Marvil threw his pink shirt on the bed.
His wife looked up from where she was nestled under the covers, with the pillows stacked up behind her and a book titled ‘all about pickling’ in her hands.
“Okay. Fine. I give up.”
“What’s wrong?” He assumed the amusement in her tone was meant to tease him but it just caused more frustration.
“I have nothing to wear tomorrow.” He lifted up the red shirt. “This is the best shirt I’ve got, but the color …”
She reached for it and looked at it, amazed. “Why do you even have it?”
“A friend got married in vegas.” Continue reading
You’re at the supermarket somewhere in the northern region of South Carolina. You just moved here from Boston to get that awesome job with all the perks and challenges you always wanted.
There’s a catch, though: your special other half wanted to stay in Boston and you’re all alone in this hot region that makes you feel like giving in and just become a melting meat-bag on the pavement.
But you’re stronger than that.
You don’t know anyone here – yet.
That’s why you’re at the supermarket. When in need of new friends there’s a very obvious place to start: your neighbors. That’s why you’re throwing a cookout tonight and now you can’t decide if you’re going to get the marinated chicken or the pre-smoked ribs. Continue reading
”-and then he told me to come to the party, and at first I thought he didn’t really mean it because he never meant anything he said to me before.” He grinned at his sister and swung the t-shirt over his shoulder, posing in a model-like fashion. “But I guess I’m awesome enough to be included now.” He showed off his biceps.
“You’re so full of it.” His sister rolled her eyes. “I don’t think you should go.”
“They’re gonna get you drunk.”
“No, they’re gonna get your drunk and put it as though you did something stupid.”
“I probably will.”
“Damn it, listen! They did something illegal and they’re going to set you up!”
He blinked in confusion. Continue reading
Stranger on the street
To you I’m just another face
Black tennis shoes
At best you remember and hate me because I did something wrong in the traffic
But I’m not a block of wood moving about
I’m not a robot
I don’t have software
I have feelings and thoughts for the future
I have a past
But to you
I’m just another stranger on the street
This was written while I drove in the car on my way home from training. I often ponder how we look at people on the street and think of them as stereotypes. Imagening complex stories to each person we meet would be too much strain on the brain.
So I wonder what others see, when they see me.
The twenties are a magnificent age, so filled with intrigue and understanding on a level we old fools remember only as a faint glimmer.
All depends on these young, brilliant heads and what they can create in their decade of genius.
Perhaps that is why I tend to linger amongst them, why I sometimes hang around college cafés to hear bits of their philosophical chatter that, to them, comes quite naturally, as non-singular as respiration, and I wish I could hear a truly academic debate so vigorous and deep that even their brains must work hard to keep up.
But that happens rarely.
Yes, the twenties are a magnificent age, full of the wisdom that fades as our faces grow softer, more symmetrical, more relaxed with un-knowing.
It’s a shame the young don’t appreciate it.
Beauty grows old as knowledge and passion forgoes.
There’s a sense of shared love, a communion that’s safe and warm and snuggly because not only are you preying on a dream – the dream that the idol will one day turn around and say “I love you, too” – but that dream is shared by thousands, millions, of other girls who cannot be a threat because somehow, in a hidden subconscious that you don’t appreciate, you know that this idol never will turn around and tell you “I love you”.
It’s easier to love these boys who are made to appear nice, to appear safe, so much in opposition to the world you’re about to sting your finger on, the world of WOMANHOOD in which you’ll be screwed over by men, in which you’ll screw them up, too, and I mean that both literally and figuratively. Continue reading
A new study shows that coffee gives better memory:
Two cups of coffee after end learning (ie. After class or meeting) will enhance registration of the things taught.
The reporters discussing this were thrilled as they both got up at 4 am and loved their morning cup of coffee.
No problem with that.
But aren’t we forgetting all of the bad studies on caffeine?
One or two cups of coffee a day aren’t going to kill you, but I can tell you that if I was still a student and caffeine had no side effects I would effectively chuck down 10 cups of coffee a day.
Two cups for each session (I had 4 sessions on a full day) and two for when I finished homework. Continue reading
By Gry Ranfelt for Oda Sødal Krogh
When his partner told him that the rooms on Melville Street 4 looked as if a piñata filled with junk threw up all over the place, Chip Navel laughed.
There were few chuckles left when he saw the place for himself.
As a child he had feared monsters under the bed with a strange thrill, always acknowledging it as a ruse, but now he was genuinely anxious when some moldy towels squirmed. His common sense reminded him that it was probably a rat, come to scavenge on leftovers.
The house was old and the paint crumbling. Weeds grew thick in the bushes that were barely kept out of the neighbor’s yard and inside there was junk everywhere, spread out like a thick carpet on the floor. Continue reading
The epilogue to my ongoing online story Cosmic Wild is finally out! I can’t believe it took this long to finish, chapter by chapter, edit by edit.
To think that I thought this story up three years ago and that I started writing it two later … To think that I thought I would be able to draw illustrations all the way through! *Snicker*
The story is a rough draft, only edited for grammar mistakes. Any thoughts on the story, plot, exposition, characterization etc. would be much appreciated. I would learn so much from your constructive criticism.
Not long ago I finished revising a Danish book which has been sent out to be torn apart by beta readers. You hear that sound of ripping paper? Yup, that’s wasted rainforest weeping.
It’s somewhat the same sound I want to hear online. You ripping up the fictionpress.net pixels. I don’t know how. Figure it out
I’m glad to have it out. I hope some people will enjoy it.