The Travellers-ChopinXLisztThe Travellers (or: A Sad Sort of Melancholy Melody) A short story.The Travellers-ChopinXLiszt4 years ago in Historical More Like This
By V.K. Violette
WARNING: I dont own historical characters, and although I want to be, I am not George Sand. Everything in this story never happened. Also, this fic will contain love between individuals of the same gender. Just deal with it and move on.
A Sad Sort of Melancholy Melody
By: George Sand
Where should I start but here? I sit here alone, at Frederyks old piano which faces the window. I will not touch the keys and butcher their musicality with my non-ability to harmonize, or play music in general. Right now, there are tears runn
Stolen goodsHis cave is filled with stolen wonders.Stolen goods9 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
He was taught to be resourceful at a young age. It's part of not being sloppy. You clean up after your meal, his mother always said. There was more than washing his face and the cold cave floor. There was much more to do to survive.
Clothing is good. You can reuse it, or break it down and make something out of it. He knows another one like him who makes the most beautiful quilts. If you bring her the supplies and a nice meal, she'll make you a quilt too. You can use that every winter. It's going to be cold every winter. You'll need it. Aesthetics aren't important, but it's a nice change. Just because you're a monster in the woods eating people doesn't mean you can't have nice things.
Knick knacks can be useful. Tobacco is ever popular. Not many of his kind like it, but those that do suffer the same addiction as the humans. The
Outside"How the mighty have fallen?" She repeated, incensed by the woman's mockery. "Who are you? How dare you speak to me like that?!"Outside9 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
The woman in gray laughed, before looking at her companion, a man dressed in extravagant clothing, "The more she talks the more I think you where right. She doesn't want to get out."
"I told you this was a waste of time." He shook his head, long braid shaking with him. "Let's just leave her and go."
"No!" She interjected quickly. "I'll listen. I'll listen to whatever you have to say."
"Really?" The woman asked, switching to German. "So, you'll listen to me, and you'll do whatever I, or my companion here, tell you to?"
"I hate when you switch to German." The man muttered, "You just do it because I can't understand you."
"If it gets me out of this tower, I will." The Countess responded.
The woman's smile grew a bit. "Good. We'll help you, but you'll be in my d
TrembleThe Countess has lost track of time. She no longer knows the date, month, or even how long she has been in the tower. Despite this, she has made some new companions that took up a few hours of the unending days.Tremble10 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
There was a hole in the wall so food could be passed to her. Her company rarely joined her inside her cell, and spoke to her through the opening. "They only charged you with thirty or so murders." The succubus filled her in on the latest details of her trial. Erzsebet could not see her through hole much, but she sounded so young, not like a being that had been alive hundreds of years.
"Only thirty?" She replied with a laugh. "I'm almost embarrassed."
The two spoke of the trial, and of many other things. The succubus, who gave the Countess the name Secunda to call her, was just as educated as her on several matters, such as politics, ancient literature, and philosophy.
"There are people who do e
One Thousand HeartsFar beyond the reach of your telescopes, there is a world. It is small, insignificant; chosen because of its diminutive size. Its atmosphere, once a haven for simple life forms, is inhospitable. Only one being resides on it. This world, now completely lifeless, was given a dark purpose so that all other worlds might be spared.One Thousand Hearts10 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
Stillness. That night was the very essence of stillness. There were five comets in number that alit on that terrible planet. Four were incarnations of the phases of the moons. They shone with a clear blue light, akin to that of the moons. The fifth was warm, her golden light brighter than the rest, bringing
StormThe air is thick with the promise of rain, but she hardly notices. Hers is a brisk rush through the darkening world, hands full, sneakers kicking up bits of grass in her wake. A breeze runs its ethereal fingers through her hair. It tickles under the collar of her jacketthat's the first thing she really feels.Storm1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Clouds lower overhead like great gray wings on a downstroke. She's never noticed the scent of cloud before, but she can smell it now, carried by the breeze. The dense layer of shifting black and gray above says hush, and the whole world listens. Birds become still and small. Dogs blink up at the sky, scenting the rain, and even th
Mercury"If I were an element on the periodic table," you say, "which would I be?"Mercury1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I meet your upside-down gaze. You're lying belly-up on my bed, your head hanging off the end and your hair pooling on the carpet.
Scrambling for a reason, I nudge my notebook away and turn, straddling my desk chair backwards. You continue to stare, owlish in your attention. "Must there be a why?"
Chin on wrist on chairback. "You are colorful."
"That's cheating." You blink slowly. "Elemental neon is not inherently colorful."
"Let me think then."
Owl eyes give silent assent.
Some things end up meaning so much to you. You didn't even
About a boyShining on wet leaves are equally wet cheeks. The edges are ripped, torn just like her hoarse voice, ragged nails and shredded hemline. Relentlessly she has been calling his name, her voice has been swallowed by the forest as has the sun by the murky river water.About a boy4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Her hair clings to her face, sticky with sweat. It makes a dense veil, shielding her from what she knows she will see. While she runs desperately, she peels it away, nails scratching her face. The trees mock her, their crooked backs shaking with laughter; the swaying of their thick branches reminiscent of a death march, but her determination is louder. As long as her heart pounds in
Guardian"A day like today happens--maybe twice in a whole season."Guardian6 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
It's all hot sun and achingly blue sky, and you're sitting leonine on the hood of your battered pickup. I wish I could draw just to capture you like this--squinting into the horizon, one knee drawn up to rest your elbow on, hair windswept. I'd keep the white t-shirt and jeans, but I'd add wings: big, dusky gray things, relaxed and resting open on the windshield, pale underbellies to the sun. It'd fit, somehow, with you.
"Remember that big storm they had up north last week?"
"Yeah." I wouldn't have forgotten, not after the charts and scans you showed me. I only saw a mess of swirling colors like an end-of-the-day paint palette, but you saw sense in the chaos.
You ease off the truck and walk toward my white picket fence perch. "The wildflowers bloomed like all hell out by the lake." Resting your arms along the top beam, you gaze off into the distance for a minute longer before turning mischievous eyes my way. "Want to go see?"
Performance at Warlocks Folly SaloonIt was a busy night at the Warlock's Folly Saloon. It was exactly the sort of down and out bar frequented by the sorry segment of humanity that polite society trends to ignore. Drunks, prostitutes both on duty and off, hard luck hucksters and low life criminals were all frequent customers.Performance at Warlocks Folly Saloon9 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The foundations of the decrepit building had been laid ages ago though the walls and ceiling had been burned down and rebuilt countless times since then. The current iteration of Warlock's Folly had been rebuilt only thirty years ago after burning to the foundation during a riot.
Nothing of the previous building had survived except a beat up old grand pi
HomeFor the restless, 'home' is a difficult concept; the idea of a physical or hypothetical place we are tied to. That we will always return to. That we will always belong to. Milo has always said that airports are his home, or train stations or motor way service stops. Home is where the heart is, and Milo’s heart is in escape. He dreams of flitting from place to place and belonging to them all, absorbing everything and being absorbed as he runs free. But even those who run are running from somewhere and no one can outrun the primal ache that calls us back.Home3 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
‘You could have called. Or do hippies not have phones?’
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There's a certain joy in not doing this face-to-face. For one, I don't have to leave my apartment and I have the quiet company of my goldfish and my goldfish alone. (I don't like people, which is why I love books. You can understand that.) For another, I don't have to see your presumably crestfallen and injured attitude when I tear apart the prose you cried and bled and sweated over for weary nights on end. But really the best parts are those uninterrupted hours alone with your manuscript and the shred of you that lies inside. It's a small shred, but an important one. It's the one that tells me who you are and what you think and how you feel and I never have to look at you and be disappointed when the real thing doesn't come up to scratch. As I sit there, un-tensing and re-tensing and tense-shifting and shift-entering (and damn it, wishing English were like German so I could get rid of those clunky space-wasting n-dashes--oh, damn there they are again) I feel li
A Love Story in Four Actsi.A Love Story in Four Acts9 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I loved a blacksmith once, back when the sand still clogged up my soul. It was only far after that I began to love the desert too.
Underneath the casual noise--glass on wood, heat-smothered conversation, worn cards slapped down in careful triumph--there was this low, thrumming quiet that wouldn't be broken. He spoke in sepia undertones. "We're getting out."
Hot iron smells like hot blood, like blood that's been poured out under the white Arizona sun. It's something you don't forget easy, like the taste of whiskey or the plasma patterns left on your eyelids after watching fire all night. It sticks.
My childhood was fed on medical books, and I've got this pain right behind my eyes and I wonder if this is what it feels like being lobotomized. Of course the brain has no nerve endings, but the hurt has to manifest itself somewhere.
Writing 204: Lego BlocksRemember back in the day when you got that kick-ass Lego pirate ship with thousands of little pieces in a snowy X-Mas? And how much fun it was to build it just like the picture on the cover? Building the whole thing up from scratch always comparing your work with the one on box.Writing 204: Lego Blocks3 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Awesome, so based on the current poll I'll discuss index cards, character development and why not a little bit more about structure.
Your outline, which hopefully you broke into smaller chunks, say fifteen or sixteen of them, is the picture on the Lego box. And your index cards are the actual Legos.
So now it's time to build your story just like you planned... befo
Waiting for YouI don’t mind waiting for you. When you’re lonely, any meaningful conversation is worthwhile. Even the kind you have to wait an hour or two for. Maybe especially that kind. The kind you stay up late for, reading to pass the time, or constantly glancing at the clock, hoping. The kind you walk around the block a few times for, even in the cold. The kind you would have over tea if you could but you can’t because you’re both going home and you’re tired of the day but not of each other and, you know, one cup wouldn’t hurt.Waiting for You4 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sand and MusicSand and MusicSand and Music2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He feels he cannot walk another step, until he does. The next step is the same, and the next, and he has stopped counting the sunsets and sunrises because measuring eternity has no purpose. He has wandered an eternity already, carrying his small harp for some indeterminable, compulsive reason, because it will be years before he can play again, if ever, and the sand blows into his eyes and into his throat as he sings. His hands are burnt and scarred and his voice is hoarse, and he wants to rip the strings from the taunting harp and scream, but he is unable to do either because it hurts too much.
the little things in life.i.the little things in life.10 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
the cemetery architects had never planned to place a bench within the premises. they surmised that those who came to visit would not wish to dwell long in the company of ashes. however, the builders consented to procure one to appease the masses, assuming its only use would be a remedy to tired feet. after the stone slab was put in place in the uppermost corner of the grounds, it never crossed their minds again.
he came alone, wearing his usual plaid coat and bowler. tipping his hat to his brow, he greeted passersby with a crinkle of his left eye. (most ignored him as they made their way to their next destination.) in fact, few noti
"Night""Night" is the longest running show in the universe."Night"9 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
It started off quite a few years ago, and while some of the original cast have retired, cooled off, (and in one embarassing incident, mostly hushed up, collapsed in on themselves to form a naked singularity, although some of her co-stars were heard to mutter that she'd ALWAYS been a singularity in one form or another) for the most part, it's still going strong.
It was hard going at first. The first billion years was pretty dead. However, to be fair, there hadn't been much in the way of advance advertising, no posters anywhere, so really, you couldn't expect much. The rat stagehands that h
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.The Fountain1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense
A Contradiction He watches her, intensely, avidly, passionately, and the more he does, he realizes- knows- that she is changing; becoming someone different for every person she meets. One moment she is laughing, superior, intelligent; tossing her hair back and laughing at the world who cannot hope to keep up with her. She meets the other's eyes unashamedly, radiant with confidence. The next- she is shy, timid, downcast eyes and a faint blush on her cheeks.A Contradiction3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
He wants- longs- to tell her that she doesn't need to change. But the words are caught, stuck in his throat, and he finds he has nothing to give her. The air seems still around her, the oxygen seemingly
The Little SparrowHer name was Emma, and she wasn't afraid of falling. For as long as she could remember she had been jumping - always plummeting. She understood the laws of nature: no matter how high she climbed, gravity would always carry her back to the ground; gravity would always grant her momentum to fall and wind-resistance to float. She understood why birds had wings and humans didn't; it was because humans would just as soon leave, and they belonged on the ground.The Little Sparrow1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
They always called her a little sparrow, always trying to fly, but they never understood that she didn't want updrafts or wings, she only wanted to scale walls and scurry up trees, to test
The Chemicals Between UsThe Chemicals Between Us7 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
Colin had received the letter two weeks after his eighteenth birthday. "Congratulations!" it began. "You are pre-approved for a Breeding Marriage License! Enclosed is form MGA-1304, application for suggested partners. Please complete this form and return it to the Ministry for Genetic Affairs to request your list of genetically compatible partners." He folded the letter back into its envelope and drew out the application. After scanning across it briefly, he set it on the table and opened the next item, another piece of college junk mail.
It sat in a filing cabinet until a biting February day three years later. As he was walking home from a
RealWhen they met it was on accident.Real3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Her heel caught in a crack on the old sidewalk that was full of them, and her books fell out of her hands and hit the ground almost rhythmically. He thinks that it's the perfect way to meet someone, cliche and nothing embarrassing.
She's had enough cliches to last her a lifetime, and she thinks little of it.
She thinks little of him, to be honest. He is kind and a gentleman, and, at their first meeting, utterly boring. However, boring has a new appeal for her, which is why they meet a second time.
She doesn't realize how much time she spends with him until she calls him one night