Young Adult
The Weaver
A brief re-telling of the Myth of Arachne. There are several different versions of that myth, but frankly, few of them end with anyone in particularly positive light. Most versions focus on Arachne’s undue pride and the perceived arrogance of calling the Gods on their actions. I wanted to explore the other side, where Arachne was doomed as soon as Athena showed up, no matter who wove better.
By Natasja Rose5 years ago in Fiction
Mystery Within a Box
The last time I saw my best friend, Laura, was when I told her I hated her. That was almost a week ago. The fight we had seemed pointless now. I wished more than anything that I could take back what I said to her. My fingers were trembling as I remained seated; tears were running down my flushed face. I had to bite my cheek to keep from making any noise.
By Kellie Gilman5 years ago in Fiction
Packaged Memoirs
The post does not normally run on Sundays, but today proved to be a rare exception. It has been a year and six months since I’ve last heard from him and not, I find this interestingly wrapped package, dusty brown in color, sitting on my front porch. I cannot say for sure if it is even from him or if he is even thinking about me enough to send me an entire package. We went from sending love letters back and forth to each other for over a year to complete silence. Not a single letter, nor a note of any kind. It is like all the love we expressed to each other, all the romance we poured into each other and all through the simple technique of eloquently placed words on blank sheets of paper...never even happened.
By Dominique Whitfield5 years ago in Fiction
New Family Dynamics
Olivia Miles walked into the OceanPod Aquarium in search of something. She had heard of the story a few months ago, a female whitespotted bamboo shark that had apparently laid a clutch of eggs without any apparent fertilization. Although never having seen it for herself she had caught glimpses on the news and all over the internet. Researchers were discussing various possibilities for how this might have happened. Theories such as females with both male and female gonads, females having the ability to hold sperm for an extended amount of time, or by the newly discovered method of asexual reproduction known as parthenogenesis. Either way this news struck Olivia to the core. You see she was the child of a single parent. Her mother was a career woman who never had time to date or participate in the various steps needed to find a worthy partner capable of having children with. So, she took matters into her own hands and settled with a highly reputable sperm bank known to achieve results on their first try. Let’s just say their efforts are the reason why Olivia Miles is here today. Now although her way into this world isn’t exactly asexual reproduction, she did feel somehow connected to the pups that were born. She had to see it for yourself in hopes of finally learning to accept that her way of life can be the norm.
By Brittany Bulger 5 years ago in Fiction
Surviving the Night
"Rylan, we have to go now!" At the sound of the panicked voice I look over my shoulder I see my brother, Dean, by the automatic doors with a look of fear in his ocean blue eyes. There was only two things that could put a look like that on my brothers face; our father and the Possessed Ones. Which means we were running out of time.
By Taylor Davis5 years ago in Fiction
Jealous Barbie
Barbie Bryant batted her brown specs, twirled her jet black spirals, and made a guppy face as she applied her favorite tub of midnight blue lip gloss. She loved wearing edgy colors like blue on her lips. She had always felt ahead of the curve as far as trends were concerned. She recently learned from her well-traveled, flight attendant Aunt Zuri that Nigerian teens had been wearing blue lipstick for years. Apparently, it signified that each blue-lipped girl was single and ready to mingle.
By Tiffany Gordon5 years ago in Fiction
ARC Ladies
2. The night passed slow. The chill had set in shortly after the sun finally fell below the western fields. The moon must have been high above the garden by now, but I couldn’t tell for the total cover of the leaves, and spotting anything with my eyes now was hopeless.
By Greg Clark5 years ago in Fiction
Blossom Storm
“Mari!” The voice called her but she barely noticed. She had fallen asleep in the flower gardens. “Mari!” They called again, pulling her out of her dream. She was dreaming she was dancing among marigold flowers. In her dream, the flowers glided through the air on an unseen wind.
By T. F. Coffey5 years ago in Fiction
Tales of Bette: Do Something...Not Him
Bette On It: Weird Adolescence. 10th Grade 2001-2002. An Excerpt... December 2001 It was Christmas time. Bette and Kasey had worked a catered lunch event at the museum and were done working for the Saturday. Kasey had a car and suggested they go to the mall for some Christmas shopping. Bette didn't really need to go there, but she wanted to do something and Kasey was good company. The only store Bette thought to look in for gifts for her parents was the book store. Kasey wanted to shop the music section and she told Bette to come find her when she was done. Bette went into the section of books on antiques and collectibles and picked up a book about the history of pinball machines and thought of her father. He loved pinball. His love of the game was imbued in her. He could play for an hour on a machine on one quarter and Bette would go through a whole roll of quarters playing a pinball machine next to him. It was a big book, practically a textbook. She paged through it smiling at the history, creativity, and joy the game had brought over the years. She saw someone approach the section out of the corner of her eye and took a couple steps back so they could either pursue the section or pass.
By Tinka Boudit She/Her5 years ago in Fiction
Drive
Gray gravel crunches as I rev the worn out truck up the narrow driveway. Leafy branches swing overhead and undergrowth moves in layers around the dirt path. I sigh as the front tires bounce over a pothole. It's way too late...no, way too early to be getting home. When are these 4 o'clock in the morning arrivals going to stop? Never. I hear myself answer my own question. They will stop when you're dead. God, why do I become so macabre when I'm tired? Why do I talk to myself?
By Candice Lango5 years ago in Fiction
