as though I don’t know how to use the notes app in my phone. I am comforted by the act of swiftly moving my hand across my own skin. It affirms something that typing on a phone could never achieve. Before my sister passed, I liked to write my grocery list across my fingers or note phone numbers on the edge of my wrists. Every so often, I liked to paint on my arms—in black ink—the curves of a fortifying building or a tree that dips sideways. But after my sister died, I’ve been writing notes across my arm like a detective that scribbles the details of a crime scene in his notepad; I like to remind myself that I must justify why I deserve to be here. And today, on her birthday, I write a note: find the brown bull, and then burn it.
By Bella Leon5 years ago in Fiction
