A place for short fiction and poetry while your coffee brews or your tea steeps
Winter sun slides beneath the treeline, crosses the final lavender mile home with strips of deep purple, pale magenta. Neither warms this sub-zero trek. Progress marked by the flash of slender ski tips through new-fallen snow, my rasping breath through a strip of wool scarf. Continue reading “Heading Home”
The wildfire reared and roared, wrapping blistering arms around the rare bambinus aqueous. They steamed and chittered, unable to fully transition to their aquatic form and reach the river. Continue reading “Not on My Watch”
Stepping back, Nora tipped her head, listening to the bright voices within the subterranean waterfall. They wove in and out, considering the words and images she’d already painted on the cave’s rock wall, and stopped on a questioning note, awaiting further input. Continue reading “Noteworthy Collaboration”
I look for her in the living room. The Pendleton blanket is folded and laid neatly on the back of the overstuffed couch (my sister’s choice). Mother’s hand-crocheted throw rests gently on the seat of our childhood rocking chair (my choice). Dust motes swirl in the half-light of this cloudy November afternoon, whispering rumors of light snow mirroring their desultory dance. It’s plenty cold outside those triple-pane windows. Continue reading “Where Has Summer Gone?”
Lizzie stared at the monitor, hands folded in her lap. The cursor blinked.
Sighing, she trotted off to the kitchen for more coffee.
Returning, she sat again and watched the cursor blink.
Lance Greenfield - Night Writer
"Many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are." -J.K. Rowling-
Original Writing Inspired by King, Poe, and The Twilight Zone
Walk On The Wild Side
“The lyfe so short, the craft so long to lerne." --Chaucer
A writing blog by H.R.R. Gorman
Share, Discover & Enjoy
Curiosity run amok . . .
