Microfiction
Close To My Chest
Tobacco and bourbon heavy on his breath and a hand gently tilting my chin up to meet his stubbled lips, he kisses me softly. He was the sweet, passionate type you lose yourself to if you get high enough, but I keep my eyes open, focused. This is nothing more than a rescue mission; a second attempt to correct the mistake I made.
By Miss Riggie3 years ago in Fiction
Moonlight's Secret
Once upon a time, in a small coastal town named Silverbrook, a mysterious legend whispered among the locals. It spoke of a hidden treasure buried deep within the nearby Fog wood Forest. Many had attempted to find it, but none had succeeded. Determined to unravel the mystery and embark on an adventure, young Emily and her loyal canine companion, Scout, set off on a journey that would change their lives forever.
By Aisha Atif3 years ago in Fiction
The illusionist's heist
In the grand theater of illusions, three renowned magicians—Lucas, Ava, and Benjamin—united their talents for the most audacious heist of their careers. Their target: a legendary artifact, the "Eye of Aether," rumored to grant its possessor unimaginable powers.
By Imafidon Vanessa3 years ago in Fiction
Global Cooling
GLOBAL COOLING slowly extends towards a series of ice-ages in the wingspan of these epochs while APES arise and diversify; Grasslands extend Islands in the ocean clearing of primordial forest at first setting for camps for forests in extent dwindling in some extent to great wide opens (limited at every wooded edge, where that limit isn’t sea or mountain. Deifying the Science Myth: advertised as an Eden Age when Flora and Fauna become recognizably Modern. The Idyll’s stage was set then though in archaic creature forms long before any leader would bring his beasts to pasture and the dogs operated in brigand bands without any human head to organize their genes
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
Sketch: Millennial Rage
Sketch again (Millennial rage the newest hottest voices): A present generation now of shepherd youth learning the ropes of herdsmanship, so spending lots of time singing songs and recanting incantations contemporary to their forbears that told infectious gossip about the newest hottest voices recollected in Past Song Fame. This once passed as the very definition of craftsmanship. They mourned the silence of the songbreakers so jaded and sick with plaints so sick of love thus no longer lovesick, reed-breakers, aulos-smashers, tibia crushers, flesh and blood and bone, and others gone with these reallocated land portions bringing many a Chloe and a Lycidas from the countryside into being city dwellers after being shoved out of their own fields and robbed by the Government of their precious Herds: thus runs progress and the industrial revolution and the august Caesars and all the rest. They would reflect on past tradition, the dead departed and those who ceased to sing and poetize for whatever reason, and recite their now-classic songs: success as seasons and as the seasons flow a series, they will renew, every present tense being cast of leaf and trunk and flowery field or grassy slope, succession without transition, a world of dead campestral memories, crying for next generation’s resurrection, like the seasons, the blooming, and the snow, in spiral plant sex orgies and hibernation, a texture of rampant rhizomes, there is no break in the Daisy-Chain: they observed Nature, and sang about What they saw via the marvel of mammalian senses, they were animists, decanting the vintage of leaf and trunk and fur and tooth, and sweet heat of mating season, in normalcy or inverted form, in season or just when-fuckin-ever in whatever place, whatever flower grove or bower; eternal fields not in being everlasting but in repeating themselves in degree of succession which was the resurrection in nature or in culture and not just the sentimental revival but Daphnis himself in his fragmentary songs preserved only as quotations in other writers and Rosalind’s invaluable and green-thumbed gardening tips she who was popularly called the Green Reaper (by apellation contrôlée) in the Thessalonically Heliconoid domaine she once in olden days would haunt (a dream-realm with gorgeously painted sceneries between the Tagus and the Euphrates in Euboican Hesperidicana land, New World, until she moved to Sicily with her Syracusan boyfriend in a paradise for good sheep and meek pastors once they get over Love and focus on the Works and the Days, and other useful agricultural DIY manuals: profligate in the land of Kent A Golden Aged Return (the Return on which many departed Herdsman rhythmed their strophes, the hoped-for Homecoming, fitting Subject, and all for the Season) expectant of the Green Thumb or the Reaper and the sexy sacred youth and maidenhead repeatedly reinvigorated tho constantly mowed down w/the sweeping swipe of that sickle.
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
Arcadia in a Sicilian Painting
ARCADIA in a Sicilian Painting It was a thick grove of white poplars, flowering thorns and intricate thickets, in which a thousand amorous vines intertwined, and with tight lacing enwound. In the fields, that could be seen at a little distance, it seems that Mistress Nature wanted the earth to compete with the beauty of the stars of the sky by the variety of Her panoply of flowers. And it was there that the Springtime of the Fables unrolled Her painted carpets, for the gardens of Jupiter: or not otherwise than in the great stained-glass windows of variegated squares and triangles and such in mosaic, all seen in vast swaths of undulating change, and the sunflowers beam on the meadow.
By Rob Angeli3 years ago in Fiction
