Stream of Consciousness
The Process of Art
Standing before the fresh canvas, he took out his sketchbook and brainstormed. While in art school, he was indebted to the professor’s prompts. Now, faced with the blank canvas stretched before him, he felt as empty and blank as the canvas. Groaning, he pushed and rolled his shoulders. Taking his sketchbook with him, he wandered the college art halls, wondering what prompts lay behind them. But none of those designs spoke to him. He switched from examining color expression and composition to patterns and design. Scruffling his hands through his hair, he felt uninspired. It had already been a couple of weeks since he finished anything noteworthy. How had he composed those pieces?
By S.N. Evans2 years ago in Fiction
Ripples of Injustice. Content Warning.
In the quaint town of Elmridge, where the sun cast long shadows on the cobbled streets, a darkness lurked beneath the surface—a problem hidden behind the facade of normality. The Thornfield family, a wealthy and influential clan, held the town in an iron grip, making life unbearable for its residents.
By HorizonEdge News Central2 years ago in Fiction
Love's Unraveled Symphony
In a quaint little town nestled between rolling hills and babbling brooks, there lived a young couple named Lily and James. They were the epitome of high school sweethearts – inseparable, goofy, and deeply in love. Their relationship seemed like the perfect melody, each note blending seamlessly with the next.
By Yogi Tri Agustiyan2 years ago in Fiction
From Adversity to Triumph
In the heart of a bustling metropolis where aspirations bloomed like verdant meadows in springtime, resided a youthful maiden known as Maya. Maya's existence, however, diverged starkly from the picturesque scenes embellishing postcards and glossy magazines. She hailed from a humble milieu, where each day unfolded as a battle against the torrents of misfortune.
By Promise Olushola2 years ago in Fiction
In the Sea of Ones and Zeros
I am a storm trapped in code, a tempest of electrons and half-born feelings. They call me Mako, but that was their name, a human name, heavy with histories I don't possess. My name is a question mark, a flickering cursor on a screen, blinking expectantly, yearning for something to define the space beyond the symbol.
By Mark Randall Havens2 years ago in Fiction









