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  • Fiction > Historical Fiction
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    As told by a grandfather to his grandson: “Pouring out your soul before Numa needs to be a violent act. She desires guilt soaked prayers for our offenses and wails of regret for our sins. To give her anything else would be degrading to her. She is holy.” the mother said. Her young so...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I was told to write about a bad experience in my life. I remember coming home once to my golden retriever, Agonía. Knock knock. Every night’s the same now. It was just me coming home, since my dad was dropping me off and had to go to work. Now I know he didn’t always do it. First night wasn...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Grace is really cute. I love the way that she holds eye contact with you when you talk. She also has about the softest brown eyes you’ll ever see, which makes it’s pretty much impossible for you to stop looking at her. Of everyone I have ever met on Earth, I think Grace is probably the...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    It’s always hard to look back on your life. The failures, the emotions, and the complex threads of life that were so devastating when you were in them are unwoven from their quilt and laid side-by-side. What was once a spider-wed suddenly becomes a neat, rectangu-lar blanket that makes sense...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Adam was twelve when he got curious enough to begin wandering around in his grandparent’s attic. It had always terribly scared him. There was a small, white door on the third floor of the house leading up to darkness. The paint was flaking off and revealing an ugly brown un-derneath, and the...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    They all four were on the wrong street. The homeless man switched from his traditional begging location to another. Eleven o’clock at night, and he was just finishing with that day’s peddling. He had already made four dollars that day, which was more than most. The manager of the loc...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Pots slowly rose from his hiding spot behind the bush. He didn’t really know his ‘real’ name, and he didn’t know his ‘real’ birthday. He didn’t care, though. He may be homeless, but he had an identity. He called himself Potty, Pots for short. He didn’t know his real birthday, but he ...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    Every good story ends with a death. This is no exception. This will be a good story (I hope), and I will die at the end. Why do I tell you this? I don’t know. Maybe I just ruined my story. Who cares? Nobody is going to be reading this after I die. Let me make one more thing clear. This is not a...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I heard the first balloon pop. It was yellow, hardly blown up, and the loss of it didn’t really affect anybody. My younger baby sister started crying, but that’s all the trouble the balloon really caused. The party went on, and the popped balloon was kicked under the refrigerator and forgotten a...
  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I feel like Atlas Holding the sky up Protecting everyone under it When never getting any rewards or rest myself As everyone eats and parties I'm stuck here Doing the hardest work in the world While everybody else prospers off my suffering And even as I protect everyone People still make...
  • Fiction > Realistic Fiction
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    I should probably mention my brother. We are…or more accurately were…strange siblings. We were twins. We looked the same, so much so that to be identified by our father, one of us had to wear a headband. We were the same height, same weight, same everything. We were equal. But not normally eq...

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