This is where you can submit both poetry and prose from 1500 words to 3000. Attention, though! Your critique must be to a piece of this same folder to have your submission accepted.
The Bridge Sitter by Lonewolf-Sparrowhawk, literature
Snow sank lazily from a black sky, oblivious to the misery it caused those who had to suffer its steady embrace. The cobblestones were buried with brown slush that was thick, wet, and heavy like blood. Through the soft thin layer of his leather shoes, Steven Bucket felt every inch of it. He stood within the arch of the gate, which theoretically should have provided some relief from the elements, but in truth did almost nothing for snow that was soft enough to blow sideways according to the whimsy of the wind. Leaning on his polearm so much that he was practically hugging it, he caught sight of a lantern approaching. Steven straightened, tried to contain his shivering, and hoped. “Cold night, isn’t it?” the young man attached to the lantern said, as soon as he came into view. Like Steven, he wore a ridged steel helm on the top of his head and chainmail around his face and neck. Unlike Steven, he wore a thick quilted aketon rather than armor. Evidently, he was
Fight
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David raised the oversized gilded belt over his head, yet again. His opponent, the seventh contender for his title, lay at his feet, twisted and unconscious, breathing slowly. The crowd cheered.
David wondered what was for dinner.
He shouted down at his vanquished foe, as he always did, taunted the referee yet again, gave his usual belligerent press conference. He insulted his next opponent, though he forgot the man's name.
Laura and John were waiting for him in the locker room. Laura gave David a quick kiss.
"Good fight," she said. "That kick at the end of Round 2 must have hurt."
David shrugged. "How much did we make
Authors Note:
This scene is shot somewhere close to the middle of my unpublished book. It is a story I retired long ago and yet I keep looking back at it. I just wonder if it is worth reviving and reworking with the new talent I have at writing. I have added little captions to every scene break so that you know who is speaking, since you haven't had the opportunity to read the actual book and get to know each characters. Well let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy the read :)
Scene takes place:
During a civil war/genocide, sheltered behind the walls of a church and farming community
Who:
Trenten/Trepid/Shadow(Main Character/hero),
It was almost May now as their final year of high school drew to a close. Caps, gowns and the yearbooks would be arriving next week. This Prom reportedly would be the social event of the year.
As he walked up to the large, two-story, wood frame house with the wraparound porch, a blur of a girl streaked out the front door, letting the screen slap loudly closed behind her lithe frame.
A woman's voice was admonishing the offender not to do it again from somewhere inside. The girl didn't seem to make note, she never did.
Before the young man could even begin to speak, the girl was standing stark still in front of him, with a big toothy grin
The Oldsmobile Eighty-Eight floated down Highway 359 and took to the bumps in the road as if it were hovering. The sky was dark, the radio was off, and the dome light was on, but dimmed. The silence was occasionally broken by the Spanish call of cards, idle banter, and the chuckle of four old ladies. Hector simply sat quietly in the center of the back seat and toyed with the cockpit to his X-Wing, very tempted to turn it on and hear the sweet, piercing noises. He held it in front of him and faced it forward as he pretended the car had disappeared and only the ship traveled down the highway as he tilted it to turn as the road turned.
For Where Your Treasure Is... by HRSegovia, literature
Literature
For Where Your Treasure Is...
The air was warm, muggy, and thick and the sky cloudy and gray as it always was in the South Texas mornings. A rattlesnake meandered among the mesquite trees and cacti unaware – or apathetic – to the presence of two men; one of them a dark haired man in an explorer’s vest and hands in his pockets.
"Placido Benavides - not the Paul Revere of Mexico, but his lesser known nephew - founded Benavides, Texas in the 1870's. This ranch is part of the scattered bits and pieces left behind." His name was Daniel, and as he spoke, corrected his step to avoid stepping on a seashell. “I thought I told you this already?