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Submitted to Contest #327
The Chipman Mansion 1907“Agatha, get away from the window. You’re making me anxious.” Agatha doesn’t move, despite her sister’s anxiety. It is the cat that has her attention–the cat sitting outside in the middle of the gazebo, its brown tail coiled about its feet as it stares at her. And it is–in fact–staring at her. “This cat hasn’t left all day.” Agatha answers irritably, though her sisters are too busy with their embroidery to notice. “What do you suppose it wants?” “It’s a stray cat Agatha, don’t trouble yourself.” Her younger sister Ann...
Submitted to Contest #308
Woodstock, 1969Janis Joplin is wailing into the microphone a mile away, her voice so full of angst and drugs it's keeping us all awake in the middle of the night. Hardly the lullaby that Creedence was just before. I’m laying in the crook of Billy’s arm–the boy I met yesterday when I jumped on the back of his bus. I like his mustache and groovy haircut, and the way his jeans sit real low along the rim of his tan stomach. Mostly I like the way he swaggers around like he owns the world. He has fierce dark eyes that pin you down when he looks at...
Submitted to Contest #274
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood–I know now where I have seen these woods before. Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though.It is the woods from memory. I stand at the familiar fork in the road once again, rooted to the ground. A ground littered in golden leaves.And both that morning equally lay, in leaves no step had trodden black.I have been at many crossroads in my life; and at each crossroads, I would think of these woods–with their yellow leaves caught in the sunlight. But what was once only a plac...
Submitted to Contest #127
I am happy here. There are trees, some tall and some small, some with fruit and some with flowers. There are flowers in so many bright and beautiful colors and...the sun, it feels so good on my face. I like to lay in the soft grass and feel the sun on my skin, warm and tingly. I watch the birds fly across the sky, and land in the trees. They talk to eachother in different sounds--loud, sharp, and quiet. I watch the squirrels and the rabbits and the foxes and the fish in the water, but most of the time, I watch the horses. They run so fast a...
Submitted to Contest #124
1820 The Pastor sits in his empty church long after all the congregation has left. It is night, and the air is cold and still as death. He wears a faded suit and hat. His hair is gray and thinning at his crown, a thick beard concealing his jaw, his face weathered and eyes red from crying. He rises from the pews and walks to the table beneath the podium. It is lined with candles. He lights them one by one, until their collective light casts dancing shadows over the bronze crucifix on the wall above him. He gazes with forlorn eyes at the fac...
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