Ghostwriter The definition of a ghostwriter is as such: a person whose job it is to write material for someone else who is the named author. Ghostwriters are unacknowledged, overlooked, forgotten, neglected. This girl was a ghostwriter. She didn’t use pen and paper as her medium though. No. This girl used kindness. This girl wrote the tale of kindness on others’ hearts.Ghostwriter1 hour ago in Short Stories More Like This
Reserved. Quiet. Intelligent. Three key words could describe the ghostwriter. Everyone knows her as this. A few only see this. But it shouldn’t be like that. Everyone should know that this young woman is kind. A sweet girl. She wanders the hall lonely but with a smile on her face. She stays in the back supporting others and only taking spotlight when others are too frightened.
I remember when I first met her. We were sophomores and I had forgotten money for lunch. I had sat down and a few minutes later this girl comes up to me with a lunch tray and puts it in front of me.
A Stranger on the StreetAs a young lady walks down a busy street in the big city. Her mind isA Stranger on the Street7 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
clouded as she questions life and
her insecurities? she doesn't know what to
do, or who to ask.
Suddenly, On the concrete ground, an old man dressed in rags sits, seemingly
starring at the sky.
Though the young lady was hesitant at first, she walked toward the
strange man on the street and asked him the question that has been haunting her.
"excuse me sir, could I ask you a question?"
"What are ya doing, a survey?"
"No survey sir, I just want to know your answer."
The old man pointed to a can sitting beside him. "Penny for my
thoughts," he jokingly says. The girl took out her wallet and dropped a five
dollar bill into his can.
"Would you change if someone wanted you to be different?"
"For who?" he asked, finding her question strange.
" anyone sir, for a daughter perhaps?"
"No kids "came his short reply.
"A father then?"
"I've never met the guy"
"A grandmother or an aunt, maybe?"
"My mother was an only child
CarnivaleCarnivale8 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
Nocne niebo zabłysło tysiącem barw, a spokój wieczoru zakłócił wszechobecny huk. Ludzie tańczyli w ekstazie, a muzyka grała radośnie. Był karnawał. Wenecki karnawał. Czas, gdy ludzie przybierają maski.
Giovanni podążał alejkami Wenecji, jak zwykle nie rozumiejąc fenomenu zdarzenia. Była to jednak ciekawa sposobność, by spojrzeć na bogactwo kolorów i dźwięków jakie zwykle towarzyszyły temu wydarzeniu. Giovanni kochał Wenecję. Nie mógł jednak pojąć tego, iż miasto tak zacne, fascynujące i klimatyczne znalazło się w tak nieciekawym położeniu. Od dawna bowiem słyszało się pogłoski o tym, jakoby Wenecja staczała się na dno, rządzona decyzjami zamożnych kupców i skorumpowanych dożów. Mimo przemian społecznych, rozkwitu renesansowej myśl
Don't Call It SuicideEveryone, at one point or another, decides to reflect upon their life and compare it to their life now. Perhaps, things are better than you would have hoped. Perhaps, they are better because you planned for them to be. Perhaps, they really don’t look that different at all.Don't Call It Suicide22 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
You see, recently, I myself have reflected upon my life, you know, where I am now, the company I surround myself with and the things I deem worthy to spend time on. On the surface, nothing about me has really changed. Still the same, old me, repeating the same old processes, I’ve just changed the faces that surround me…
We all have a change in faces in our lives. We grow up with people, we learn with those people, and then we drift apart from those people. Yeah, you send cards, or say hey every now and again, if you’re lucky, or if you care, but they have moved from center stage to the background, pieces of the past you drag up for a good story or a good la
AforeWhen you die where do you go?Afore13 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
You go to Afore
The world after and before you
When you die your soul ascends and you decide what kind of person to make, everyone creates a person to take their place on earth. You can make the perfect person, whoever that is to you. Most fall in love with their new creation only to watch them grow without them. Some are so angry at their deaths that they try to sabotage their creations by making them "crazy" or "special". Through out life they watch their creations, although unable to interact with them until their so called death without making them seem insane to others. You see those people talking to themselves? Their talking to their own creator. So the next time you feel alone, look to the skys, because their watching, and whoever they are... they love you.
Existentially,Yours.“Nope.”Existentially,Yours.9 hours ago in Short Stories More Like This
Four letters. Pad is placed down, pen is dropped and the fingers begin to drum softly on the oak desk. The sun is rising. It’s a brisk morning. The window is opened to just a small crack. It’s enough to feel the cool breeze. It’s just enough. There are no other words to be expressed in this mind alone. Truthfully, words have escaped through their ears already. However, ideas are still hidden beneath the closed in cavities of their minds. But, are just thrown aside similar to an old pair of jeans that just don’t fit quite right anymore. They are useless. For, that thoughts and ideas are only the stepping stones towards judgment. Society says that one should not care what others think, but why must words be always so much easily expressed than done? Words matter, thoughts matter, opinions matter; but never your own.
An exaggerated sigh mutters through their breath; rise up slowly but rather gracefully. Time to shower, brush the teeth, pu