Mystery
Kakorrhaphiophobia
Deepa always wanted a big farm to grow some animals and grow her own vegetables. All her life, she has been looking for a farm plus house to live happily. She has been looking into horticulture as well. Deepa’s parents were farmers and she grew up on a farm as well so her heart always longed for one. She had to convince her husband and kids that it would be the best decision and move that they could ever make in their lives.
By Kiran Joseph5 years ago in Fiction
Sunflower Butterfly
Every morning she woke up with to the painting on her ceiling, a painting that she created herself. Her two favorite things, a sunflower, and a butterfly. The Sunflower has a gold tint to its petals with the signature black center. The blue butterfly was a nice contrast to the golden yellow flower. Justine was always a talented artist and always came in first place in the children’s art shows. The painting she was currently admiring, she painted at just 14 years old. She had a hard time trying to convince her mom to let her paint the ceiling. Finally, after ensuring that paint would not drip onto the beige carpet or her queen size bed, her mother gave in. After 3 days the painting was finished, and only one drop got on the carpet.
By Heather Skelton5 years ago in Fiction
The Reception of 1927
My dark hands rested against the wizened wooden door, and even though my eyes were closed, the image of the Agnello Family Barn danced before my mind’s eye. Its jagged, towering walls; the support beams which creaked with each breeze; the holes in the bottom of the stage which we had gotten our curious fingers stuck in on every occasion … it was all there, in some aspects untouched and frozen in time. The multitude of tales being withheld in the rotting walls flowed through my fingers like jolts from a lightning storm.
By Katelyn Hunt5 years ago in Fiction
Her Name Is Peace
Farmer Petty from Minnesota recently lost his wife of thirty-five years. His five children are grown and have left the farm; having started their own families and careers. He thought he would love the peace and quiet, and while Betty was alive, he did. Only now, it was strangely and eerily silent for too many days.
By Sunday Gracia5 years ago in Fiction
The Barn Of Speaking Facts
Never thought I would be witnessing this but as I sat in the car parked in front of the barn, I thought to myself who have I become. The people that I called my friends have turned there back on me and all I have is this old run down barn. As I sat there for a minute I just thought about everything that I’ve always dreamed of. What have I been reaching for the most? What am I supposed to be doing in my lifetime. And was this barn a wake up call for my destiny? As I continued to stare at this barn I remembered what my lover told me, you have a dream and you can do anything you put your mind too.
By Tecoria Savage5 years ago in Fiction
Chapter 10
Missouri is a raging furnace during the heat of summer. The humidity is constantly rising until, like the pressure cooker that Gramma T uses to make canned goods, we almost needed to scream. The summer that Jake, Eddie and I spent looking for that cave was no different.
By William King5 years ago in Fiction
The White Noise of Ashes (TWO)
TWO They walked in lazy circles, their nonchalant steps stirring muddy rings around the body as they looked for… something. This was all part of procedure. When there was a big crime, (and this was the biggest crime, probably the darkest the county had ever seen) you had to comb the area to look for clues. Almost all his deputies were here now, slowly pacing the loop, their eyes transfixed to the morass beneath their boots. They were normally a gossipy bunch, chatting about arrests, rumors, and happenings as did any group of people living in a small town. Now they were deathly silent, pacing discs as they searched for answers, the lighter brown of their uniforms blending in with the sapping dirt.
By Russel Barrie5 years ago in Fiction
Finding
There are no sounds. No birds chirping, no bees buzzing, no breeze blowing. That’s how I know that their mutagens are nearby, tracking. I jostle the knob to the steel door on the little house. It doesn’t budge. A low growl escapes my lips in frustration and I thump my forehead against the door. This is the third one I’ve tried, but something is telling me that I’m supposed to be here. I pull my hand into my sleeve and shiver, due more to the eerie silence than the late October evening. I used to love quiet nights when it was still Before when She would tuck me in the back seat of the beat-up SUV that smelled of oil and grass shavings, the one with the makeshift sunroof where we could look up at the stars. I’d thought I heard her singing last night like she used to before putting me to bed. It scared me awake before I realized it was only me serenading myself in the space between alertness and slumber. Her face is blurry now, but I remember her voice, lilting and bell-like, trailing off with the sweet hush of the night air. My throat tightens and I taste salt on the back of my tongue as I choke back the memory. I miss her. Too many deadly things are silent now and you can never be certain what kind of mutagen might meet you in the twilight. I swipe at the window to the left, brushing away caked-on grime. I can just make out some broken-down furniture and a few pillows scattered across a dirty floor. Other squatters. It must’ve been weeks, though. Even squinting from here, I can see that dust has settled over those pillows and any footprints are long gone. But the door is locked, so there must be another way in. I tighten the belted backpack around my waist and try lifting the shatterproof windows, tripping along the bramble skirting the foundation.
By Makkedah Diggs5 years ago in Fiction
My Precious Friends
Early morning, the sun just up over the horizon. Its easy at this time, my friends in the barn still lazy. Will have to feed them soon, grass and corn and the like. People always say tending to animals is difficult, but I say bah to them. You just need a little know how, and observation. They aren’t so different to us. As I sip my tea, however, I hear tires screeching up this way. Easy to hear that out here, nearest home is a mile away. A grey sedan, Mary is coming in a hurry. She pulls up to my house fast, I'm almost afraid shell run into me.
By Patrick Marrero5 years ago in Fiction
