Short Story
Museum Musings
“You really don’t mind that our first date is at your workplace?” I ask hesitantly as my date unlocks and opens the doors. His name is Henry. Average in height, he looks presentable in a well-worn suit and is the curator of the local museum, which I suggested be our first date before I knew of his job here. He responds as he indicates that I walk in before him.
By Megan Baker (Left Vocal in 2023)5 years ago in Fiction
Mistress of the House of Books. V+ Fiction Award Winner.
On the east side of the John Adams Building, facing Third Street, was an entrance. It used to feature three pairs of bronze doors. Sculpted upon these doors were the names and standing forms of heroes and gods. The same six figures for the pairs on either side, with a different half-dozen for the middle pair. Twelve unique figures in all. Hope, perhaps, in an astrological nod?
By Matthew Daniels5 years ago in Fiction
Planning Vengeance excerpt
This is an excerpt from my first novel, Planning Vengeance, published in November, 2019. Feel free to check out my Amazon Author's Page for this and my other titles. If you like this, I'd love for you to check out my Vocal Profile as well.
By L. Lane Bailey5 years ago in Fiction
We Hope to See You Soon
“Hello, Dear. What treasures did you find this time?” Naomi asked as Josef, her husband of 62 years, tottered through the front door struggling with a large, wrapped parcel. Although glad he had a hobby, she always was relieved to see him return safely.
By Curt Newell5 years ago in Fiction
Dormancy
Ice clinked the side of the glass. A brief singe tickled her throat before the refreshing gin bathed her tongue. She sighed. A strong cocktail for a sobering task. She sat on the bare hardwood floor in her apartment, surveying the room stuffed with forgotten parts of her life.
By Meredith Bell5 years ago in Fiction
Buying the Fairyman
Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. A man traipsed his way through the brush beneath mauves, magentas, azures, and the ominous failing of the light. Stopping to check his copies of road maps and written directions with a flashlight, he mumbled through his beard: “What’s so bad about white picket fences…?” One side of it was caked in mud from a fall, the other still gleaming with cheap beard oil.
By Matthew Daniels5 years ago in Fiction
Deposits
The first week of chemo, Peter sits by you and rambles about everything and nothing for the sake of distraction. You’ve just learned about the money dumped into your bank account — twenty-thousand pounds that isn’t yours. It’s been there for two weeks, which shows how often you bother to check. The bank app labels it a deposit, but it’s a mistake.
By Owen Schaefer5 years ago in Fiction
