fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
Permanent Water Duty
By: Renae Nicole
Tags: Stories, Fiction, Storytelling, Fiction Writing, Short Story

Image via Getty Images

The afternoon sun bounced off the small windows of the dorm buildings and into a parking lot full of beat-up cars. Two guys with super soakers hid behind a rusty minivan, occasionally squirting unexpected victims. Girls in tank tops and shorts lay on bath towels, occupying every available sunbathed patch of grass. The beach volleyball courts had a waiting line. Mildred sat farthest from the dorms amongst athletic bags, which lay on a brown patch of grass.

Mildred moved her hand over her eyes, pushing her red curly hair back against her sweaty forehead. Her jeans and a white button-up shirt, covered in little pineapples, stuck to her skin. She smiled as her friend, Abbey, ran up.

“Water!”

Mildred dug through the bags and found a liter Aquafina bottle filled with purple Gatorade. She threw it to Abbey and Abbey downed half of it. Suddenly, Drake ran out of the cornfield next to the college. He triumphantly held up a soccer ball.

Everyone on the soccer field cheered. Mildred and Abbey let out a holler.

“Thank you!” Abbey said through labored breaths as she tossed the bottle back.

Mildred caught it, giving Abbey a thumbs up and a smile as Abbey ran back onto the field. Mildred threw the bottle back into the bag, Her attention turned back to the field as the game started again.

Joe passed it to Drake. Ashley, a player on the other team, ran up to guard him. Mildred moved her leg as if to kick the ball away from Ashley, but she stopped mid-motion, cringed, and put her leg back down. She opened her water bottle and took a long drink.

She watched Ashley take the ball away from Drake and dribble it up the field. Mildred cheered. “GO ASHLEY!”

Ashley passed it to Emily and Emily passed it to Garrett. Garrett kicked it hard; the purple and green soccer ball sailed over the goalie and into the goal.

The whole field roared. Garrett ran around the field with his arms spread wide like he was an airplane. His teammates pretended to bow to him.

Mildred cheered and cheered.

The soccer players slowly made their way to their bags, high-fiving, laughing, and wiping the sweat away. Mildred creaked as she stood up and stepped away from her friends’ bags.

“That was such a good shot, Garrett.” Mildred praised.

“Yeah?” Garrett took out his water bottle. “I kicked it like you showed me.”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

“Obviously.”

Mildred laughed. “Don’t sass me, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Garrett chuckled.

“Will you be playing the next game?” Drake asked.

“Drake.” Emily gritted. “She can’t.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mildred tried to smile. “I am on permanent water duty.”

“Okay,” Ashley waved to the group. “Who needs ice cream?”

Everyone raised their hands. Mildred genuinely smiled as she also raised an eager hand. Soon they were piling in cars, headed for the local ice cream shop.
Series. Puntopia.
By: Richard Mark Dobson, The Rmd Gallery
Tags: Existentialism, Fiction Writing, Street Photographer, Film Noir, Street Photography

Title: Clockwork Orange. Hotel Lisboa, 2–4 Av. de Lisboa. Macau

(fiction)

©richard mark dobson

Clock in, clock out. Puntopia’s legions of ‘workers’ toil 24/7/365. That’s not a date. It’s the number of days they work. All day, every day. All day, all night. Shifts break on the hour, every hour. Back door entry. Back door exit. Usually sidling past half asleep security personnel, dozing off in their cubicles. It’s a strange twilight existence. They work day shifts. They sleep all night. They work night shifts. They sleep all day. No wonder their already yellow skin, turns a funny mustard orange. It’s lack of vitamin A, D and C.

They arrive dressed all dandy, cheap leather jackets with tiger motifs on the back are a favorite among the male staff. Who work long hours dreaming of a better life. They change into dull gun metal grey jackets, trousers and white shirts. Many decide to drop out of full time Puntopia employment and join the local triads, so they can wear their leather jacket all day, every day. They can also then look forward to been on the other side of the gambling tables. Spending the proceeds of their latest heist or money laundering scam. Much more glamorous. And having a dolly bird in a leather jacket with a tiger motif on her back too, is for many of these young men, the pinnacle of accomplishment.

to see more of this series and peruse the fine art giclee prints, please visit the artists website at;

https://richardmarkdobson.com/personal-work/existential/puntopia/1
Why We Never Really Died
By: Hailey Jo Neal
Tags: Stars, Fiction, Fiction Writing, Poetry, Space

Stars shatter,

Die, become matter,

Stars sculpt into worlds,

With energy unfurled,

Whose cries are muted,

But still suited,

For making a soul,

lingering and full,

For living and dying,

For simply trying,

For becoming the ground,

Safe and sound,

Decomposing, tried and true,

Stardust spread anew,

Till the world falls away,

and our stardust will stay,

Our world will spread,

And creation is fed,

By steady pace and tune,

Find a new moon,

And let fate find new life,

To bathe in kindness or strife,

to sit in our beginning's light,

To fight,

I hope that they call out to their sun,

Find they were not the only ones,

To be made of this stardust we have inside,

To find out who we were, and why we never really died.
I woke up laying in the fresh, green grass.
By: Grace Welsh
Tags: Fiction Writing, Mythology

I woke up laying in the fresh, green grass. Flinging myself forwards I searched the verdant valleys in hopes to realise where I was. Stumbling onto my feet I looked up into the bright, blue sky where the clouds floated away. I was mesmerised by the beauty of this sight, the butterfly’s fluttered and the bunnies leaped, the flowers turned to me and lifted their heads. Slowly I turned my head to catch all this sight like just a painting, an old, rusty door caught my eye in the distance. I ran up to the door without hesitation, not a care in the world, I never wanted to leave this place. My hair danced in the wind as I reached the door. Strangely the door opened, I jumped back from it to reveal a magical path. The path looked dilapidated, and crooked, nothing I had even seen before. This mysterious path had huge, emerald green, overgrown bushes at either side. The path followed up to a Rotunda, a mythological, magical Rotunda. I stared up into the entrance to find that there were vines hanging up from I don’t know where, and trees as tall as skyscrapers. Where was I?
Valerie
By: Zarha Zammi
Tags: Fiction, Short Read, Fiction Writing, Short Story, Sad

another birthday

another year gone by

no one remembered

no one cared

i thought this year would be different

this year i had hope

i always have hope

but every year

every single time

hope fails me

and now

im starting to give up

i held on for so long

thinking

there might be someone

just someone

who might be out there

who might’ve cared

who might’ve remembered

about pathetic ‘ol me

but now

now im starting to let go

on that little thread of hope i’ve held onto for so long

im letting go

maybe it would hurt less

maybe the pain would go away

but that’s when i heard it

one knock

two knocks

then three

on my window

i walk up

to my window

and open it

and there she is

i would recognize

that face

anywhere

the face that gave me hope

she is now sitting

on my windowsill

the moonlight

illuminating her sharp features

her messy raven hair

tied back

because she couldn’t be bothered to brush it out

her dimples were visible

as she gave me her biggest smile ever

and

her big brown eyes

were sparkling

valerie.

my valerie.

my valerie

who i thought

i would never see again

she was here

in my room

she jumps inside

and i notice

one of hands

behind her back

she brings it infront of her

she was holding a cake

a small cupcake

with frosting

the colour of cotton candy

topped off with sprinkles

every colour of the rainbow

and in the middle

was a candle

its light

illuminating my room

i could see her more clearly now

my valerie

my sweet valerie

valerie could do wonders

she brought colour

and light

to my dark

black and white world

“happy birthday wyatt”

she whispers

with that sweet

honey like

voice of hers

the voice i would never get tired of hearing

the voice that keeps me going

the voice that gave me hope

her big brown eyes

are sparkling

the light from the candle

reflecting off them

making them seem

a thousand times

more beautiful

i didn’t want to stop

staring at her

i couldn’t stop

even if i wanted to

“stop staring at me

and blow you candle out

you silly boy”

she said

with a giggle

at the end

that giggle

that laugh

it was so contagious

it lit up my whole life

made it seem

like my life

isn’t so bad

it gave me something

i desperately needed

h o p e .

i did as she asked

i took a deep breath

closed my eyes

and blew

and god

i wish i didn’t.

i opened my eyes

she was gone

my window is closed

no cake

no brunt out candle

there never was

and valerie was never here

valerie is dead

6 feet under

valerie is never coming back

valerie is dead

i repeat the phrase

over and over

my hands start to shake

my legs wobble

i fall on my knees

and the tears

finally start to pour

valerie is dead

and i’m not getting any better
Prisoner 5
By: J. Lee Graves
Tags: Science Fiction, Serial Fiction, Mystery, Fiction Writing, Creative Writing

Chapter 2

The door flies open. It’s always fast, loud, and followed by pain.

I tried escaping once. The door opens out and to the right. I was on the side of the door where it swings open so I didn’t need to deal with the door in my way, just the guards. At the time there were two but now there are four. I’m not the only one who tried to run.

I made it into the hallway which was stark white, glaringly so after starring at so much grey for so long. The hallway to the left appeared to slope downward in a twisting-like slant. Very disorienting. I’m sure by design. Why else? The floor is also very slippery, like oil. Whoever our captures are have done this enough to have perfected escape countermeasures.

It used to be two, now there are four. Vicious savages. They make no sound but move with a ferocity of a wild animal.

The door flies open. It’s always fast, loud, and followed by pain. Flailing limbs precise and powerful armed with batons, stun-batons, and whips.

Then they’re gone as fast as they arrive. On to the next as screams echo and moans hang in the air like a thick fog leaving each, like me, curled in a ball of agony. Some sob but most seem beyond that. My body seems numb to the pain during the assault but after — the waves of pain crawl across and through my body like an army of fire-ants.

Fire-ants? What are fire-ants? Why does that image come to me?

I am Prisoner 52781 — 340 but my neighbors call me 5.

Chapter 3

*Prisoner 5 is an Original serial story released every Saturday*
by Cambria Covell
By: Cambria Covell
Tags: Flash Fiction, Fiction Friday, Prose, Writing, Fiction Writing

Two men stood before me. One was dressed impeccably, in a suit that must have cost a fortune and he was smoking a cigar. The other man was dressed in well worn, humble looking clothes. He had lines on his face, which was tanned from spending so many hours in the sun.

“What do you do?” I asked them both.

The man in the suit smiled. “I work for a firm. I make more money than you could ever imagine. Some of that money I keep and some of it I donate to charity. When I get home I eat dinner by myself, read a book, and then go to sleep.”

The other man, the one that was poorly dressed, said, “I’m a farmer. I get up early and I work all day in the fields. By the time I’m finished I’m exhausted but at the end of the day, I sit down to dinner with my wife and family.”

“Are you happy?” I asked.

“Yes,” they both said.
Star Stuff
By: Alice Lane
Tags: Carl Sagan, First Kiss, Star Stuff, Fiction Writing, Short Story

A mini love story

Do you think,” she asked, her words not quite slurred but blurring at their edges as she leaned into me, “the stars get to decide what kind of people they make?”

My brows furrowed in confusion. Sometimes she was so strangely alluring that I struggled to balance the tangle of emotions she elicited in me. But for right now at least, they culminated in the same urge: all of them demanding that I pull her closer against my side, arm possessively curled around her waist. Wanting to protect her when she was so rarely vulnerable, to hold her to me in a way she didn’t often allow but seemed to relish now. Never wanting to let her go.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” I smiled at her, content to let her talk drunk nonsense at me if that’s what she wanted.

But she sighed heavily, her eyes rolled to the very stars she was currently questioning in exasperation.

“Carl Sagan. Made of star stuff and the lot. If we’re made of star stuff, do the stars get any say in how we’ll end up? You know, as people?”

Huh. I considered it for a moment as we walked along Hollywood Blvd, the lights twinkling like stars in their own right.

“Sure. I think they do. After all, that’s pretty much what astrology’s doing, isn’t it?”

She stopped walking, eyes slowing dragging up my body until they met mine, dancing with something soft and indecipherable before she leaned into me, her face pressed into my chest and arms tight around my waist. She didn’t speak for a long moment and we stayed just like that on the sidewalk.

“Yes,” she whispered, “it is.”

Something shifted then, in the hazy dark of night, staring at the stars and wrapped in each other’s arms on the busy street. It shifted as she sighed into me, lips parting just slightly as we took each other in. I saw it in her eyes, the way they appraised my face in awestruck hunger. I saw it as her gaze fixed on my mouth and her cool hands tentatively framed my jaw. I saw it as her eyes drifted closed, and then when mine did too, I felt it in the soft brush of her lips against mine.

If the stars got any say in the kind of people they became, I suddenly felt really fucking grateful to the choices her star stuff was making right now as her tongue tentatively sought purchase against mine. We kissed like that for a while, soft and slow in the middle of the sidewalk. I don’t know how no one plowed us down, but when she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright and full of wonder.

“Wow,” she offered softly, gaze sticking to my mouth even as she stepped away and adjusted her top absently to disguise her shaking hands.

Wow was right. I grinned at her, feeling just as amazed now as she’d sounded moments ago about the stars.

When her hand found mine and she began tugging me down the street, I followed, content to let her lead me anywhere she wanted to go.
A Fearless Clown
Tags: Fiction, Satire, Fiction Writing, Short Story, Reading

If everyone in the world was a clown, nobody would be afraid of clowns. People whose only fear was clowns would be fearless.

Everyone in this world had to look like a clown. One day a fearless clown took off his big shoes. Then he took off her wig, makeup and clothes but he didn’t take off his red nose, liked the red nose. So he became a big criminal but police clowns could not catch him because it was very difficult to run with big clown shoes. Nobody is as brave as the fearless clown. Therefore he became very famous and everyone was afraid of him. Except one person, there was a cowardly boy. He adored the fearless clown. That’s why his friends were bullying him. They stole the red nose of the boy.

While the clown boy was crying, the fearless clown saw him. They talked for a short while and he gave the boy his own nose. When the boy wore the red nose, the fearless clown was horrified and ran away, nobody saw him again. The clown boy laughed because he scared someone for the first time. He felt great and his self-confidence increased. He became almost fearless.
9 Writing Lessons I Learned From Drafting My First Fiction Novel
By: Jake Daghe
Tags: Fiction, Storytelling, Writing, Fiction Writing, Advice

9 Writing Lessons I Learned From Drafting My First Fiction Novel

Photo by Ben Karpinski on Unsplash

The idea first started over the summer.

I had just finished reading a book by a musician named Andrew Peterson where he talked about the creative process and why it was important for adults to retain the imaginations of their youth. He quoted two of my favorite authors, C.S. Lewis and Tolkien. That day in early June, in my daily journal, I wrote down a question that was starting to creep into the background of my brain:

What would it look like to try to write a fiction novel?

I’m an avid reader and have been writing for years now. I’ve written drafts of non-fiction books and worked in a myriad of the stages of publishing other people’s books, but I had never attempted to write my own fiction story.

Like most ideas, I sat on it and didn’t do anything about it. A few months later, a friend invited me to participate in a creative writing group focused on completing a specific writing project of our choice throughout the fall. I threw out that I’d write a series of short stories, still partially afraid to commit to the idea of an entire novel, and started working in my spare time.

As most writers can attest, once I got going, I kept going. I had a story I liked and characters that were starting to take shape. When I found myself thinking about the idea and the events about to unfold within the novel even when I wasn’t writing, that’s when I knew I was hooked.

By the end of October, I was sitting on nearly 60,000 words and a partial story. I had never really participated in National November Writing Month but thought this would be a good moment, considering I was already at work on a novel. Over the first 21 days of November, I wrote the remaining 75,000 words and finished the draft of my first fiction novel.

While writing, I learned so much about the ideas that go into getting a fiction novel down on paper. After combing back through the process and noting the speed bumps, stalls, and sticky spots, I’ve come up with nine core ideas to consider if you want to write a fiction novel as well.
Pain… day after day that’s all I feel.
By: Ava P
Tags: Fiction, Fiction Writing, Storyboard, Dystopian, Story Ideas

Pain… day after day that’s all I feel. From when I get up at 6 am. till I go to sleep. Sleep is the only good thing I experience filled with tittered thoughts of colors and themes. The only part REBUK does not control, the only time they CANT control. They manipulate us when we are awake, no one speaks unless spoken to, and only if it’s a REBUK. No one ever speaks cause no one knows who they are, people that do utter one peep go missing. I am alone, it seems no one else retains these dreams only me.
💞In the Ocean with my Boo💞 What storms this ocean I don't know Who rocks this boat, I can't tell…
By: Farida Suleiman
Tags: Relationships, Love Letters, Writing Tips, Poetry On Medium, Fiction Writing

💞In the Ocean with my Boo💞

What storms this ocean I don't know

Who rocks this boat, I can't tell

But here in the flood I swim on

Who holds my waist beneath you can't see.

Help me not, oh my dear neighbor

Calm not the storm my dear mother

For the hand of my love has held me

With my two hands on his hair, I feel loved

With his fingers, my spine is traced with tenderness

Awakening my love with great feelings

Feelings so desired by my veins and arteries

Running to my heart is your is your soulful thought



Kiss me with the kiss of your lips

I awaken love because I so desire it

Hold me tight to your chest my dear love

Feel the taste of my of breast oh my love

Wake me my love with the kisses of your mouth

Your breath to me are like honeycomb

Lay me gently with your arm into the bed of your temple

The fragrances from your hair are like sweet Alyssum flower

Your arms wrapp around me like garment

Your Feellings are like dew of heaven here on Earth

What can awake me from this deep sleep of love I love you my pride

@faripoems

faridasuleiman644@gmail.com

©Faripoems
Kid with a Key
By: Karissa Davis
Tags: Flash Fiction, Fiction Writing, Keys, Fiction

“Andrei! Time for school!” My mom yelled from upstairs. When I looked up I seen a glimmer of something that was key shaped in the old mirror we kept down here in the basement. I swear dad never cleaned it out. Mom used to say “This house has been in the family for centuries.” Well of course I wanted to get my hands on that key. I pulled up an old crate for some added height. Here I go reaching for this old, dusty, skull-shaped key. I shoved it in my pocket fast and ran upstairs. I close the door to the basement behind me and decide to put the key in the door. To my surprise, it fit and turned all the way until I heard some clicks. “Okay D, you got this.” I said to myself. I spin around quickly to discover something so strange. My parents had these upside down faces. They lunged towards me with no hesitation, I’ve never seen something like this in real life. Could this be the outcome of using this key. “Ahhhhhhh,” I screamed. “Somebody help me!”
Apple
By: Pusheen Plush
Tags: Fiction, Random, Apocalypse, Fiction Writing, Short Story

Apple

It was never known what started it. All that we found was that it started with the colorful fleshy fruit. You might know it. It was said to keep the doctors away; however, on May the 22nd that saying would change. Mrs. Park, my homeroom teacher, was one of the first of the infected. She took a bite and then another, but the second bite was not of the apple. Rather, it was Delilah. My best friend. After that people were eating eat other like animals. Primal instinct took over and all the infected knew was to eat. What might have seemed like a zombie apocalypse turned into something worse. These... things, were intelligent. They could speak walk and talk with no trouble. The only way to tell they’re infected is to shine a light in their eye. That’s the only way to see it. Body stealing parasites who had taken over our friends and family. Why apples? That is a question I plan to solve. I only pray I don’t become a snack before I can.
Series: Puntopia.
By: Richard Mark Dobson, The Rmd Gallery
Tags: Existentialism, Gambling Addiction, Fiction Writing, Street Photographer, Street Photography

Title: Standing on the Pavement, Looking at the Pavement. One Central Macau, Novos Aterros do Porto Exterior, Macau.

(fiction)

©richard mark dobson

Loitering with discontent. Turning their backs on the shop windows and bright lights. Usually because it’s just best for them to look away. Or down at the brick or concrete. For they know the feeling, when a stunning hooker saunters by and they have no cash to purchase her services. Then it’s best to stare at something else, like a distant spec of light out in the darkness. A mundane distraction, to prevent crotch tightness and that dizzy lusty, longing feeling. I mean there’s no point window shopping if there’s no Patacas in the pocket. We all know that. It’s pretty universal. “No money, no honey”.

Then best they pull on a fag instead. Inhale deep and let the smoke ease the pain. Dull their fizzy heads with a blast of nicotine. Skulking about, away from the tables and glitter wheels helps. Brings them down to pavement level. Since they’ve all spent up and the sooner they accept that the better. However loitering on the periphery is the punters folly. For deep down they know no pot of cash is going to magically appear before them and that hanging around is only going to make them feel worse. Let the little loser voice in their head ring louder and louder.

to see more of this series and peruse the fine art giclee prints, please visit the artists website at;

https://richardmarkdobson.com/personal-work/existential/puntopia/1
A Concoction of Ours
By: Zainab Tahir
Tags: Historical Fiction, Fiction Writing, Sir Walter Scott Says, History

Not the same obligation as historians

In my previous article “Amalgamation of Friction and History” I had mentioned a certain someone; the Father and Pioneer of Historical Fiction, Sir Walter Scott.

“Historical Fiction is not history. You’re blending real events with actual historical personages with characters of your own creation” — George R.R Martin

The Fortunes of Nigel — Sir Walter Scott

Scott was a Scottish novelist, poet, historian, and a biographer. His knowledge in history and his fluency in literature made him an elite figure in the formation of the historical novel genre. “Scott’s formula for the historical novel was an unmistakable innovation which became a pattern for those who followed him.” His story is pure fiction, his hero is imaginary, the setting is as authentic as possible, and the events of history are quite accurate.

“After all, that’s why we read historical fiction- to be transported to another time, and to be astonished at ancient peoples’ life…” — Michelle Moran

Unlike his contemporary writers; Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelly; Scott had a way of captivating his readers with his creativity of mixing authentic and accurate history with the romantic elements. His passion for places made it easier for him to Romanticize the events that took place there. His works were in a way that didn’t encourage enough on “walking away” or “leaving behind” ones “materialistic life for a natural one”. He had a a yearning for scenic description and a taste for the romance of distant past.

He strongly followed the idea of “dwelling in past” however it didn’t just dwell on the “unrealistic good days” but succeeded in combining it with his art of bringing out the detailed living of the era or age he was writing about. Being versed in the political literature of the period, he knew how to draw a detailed picture of London in the early 17th century while laying out the effects of Scottish arrival into the English capital: the ambitions and fears of the incomers and the suspicion they strung up.

“History tells us what people do; historical fiction helps us imagine how they felt” — Guy Vanderhaeghe

Walter Scott neither possessed the elements of Imagination nor demanded of his readers. Meaning that he rather create a more “realistic” feeling than an “imaginative” one. He was a very objective writer of his age, Early 18thC, he dwelled more on his resources of real life experience and was more “factual based than a spontaneous overflow of emotions”.

His novels were less Bio-centric (nature)and more Anthropo-centric (human) in nature. His works show both the beauty of men and as well as the ugliness that dwells within along with the richness of ambiance that surrounds them. Even though he grew up in the outskirts of Scotland while growing up, his novels are richer in human characteristics while they stay in their respective social settings rather than pulling them out of their zones and putting them into “nature”. He had a way of finding refugee in civilizations from civilization itself.
Fires At Night
By: Single-Serving Fiction
Tags: Fiction, Single Serving Fiction, Fiction Writing, Short Story, Short Fiction

The flame was vibrant and lively. Moments ago, the pine logs had been roaring shooting up leggy columns of orange and red. Like every fire, they quickly settled into a hearty burn as they licked up the sides of the wood, searching for more fuel to consume.

He had built many fires that winter. It’s less of a science and more of an art. After all, fire is a living thing and, with living things, the variables are endless. You must be aware of its moods and tendencies as the slightest change in the wind can have far-reaching effects.

The fire stays healthy and consistent for a while, but eventually, it starts to settle as the inevitable approaches. It’s only natural. All living things must die.

He adds another log, careful not to collapse the structure and squelch the life-giving heat. Anyone who’s read Jack London knows the value of open flame in the cold. Tonight is mild, requiring only a warm jacket to stave off the chill, but the fire retains its gift, the flickering shapes communicating on a frequency understood by our most primal selves.

The endorphins flood our brain and tell us “this is good”.

The new log has begun to catch, joining the chorus of snapping and crackling as the flames climb again to their former glory. The warmth bakes the skin of his hollow cheeks and his eyes become transfixed. It’s the last piece of dry wood and he knows it won’t be long now.

The night sky grows darker and the flames begin their slow descent. If he looks up into the night sky, he can still see the silhouette of the fire like an impressionist painting left under his eyelids. He closes his eyes and waits, allowing his vision to adjust to the dark. Upon opening, the formerly black sky reclaimed its star-studded beauty.

Only a few pockets of flame remained. All around have moved closer as the fire moves towards its final form. The embers grow bright as the evening breeze dances across the coals. He carefully turns the wood, allowing the flame to search for any remaining fuel. There is a tension that begins to build as the doom of the end and the tranquility of a complete cycle jostle for position in his mind.

Eventually, the last of the embers die and the world grows dark. The tension snaps and releases. His mind begins to awaken after falling into the hypnotic dance of the flames.

It’s grown colder since he started the fire. He pulls up the hood of his jacket. The smoke drifts lazily from the pile of ashes and a sense of deep gratitude washes over him. He takes one more deep breath of the pine-smoke night before walking back towards the house.
The Fight for Earth
Tags: Students, Writing, NYC, Fiction Writing, 826nyc

By Giovanna Doliber, age 10

I woke up to a loud CRASH! I gasped and sat up in bed, my green eyes wide with surprise. I stared around the room. “Casey?” I tried to cry out but all I could manage was a choked whisper. Casey was my little six-year-old sister. Where am I? I thought. I looked out my window and saw red and orange flames devouring our backyard. I screamed and jumped out of bed. My blankets fell to the floor with a soft thump.

“Mom, Dad, CASEY?” I finally managed to yell. I had no idea what was happening and I looked outside and saw a tall, pale man wearing a black cape. The man stared at the fire with an evil smile and laughed, and I stared at his pointed fangs and passed out. “Wake up, Wake up, WAKE UP!” a voice yelled. I gasped and sat up, looking wildly around. I was no longer in my room, and I was no longer alone. A young girl was sitting beside me, but I could see right through her! She had long black hair and her skin was pale. She seemed to be radiating light.

Her eyes were teary, and she looked as though she had been crying for hundreds of years. I wanted to say, “What are you?” but felt it would be too rude, so I said, “Where are we?!”

She looked at me sadly and said in a small little voice that seemed to echo from deep inside her throat, “We are far away from Earth, and right now we are on the planet of beaches. There are only beaches here.” I looked at her with shock. What did she mean? Different planets? “Who — who — who are you?” I managed to stammer.

“I am Annalee, and I promise I won’t hurt you.” I was speechless. Not only was I talking to a ghost, this ghost was saying that I was on a different planet? This must be some joke, I thought. Yes that makes sense, someone playing a mean joke, that’s all, that’s all. I only wish that I had been right, for, little did I know, Annalee and I were soon to be in grave danger.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your planet has been taken over by the king, the ruler of all monsters . . . Count Dracula!”

I gasped. “No, no this can’t be true. It just CAN’T BE!”

“I — I can’t believe it.” I looked around and all I saw was beaches, but no people, all empty . . . “So this is what Terran looks like,” said the ghost girl staring at me with big blue eyes.

“Ter — what?” I said.

“Terran means that you’re from planet Earth,” she explained with her small, echoing voice. “What is your name?” Annalee suddenly asked.

“I’m Mat,” I told her. “Let me go home.

“Well Mat, get ready for the adventure of your life,” she said.

Oh boy. I’m in for a wild ride, I thought.
No balloon wanted or needed!
By: Kim Mckinney
Tags: Relationships, Fiction Writing, Writing

No balloon wanted or needed! I like being flown and have no desire to be a pilot myself. But hopefully my friends will continue to take pity on me and let me jump in their vaskets, though chasing is fun, too.

I know I got all of Part 1 read. I need to check Part 2.
Good Things, Bad People
By: Nick Lynn
Tags: Flash Fiction, Fiction, Writing, Fiction Writing, Creative Writing

When I was little, I was approached by a man.

He knelt down next to me when nobody was looking and told me good things only happen to good people. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that back then, but it’s becoming a bit more clear to me as time goes on. Maybe it was the rips in my dress or the bruises on my face that gave it away.

Even back then, he knew I wasn’t a good person.

I saw the same man again two years later, dressed in the same armor with the same haircut he had before, as if time couldn’t touch him. I approached him first this time, but he didn’t look at me.

I almost thought he didn’t notice I was there until, without even looking at me, he said if good things only happen to good people, I should know what to expect and brace myself for what will come.

He was a strange man. What kind of man rich enough to own armor would approach a bruised up peasant girl in the slums of the kingdom to give such random advice? Perhaps I should have considered he might be insane, but for me as a child being approached in such a manner felt like a calling.

His words of advice did not make me want to be a good person, they made me want to prepare to throw my enemies into the dirt.

I felt that, if someone so important was telling me to brace myself for the worst instead of trying to make up for what I’ve done, I should heed their advice more than any man who tried to shut me down.

And yet, I have a hard time believing his advice now.

“Good things only come to good people.”

I think it’s rather foolish, and though back then I didn’t know it was a lie, I realize now there was nothing truthful about it.

If good things really only happened to good people, I would have died years ago to pay for the lives I took climbing my way up the ladder of social status. If good things only happened to good people, I would have starved along with my family, but instead I prospered and survived.

If good things only happened to good people I wouldn’t be sitting on a throne with a whole kingdom in the palm of my hand with that same stranger by my side, not aged a bit and no worse for wear.

Because I am not a good person, and yet plenty of good things seem to come my way. Perhaps it is because I was taught at a young age to expect the worst.

How kind of someone to give me such good advice.
The Sun. The Moon. And the Dusk, the Dawn.
Tags: Storytelling, Prose, Fiction Writing, Fiction

THE SUN

She might have been the Sun but he was the Dawn and hues of Dusk.

He, the final rays of evening, while she was the relentless blaze of half past morning.

She was made of beating heat.

He comprised every first gentle breeze of the day.

While he was the warmth, she was everything that burned.

Not entirely two ends of the spectrum. Not entirely born of the same matter.

It mattered that they were not entirely intertwined.

And he.

He was closer to the stars so it was no wonder he fell for the Moon.

THE DAWN

How he marvelled.

How her quiet seemed fitting to balance the wonders that he spun.

How she continued to open her arms — silent — and the world stayed unmoving to look at the sky.

He watched as she made it a habit to try and tamper her brilliance. Moonshine that would have otherwise left them blinded.

She seemed to blanket the world in this soft light when she smiled.

When she collected her tears, she tenderly sprinkled them around her, as if to say,

“Here. For you.”

Putting them on display for the tiny ones to stare in in awe.

To point at and to connect and to study.

He didn’t get to see her for very long, but in those fleeting moments before she left, he knew it was enough.

It was always enough.

And she.

She never knew.

THE MOON

That she teased him with her star-shine.

She didn’t know that it was he who had whispered to them — those tiny ones — and told them that tears were beautiful.

That hers seemed to sparkle so brightly they deserved their very own name.

She always seemed to look away.

Never thinking once that he would look her way.

But he always has.

And, maybe, he always will.

But he.

He didn’t know that it was because of him, she was filled with the desire to wake every night.

To want to get up and try.

Again and again and again.
Not Quite Homeless
By: Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle
Tags: Publishing, Why I Write, About Florilegium, Fiction Writing, Dialogue And Discourse

Not Quite Homeless

Photo: Dimi Katsavaris, Unsplash

OK, I know I write a lot. And I know what I write is not for everyone. Some things are not for anyone! If you have read Shameless (as in “shameless self-promotion”), you know I am like a runner near the end of the race: I am getting my second wind and hoping to attract a few spectators to make the win sweeter.

I also know not many fellow writers or readers may have the time, energy or interest to read, say, the 100 little essays I wrote for Johnson Kee in 100 Naked Words. (Just in case, they are available here on Medium and as an eBook on Amazon.) Some may prefer poetry (I recently published a collection in paperback, Selective Vision, on Amazon).

I spent a long career writing and editing business stories, mostly travel and tourism pieces for clients. Now that I am retired, I have no clients, and I write what I want to write — mostly fiction — and I write it for me. As pleasant as that is (literary masturbation), it’s a lot more satisfying if someone else is involved.

When I discovered Medium, I thought I would involve readers. I live at a rather remote place. My social circle (I used to have one until the pandemic drew a curtain around me) consists mostly of tourism-related businesspeople. If they are readers, they read in Spanish.) I yearned to talk about my stories and writing.

I have read some wonderful writing on Medium and I’ve appeared in some good publications. I have followers and claps and have met a few of the writers I admire. Too few. If Medium makes two-way communication possible, I haven’t figured out how. I want to read their best stuff and I want them to read mine — and talk about it!

With this site, I hope to attract attention to my orphan stories (the ones I love but may not have found a home on Medium) and I hope we can begin a dialogue about them.
The Crumbling Forest
By: Nicole Maharaj
Tags: Fiction, Writing, Fiction Writing, Fantasy, Adventure

The Crumbling Forest

Photo by Rhett Wesley on Unsplash

Jeremy walked beside me in near silence. I didn’t mind the silence. I could barely remember the last time we walked anywhere together. It had been a long time since I trusted him enough to walk beside him the way we were now. The crunch of the fallen leaves from the forest was the loudest sound in the dark green forest we were in. As we walked I looked around warily my hand on the hilt of my sword. I felt the looming presence of eyes on us.

I wasn’t sure if it was my imagination or real. This could be said about this whole gamescape. I don’t know how I was suddenly thrown into this world. Or why I seemed to have knowledge of what might be coming. Did I dare to continue along this treacherous path. With only a friend, and not even one I trusted at my side.

“What did you mean when you said not to use your name or mine,” Jeremy asked, breaking the silence in the most awkward way possible. “I’m not sure why I even said it,” I whispered. “I just know that using it at that moment was dangerous,” I said quietly. Jeremy thought about this for a moment. “You know something about this place. Though.” Jeremy said cautiously. “The gamesmaster called you a Scribe.” He asked.

“You disappoint me,” I said quietly. “I thought a gamer like you would have experience in these kinds of matters,” I said. I looked up at the forest. “This place I have seen before. But only in dreams. Only when I wrote in my notebook of adventures in faraway places with witches and fae.” I said. “Maybe that is what he meant by scribe,” I said. “He said Scribe like it was a curse,” Jeremy said.

“Possibly in this world, it is a curse,” I said. I looked down opening my satchel and pulling out one of the vials of powder. I emptied some in my hand, bringing it close to my face and blowing it out into the air. I made some hand gestures, and the amber powder circled until it became small orbs of lights that danced around my fingers.

“I’ve only known this power from how I write my characters. They are always strong, and talented women, blessed with the laws of magick.” I said.

Jeremy gazed at the light. “You are one of your characters. If you could pick one, what name would you give her,” Jeremy asked.

“Sage. A witch of the earth.” I said quietly. “What name would you give yourself?” I asked looking at Jeremy. He smiled ruefully. “I am not a scribe.” He said. “But you are a player.” I pointed out. He smiled. “Sage Mistress of the earth. I am Jae a lowly knight looking for adventure.” Jeremy said with a bow.

I bowed back laughing. Even with the eyes still watching.
Jack Kerouac wrote 30 abstract fragments about what makes for good writing.
By: Zach Klebaner
Tags: Creativity, Writing Tips, Writing, Inspiration, Authors

Jack Kerouac wrote 30 abstract fragments about what makes for good writing. They aren’t written in standard English. They’re not even clear or directly actionable. In fact, most of them rely on strange, metaphorical language bathed in spirit rather than instruction.

And that’s why they are so powerful.

Kerouac doesn’t tell you to cite your sources or use a comma. Instead, he asks you to do things like “believe in the holy contour of life,” channel “the unspeakable visions of the individual,” and tell “the true story of the world in interior monolog.”

He parades with poetry and praises a great love for words. He drenches himself in the waters of untethered language. So busy trying to flow with the stream of thought, his “yours” omit the “o” and “u.” Explosively surreal brevity is his gift to you.

Use it to discover the possibilities in your writing.
Self-Promoting, Photo Album Bullshit Pic #4
By: Terry Trueman
Tags: Bullshit, Pics, Friends, Authors, Fame

For over a decade I made more $$ from honorariums, flying around the USA and world than from actual books sales — let’s be honest, fame is as much fun as $$ when you already have enough $$. Terry Trueman Dec 27, 2020·2 min read

With my gr8 homeboy Sherman Alexie image author’s priv pics

Sherman Alexie got smacked down by the #Metoo stuff worse than pretty much anybody else in our biz. But to me he’s always been a great writer and generous spirit!

*************************************

Wikipedia & Encyclopedia

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terry_Trueman

http://www.encyclopedia.com/children/scholarly-magazines/trueman-terry-1947

Follow me and I’ll fol. you back . . . who knows, maybe one day soon, your pic will be in my Self-Promoting Photo Album Bullshit, too (also)! xoxoxo

Unimportant note, (ergo parenthetical, thus ignore without any fear of really missing anything IMPORTANT):

(I’m adding a few more words here because it appears that if I have fewer than 155 words, that makes Medium pick this posting up as a short-form piece and this shows my initial pic in a blurry background, which I wouldn’t mind if this were meant to be a short-form (never mind that it’s also spozed to be a fucking PHOTO ALBUM!), but it isn’t, it’s not meant to be short form, it’s meant to introduce this whole Bullshit photo album concept which will make other Medium readers and writers wanna follow me (not, you know, to the ends of the earth or anything,) but enough to raise my monthly earnings over ten bucks despite the fact that all I publish here on Medium are sorta poems that don’t rhyme and pics of mostly myself, but that amuse me and obviously about one out of every 989 kazillion other people.

Am I over 155 words yet? let’s see how this posts . . . Yep, this useless, irrelevant note put me over the top and made Medium take my Self-Promoting, Photo Album Bullshit picture be bigger and look more, I dunno, serious or something. FOR ALL FUTURE PICS WITH THIS TITLE, YOU CAN COMPLETELY IGNORE THIS NOTE B/C YOU’VE ALREADY READ IT!

I’d thank you for your patience but I think such a ‘thank you’ is grossly presumptuous.
A Book Review: The Color of Our Sky by Amita Trasi
Tags: Book Review, Authors, Books, Reading, Novel

‘The one who loves us never truly leaves us’

Kindness cannot be injected into the human instincts naturally, It’s a long natural process of loss, hope, and failure. It’s the prolonged journey to the self-judgment and self-care- rather an ultimate war of heartbreak and survival. It’s not the blood that connects our broken hearts and emotions rather it’s a feeling and a pinch of humanity immersed with kindness. “The Color of Our Sky” can be anyone’s choice for good read looking for the light-hearted beautiful narration of the plot.

The color of our sky unquestionably depicts the ground picture of our society in which the innocence of a young girl had to fade away in between the darkness disseminated by cruel creatures. This is the tale of little angles who became the victim of norms and cultures. The book is a dedication to all those little ones who sacrifice their childhood in the name of family traditions and in the following book this tradition was a temple prostitution that she had to follow on the name of honour and family customs.

Apart from it, the book is all about perseverance and patience. It’s the escape that tells the radiant journey of immense love and laughter. It is the beautiful story of two sisters with golden hearts and souls. It narrates that life is very challenging for some people but it’s your job to make it less suffocating for them. The writer perfectly presents the bonding between two little girls which started with friendship and sooner it turned into a deeper and pure form which was sisterhood. It narrates that no matter what circumstances you are facing, the one who loves you never leave you anyways.

The sky above us is bright and radiant. All you need is to close your eyes and look for the stars that shimmer right above you and stick yourself with loved ones. May 'The Color Of Our Sky" always captivates your heart and don't let you forget to spread love as much as you can.