Love
The Museum of Modern Past
The Museum of Modern Past By Stephen Donnelly There I was holding her hand in one of the largest museums I’ve ever seen. Feeling the pressure of her fingers interlaced with mine gave me a sense of comfort in the crowds. I turned to smile at her and she was already smiling at me. Her smile radiated brighter than her unblemished blonde hair that was always perfect when we were out in public.
By Unabated Lemon5 years ago in Fiction
The Empty Shelves
John sat on his chair reading an old book. He was reading Jane Eyre. John was an older gentleman of 86 years. He loved reading in his study. In fact, it was one of his favorite places. He could sit down and read for hours on end without being interrupted. The room would have been very big if it was not for the large number of books that sat on the shelves covering almost every wall. John had been a scholar of sorts at some point. He was always looking for something new to learn. Half of the books in his library had not even been touched by him.
By Aidan Schultz5 years ago in Fiction
Wildfire
The night air was cold, slithering around her and settling on her skin. A graceful fog flowed from her lips as she exhaled, her eyes searching around her through the trees for the path she knew so well. Her hair seemed to dance like flames in the breeze that swept around her, but the brisk wind did nothing to shake her resolve. She continued her trek upward stopping periodically to look up at the sky, the light of the moon her only source of comfort and security, preventing her from losing her footing in the otherwise dark night that covered the forest. The sounds of the forest at night glided toward her ears on the wind, a haunting melody for those unaccustomed to this atmosphere. Still the woman pushed on, a comfortable, well-worn cloak pulled tightly around her frame. Her grey eyes pierced the night, searching for her goal, more sure footed with each step she took closer to her goal. The sounds of a brook flowing joined the myriad of nighttime noises surrounding her and in its quiet babbling she found peace, a smile ghosting across her lips. The woman walked for what felt like hours until finally she reached her destination, a clearing at the top of the mountain where there were no trees growing to obstruct her view of the moon and stars. The night beckoned to her to join it, the darkness not so unsettling now that the moon seemed so close, and she was all too happy to accept her place here. She removed a pack from her shoulder tossing it gently to the ground, disturbing the peace of the night. Removing a warm, familiar blanket from the bag she unfurled it quickly letting it settle on the grass as it had done so many times before. The woman laid the bag beneath her head and took comfort in the moon shining above her, ethereal and serene. The cold could not touch her, and neither could the problems of her day-to-day life, beneath the moon in the peace of the night she was free. With that thought settled into her mind she closed her eyes and drifted off into peaceful and uninterrupted sleep, the moon standing guard never once wavering until the morning.
By Savannah Aichem5 years ago in Fiction
Love is Patient
My dearest Isaac, I cannot believe it is finally happening – how long we have waited for this joyous day! I awoke this morning and smoothed the quilt over my twin bed for the very last time. Looked around the room I have slept in all these long, lonely years with fresh eyes. It is all so dreary and sad. That narrow bed where I cried myself to sleep many a night, feverish and aching with love for you.
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
Mr. McCreedy
The old barn creaks overhead. He stands at the precipice looking out over the orchard. The first light of the sun rises above the valley. The tree limbs rustle as a warm wind carries their sweet scent into the barn. The old man breathes deep, “picking season,” he thought.
By Jericho Osborne5 years ago in Fiction
Romance with candlelight and hay bales
Norman was 80 years old but spry. He carried himself like a younger man of 75. His hair was gray but he still had all of it. His beard was gray but he shaved every day because he didn't want Martha to think him "grizzled." Today he wanted Martha to think of him as handsome and funny. She often told him he was funny. Today he was setting up a spot in his old run-down barn for a romantic dinner he hoped would charm her.
By Linda C Smith5 years ago in Fiction
