Behind a bench, on the empty side of the park, you see some letters upended.
Maybe they fell off a sign. Maybe they were part of an art installation. They’re very three-dimensional and very white on the green grass.
But that’s the problem with metaphors – they’re always ultimately reading practice.
Kerry works in adult education in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He thinks that most people have really great stories to share, except boring people, and that learning to tell stories empowers people to learn to learn from them.
“I’m fed up with this music.”
“Hush! You’ll upset the other opera-goers.”
“I don’t care. This infernal tune keeps me awake at nights, swirling round my head. It’s driving me mad.”
“Mother, you must get used to it. After all, it is the national anthem, and you are the Queen.”
PJ is a British writer living in Switzerland with his wife and Parson Russell Terrier. He sees the Alps every day but misses the Cairngorms. The music swirling round his head is usually Linkin Park. Follow him @Tweeting_Writer
After weeks of making eyes from the other side of Fiction, he plucked up the courage.
His scrawled note said, “Coffee?” Her reply said “Convince me.” She’d read the novels: true love needs a little jeopardy.
But he missed her punctuating smile. He snatched up his satchel and marched away.
Tamsin also believes too much of what she reads in novels.
Grandpa holds my hand. He taps his cane. His hearing aid emits a horrible hum. His dead eye looks like a winter moon, his right eye, which works well enough for him to manage, glints like crumpled tinfoil in direct sunlight. Whenever he bangs into furniture he spits out sparks.
Over the years Bob Thurber’s work has received a long list of awards and prizes. His most recent book is a collection of brief stories titled “Nothing But Trouble.” His first novel, “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel,” was recently rereleased. Visit BobThurber.net.
Life can be excruciating. Death can be a welcome release.
A light of comforting and joyous brilliance pulled him on, yet when he heard her call his name he stopped, and decided he must return to try again.
He didn’t know there was a reception committee (and they had cookies).
From a darkened room in Madison, Wisconsin, Bill writes about reanimated mummies, intelligent golems, and all things that frighten him in the hopes that someday they might not.