Morlane hung his head. At times like these, his emotions were torments of conflict. He was grateful, yes; but he was ashamed. He was melancholy, true; but he was jubilant. Every month for the last 4 years he had made the trek; every month he had experienced these emotions again. He couldn't talk to anyone about these feelings. His father, raised on a quiet farm, couldn't know about such things. His fiancee, sophisticated city girl that she was, couldn't be expected to understand. Only his regiment could understand. And he was the only one left. Except for --
"GOD BLESS...
She pulled the book off the shelfe and flip over a few pages. The images were beautiful, the paper such a wonderful quality. She stroked it with her fingertips, feeling the inc on the page. What a book. So old yet in such good shape. The language was unknown to her, some form of chinese maybe. She could fing no price on it. WHat were the odds that she would be able to afford such a gem? She put it back and ambled through the store. Nothing else spoke to her. Finally she went back for the book and brought...
"I'm writing you a ticket," the cop said.
"That isn't fair," I complained. "I didn't do anything wrong."
"You're selling illegal oranges in a public place," the other cop admonished me. "That means a fine, and you're lucky we're not taking you down to the station."
"What's the matter with my oranges?" I cried despondently. Those oranges were all I had. I would be destitute without them, and what little income I could get from them. I had to convince them not to take that away from me. My family was counting on me; I couldn't let them down.
"Hmm,...
Public Service Announcement (this has no relation to the prompt): When Hemingway (I think, but it doesn't really matter) said, "Write what you know," it was a critique of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who had said, "Write what you don't know." In other words, it would be like me saying, "You are therefore you think." It may or may not be true, but it was a critique of an idea that had been set in stone and codified. Codifying that idea, in turn, defeats the purpose.
To be more succinct, When I hear, "Write what you know," I reach for my...
"Carry the wreath, Henry, your mother is waiting."
Father's terse words spoken from the side of his mouth, muffled by his coat's collar and the stub of a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. He fancied himself a small-town Bogart. He was the only one.
Two days past christmas and we're out before dawn, getting decorations.
"For next year. Don't worry about it," he says, pulling the flask from the inside pocket. "Carry it another few blocks and maybe I'll give you a sip."
He drinks and staggers and coughs. The butt falls from his mouth and I crush...
As I clench the sweet smelling flowers in my hand, I stare into his perfect emerald eyes.
In this moment I remember why I love him so much. Every moment that I am with him, I feel warm, comfortable, free.
The sun smiles at me and the breeze sings a song that calms my racing heart, though I do not know why it is racing. I look down to see his emerald eyes, now staring up at me. I am captured by them, though then I am drawn to something else- his hands. Within them lay a velvet navy box....
The birds had not come in last night and now they would be lost.
Common birds! She spat twirling a small gold spoon in her coffee clattering nervously on the edge of the doll like cup.
So long years of sorrow, so long back breaking toil. The training, the binding of tiny claws the midnight dropper feedings. All of it for nothing. Now they would peck at trash and pretend to get excited when they heard the fog horns of a garbage trawl.
Why do I bother? She picked a tiny scar at the corner of her mouth and drank...
I couldn't sleep with her next to me, he said. She was tossing and turning, not to mention I couldn't stop looking at her. Her blonde hair rolled up onto her head in a knot, my college t-shirt, and her Superman underwear- I just couldn't take my eyes off of her. She was beautiful.
In the morning when I was still looking at her she smiled wide, loving that I was already (well, still), awake. She kissed my forehead and slid closer.
"Dude, what are you doing, you said you didn't love her."
"I can't help it, the way she...
The lamp wouldn't turn on.
Strange, she thought, I just changed the bulb yesterday.
Feeling her way through the dark living room, Camille passed into the dining area and saw the stairs leading to the second floor were lit with tiny tealights. Following them up, she called out, "John?" No answer. A little louder, "John, are you home?." At the top of the landing, more candles lit a path from the stairs and into the hallway. Camille started down the hall but paused when she passed the closed bathroom door. Thinking John might be inside the bomb shelter-like walls, she...
I was staring. I could feel myself doing to but I couldn't stop. I was transfixed.
We had met only three days ago and already I just knew that she had made an impression. Although until this moment, I had no idea just how much.
Her skin was flawless marble. Her frame slender and perfectly proportioned. Her hair long, thick and silky.
She was perfect.
Even now, as took off her clothes and showed me her secret.
The giant red scar cutting into her side.
She wasn't ready to tell me where it had come from, but I was okay...