Authors Press: Your Chance To Share Your Writing

Welcome writers, readers, and all others, welcome all to Authors Press: Your Chance To Share Your Writing! I’m so excited you’ve decided to check out this site!

     What We Do

On Authors Press, we strive to share our stories. And your story. We want to give publicity to the authors that deserve it. We also want to give everyone safe, clean, yet interesting stories.

     How To Become a Part of It

Want to help us reach our goal? Become an author on Authors Press by going to our Become An Author page. Maybe you’ll become a favorite 🙂 ! Maybe you’ll become author of the week, or have your story publicized! I can’t wait to see who’ll be an author!

Well, that’s all for now! I hope to see you again some time!

The Authors at Authors Press

 

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Short Story

Enjoy this little story I wrote a little bit ago!

A scream. Darkness. Then, cold, hard fear had it’s long spindly fingers wrapped around me. I shivered at the eerie touch of utter fear. Then, a hand, real, physical, but just as cold, grabbed my arm, covered my mouth, and shoved me into a box. I did not know it, but all the other kids at the finishing school had been abducted too.

The box opens after a long journey. The sudden light blinds me, and I can’t see who is above me. Slowly, as my eyes adjust to the glare of millions of lightbulbs, I am yanked roughly up. I know that this person is young, because their grip is uncertain and loose. When I try to yank away, though, the grip becomes unbreakable. The young attacker leads me to another room. My eyes start to make out the features of a young boy, not much older than me. He has hair that looks like he runs his fingers through it. Alot. He has cobalt black eyes that stare straight ahead. He walks with an air of uncertainty, like a mouse trying to creep out of a hole without being caught by the cat.

I am broken away from my reverie as the boy pushes me into a chair. He binds me with tight ropes. He then leaves the room.

The lights flicker. A fly buzzes. I sit in hard, low chair. Then comes a noise. The click of high heels. A woman is approaching. The door is slammed open. A woman with sleek black hair and blood red lips walks into the room, her extremely tall high heels clicking. She has an air of confidence, night and day when compared to the boy’s uncertainty.

“Adeline M. Cannon, welcome,” she says. I’m surprised to hear her voice, which is kind and sweet, but sophisticated nonetheless. Nothing like her demeanor. She gives a smile that seems genuine, but I don’t believe her. “Welcome to my school, Madame Silvers’ Select Seminary,” she says.

“Select seminary?” the words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Why am I here? I don’t nee–!”

“Darling,” the woman says, her voice dripping with honey sweetness. “You are one of the few I have chosen to sponsor! You are very fortunate, indeed! I have been watching you, and you seem very intelligent. Someone I would like to teach. So I brought you and a few of your little friends here to learn.”

I’m confused. I am definitely not finishing school material.

“Please, let Lavinia take you to your private room. Classes will begin tommorow promptly at nine. Don’t be late!” the woman waggles her fingers and walks out of the room. Moments later a woman, Lavinia, I’m guessing, unties me-why exactly did they kidnap and tie me up? They could easily have just taken me quietly. Something seems strange, but I don’t have time to contemplate it all. I am rushed to a room filled with lavish furniture and a crackling fire. It seems like heaven.


Five days later…

I have fallen into a routine. Every morning I wake up, eat breakfast, dress, and have a day full of classes. The other ladies here are very kind and welcoming. Something, though, still seems off.

It is Tuesday when it happens. I am walking, alone, back to my room, in the evening. The boy with sandy blonde hair runs up to me, “Miss! Miss!,” he whispers, catching up and walking beside me. “You’ve got to leave! It’s all a trick! She’s brainwashing you all!”

Again, I am confused, “What are you talking about? Brainwashing? You mean Madame Silvers?” I inquire.

“Yes! That’s why she make you be bind up when you come, Miss!” the boys whispers are frantic now, “She is making you into an army. It sounds really crazy, but you have got to believe me. I overheard her talking about it!” Maybe it’s something in his eyes. Maybe it’s the fear in his voice. I don’t exactly know how, but I know that he’s telling the truth.

“I believe you,” I say, shocking him. “How do we get out of here?” I ask.

Did you like it?

Rachel

A CHALLENGE FOR YOU!

Well hey y’all! It is I, cupcakegirl10, coming at ya once again. I’m just here attempting to keep this blog from dying. Again I have literally written nothing of interest except for boring research papers. So in an attempt to post something, literally anything, I’ve decided to post a challenge for y’all. It’s going to revolve around a descriptive “paper” I wrote about the musical ballet, The Firebird by Stravinsky.  This assignment helped with a ton with my creative writing skills! This is a great way to help get your brain-wheels turning! It helps you imagine things you can’t see and helps you create things in your mind, with little basis to go off of! You can do this challenge with any piece of music, and if you ever have writer’s block, this is a great exercise for you! Hopefully it’ll help you too! Anyways, onto the challenge!  Ready???

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Go ahead and listen to part of The Firebird <——–link is here.  Now use the music to help give you an image of what the Firebird looks like or what he’s doing. What does the music show you or help you envision? This will help you with your writing in the future. Tell me your thoughts and what kind of picture you have in your mind of the Firebird. What does he look like? Is he shy? Does he fly? Is he full of fire or just really red? Be as descriptive as possible. Use to the music and only the music to help you get a picture. Envision your own Firebird.  Now, before you complete this next step, make sure you comment down below what the Firebird in your mind looks like!

Still have an idea of what the Firebird looks like? Good. Now, after you’ve commented, go ahead and watch Disney’s 2000 take on The Firebird <—- link is here. And tell me how different your vision was from Disney’s! What was the same about your Firebirds? Were the personalities the same? Did he look like the one you envisioned? Do you think Disney did a good job in portraying the Firebird? Did the story match the music? Make sure you comment again and let me know!!

Now don’t start coming at me about how “music isn’t a part of writing blah blah blah blah”. ACTUALLY, music is a huge part of writing! Poetry can in fact be turned into music. Music is poetry. Poetry is music. ANDDDDDDD, listening to music helps A TON with writers block. So if you’re stuck and you have no clue what to write either A, go outside or look at pics online of the world, B, look up some interesting people or interesting events in history, C, read a book or two, or D, listen to music. It’ll help! Anyways, here is what I myself thought the Firebird would look like:

“As I was listening to The Firebird, I started to envision a bird who’s shy at first and afraid to flap his wings. He’s kind of just walking around becoming more and more dull. His color is gray and his eyes are lifeless. He has lost the will to live and breathe. But soon, another bird comes up and helps him find the courage to soar. He soon realizes his full potential, thanks to the endless help of the other bird. He then takes off into the air and transforms into this beautiful bird made of straight fire. His eyes were the color of sapphires and he had this gorgeous firey mane, much like that of a horse. He has the most beautiful and flowy wings, and his wingspan was taller than most trees. He glows orange, red, and yellow hues and his wings are wavy and full of fire. His songs were rare and so sweet to the ear. I was thinking of a bird much like that of a phoenix. This is what I imagined and what the music portrayed to me. The composition started off mellow and quiet at first, but soon there came a large crescendo and the music grew! The piece ended with a lovely melodious tune, and made me think of “and they all lived happily ever after!” This my friends, is what I envisioned the Firebird to look like. This was my take on Stravinsky’s The Firebird.”

But the way Disney decided to portray the Firebird was so different from the way I imagined him to be!

“I was very startled after seeing how Disney portrayed the Firebird. He was in fact not kind or gentle. He didn’t even have a tad bit of stubbornness or hardheadedness. No! He was so very angry and destructive. As soon as a little creature full of light touched him, he became so so angry! He wrought havoc on the once beautiful land. He blasted the fields with lava and destroyed everything in his path. Lava poured from his humble abode, the volcano. He was more like a ‘lavabird’ instead of a ‘firebird’. He engulfed everything in flames and destroyed everything. His eyes were pitch black and his appearance was scary and demon-like. His wings were like gigantic red capes taking up half the sky with just a stretch! He was ten times bigger than I had imagined! Sweet songs didn’t come from his beak, but streeches and horrid cries of anger. This is not the sweet little firey bird I pictured! But what’s so amazing about this discovery, is that we can conclude that no one interprets music the same. Music means something different to each of us. Just because I thought Stravinsky was portraying the Firebird as a sweet soul doesn’t mean that’s actually what he wanted to portray him as. We all have different imaginations. And we all imagine, create, and see things differently. This is what makes each of our music and writings so unique.”

 

So that’s pretty much it! This is a great way to help get your brain-wheels turning! It helps you imagine things you can’t see and helps you create things in your mind, with little basis to go off of! You can do this challenge with any piece of music, and if you ever have writer’s block, this is a great exercise for you! I hope you enjoyed this challenge! And I can’t wait to read your comments and thoughts down below! God bless and stay tuned for more posts from other authors soon!

-Cupcakegirl10

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We have returned!

Hey y’all! Wowzers! No one has posted on here in like FOREVER. All of us here at Author’s Press are truly sorry for neglecting this blog so. Hopefully we’ll be able to post more regularly on here in the months to come. Honestly, I haven’t really written any more chapters to my books. Really, the only things I’ve written in the past year are essays and literary analyses for school. So, due to lack of interesting stories, I’ve decided to post my essay entitled The American Camelot, that I wrote a year ago. Hope you enjoy!

  Have you ever heard of the mythical city, Camelot? If that doesn’t ring a bell, then have you ever heard of King Arthur, Lancelot, or perhaps Guinevere? The Arthurian legend has been a popular history topic for years, amidst the fact that Camelot might not have existed at all. Really, the legend is just so captivating with it’s tales of knights, romances, quests, and kingship, that we just choose to believe such a staggering story. While the Camelot spoke about during the Renaissance might not have existed, there is an American “Camelot” spoken about by one of America’s beloved first ladies, ‘Jackie’ Kennedy. And this “Camelot” was lived out not to long ago by America’s own Kennedy family.

In order for us to get a full understanding about Camelot and the Kennedys we must first select the opportune roles for each of the Kennedys. Camelot wouldn’t be anything without it’s royal majesty, King Arthur. When comparing the Kennedy family to that of Camelot’s, without a doubt the 35th president of the United States of America, John F. Kennedy, takes the role of Arthur. “For with Truth and Faith girded upon you, you shall be as well able to fight all your battles as did that noble hero of old, whom men called King Arthur.” (Pyle, 80) Just as Arthur led his country with dignity and optimism, so did Mr. Kennedy lead his country.

The role of Lancelot, one of Arthur’s most trusted knights, belongs to John’s brother, Robert. Bobby lands this role for not only being a great brother and uncle to the Kennedys in their time of despair, but also for having a rumored affair with Jackie. The great and guilty love he bare the Queen, In battle with the love he bare his lord, Had marr’d his face, and mark’d it ere his time.” (Tennyson, 245) Just as Lancelot fell in love with Guinevere, Bobby was rumored to have fallen in love with Jackie either before or after the death of her husband.

The son of Lancelot by Elaine, Galahad, served his country well. He sought out the Holy Grail and succeeded with his quest. The role of young Galahad fits with John’s youngest brother, Ted. Ted sought out universal health care for all. Even though he may not have succeeded as Galahad did, he was able to put the magnificent idea out there and call for a change. So the role of Galahad goes to Ted.

And lastly, we have the nation’s beloved Jacqueline Kennedy. Tennyson says in Le Morte d’Arthur that, “Guinevere was the most beautiful of all women and Arthur loved her dearly.” Jackie takes the role of Guinevere not only for being the wife of the president (Arthur), but also for having a recognizable style, for being very beautiful in many ways, and for having had a rumored affair with Robert (Lancelot).

When one hears the name Guinevere, we immediately think of a tragic love affair. We don’t think of a woman who led America through sorrowful times, who was strong for her family and for her husband, and someone who was an influential first lady to us all. Therefore, we must remember Jackie not as a Guinevere, but as a strong, influential woman, just as she wanted us to remember her husband. Jackie was the very person to come up with the nickname “Camelot” for her family’s dynasty. A few days after the assassination of John F. Kennedy on November 22, 1963, Jackie was interviewed by the people of Life Magazine. She stated that she wanted the nation to remember her husband as a man who led America into a period of hope and prosperity.

Even though John’s time as president was cut very short, he led the U.S during the height of the Cold War, focused on our relations with the Soviet Union, and he encouraged NASA to go to the moon. “We choose to go to the moon”, he stated. “We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard.” And this is what kind of person Jackie wanted America to remember him as.

She famously stated in that interview, “and the song he loved most came at the very end of this record, the last side of Camelot, sad Camelot… Don’t let it be forgotten, that once there was a spot, for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot.” A quote that has been remembered for decades was said in so little amount of time. The story behind Camelot, she said, was every night John would play a record from the musical, Camelot. The songs would start off bright, cheery, and optimistic. Then the last song she stated, “the last side of Camelot, sad Camelot”, was sorrowful and very sad. And this is how Jackie described her husband’s time in office.

Nothing could be more fitting for a man who led America with optimism and gave it hope. Today we remember the Kennedy’s family legacy as an American Camelot; a story that starts off in prosperity but ends in despair. Nevertheless, neither the Renaissance version of Camelot or the American Camelot will never be forgotten. We shall always remember the Kennedys as a period of Camelot, just as Jackie wanted.

written by: Cupcakegirl10 

Hope you enjoyed! And thank you for sticking with us throughout this past year! God bless!

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Across Oceans

Wow, nobody’s posted on here in ages! I can’t wait till you do again, I want to see what you are writing 😀 But for now, I’d like to share a snippet of a story I’m going to try to write. I just challenged myself to write 1000 words per day yesterday, and I did make it to that yesterday but I have yet to finish today. I know that it’s nowhere near NaNo speed or anything like that, but it’s what I can fit in every day.

My story is about a 16-year-old girl, a writer like me, named Olivia Williams. She’s been trying to write and publish a novel for ages, but she can’t ever get to the end, also like me. Unlike me, she has an awful home life and she spends most of her time with her best friend. Her friend tells her last minute about a trip to Portugal that she’s going on, and she jumps at the chance. While she’s there, she finally gets the inspiration she needs to write her novel, and lots of exciting stuff happens that I haven’t yet planned out. I really liked the beginning that I have so far, so I thought I’d post that. Please keep in mind that the title isn’t permanent and this hasn’t been edited yet and is by no means perfect! If I ever do get to the end, I’ll probably go through 5 edits or so just to make sure I don’t publish crud. So, without further ado, here’s my story.

 

     Rain could spoil the best days and take the happiness out of whole cities. In early July, weeks of it washed over the hopeful world in a torrent of precipitation, flooding trash out of little corners and allies and pushing the whole mass onto the street, where cars struggled absently against the water. Nobody liked rain. The world was too busy and important to get wet, and so women and men blocked it out with plastic circles. Again, the rain had sucked all of the happiness out of the city that so many called home.

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     There wasn’t much happiness to be sucked out of a little diner off of 4th street. The whole place had a very defeated look to it; all of its former glory had long since been squashed out of the sticky red seat cushions. In place of the many former waitresses, there was one heavily tattooed woman who looked too old to have tattoos – in place of the former customers, there were merely flies and dirty dishes. It may have gotten more traffic at other times in the year, but that is not for us to know.

     Yellow, flickering lights shone down on a sad checkered table. A young brunette sat behind a thick milkshake with her head down. There was a notepad next to her filled with scribbled ideas, but all of them were crossed out. The rain had driven all of the hope out of her, too, even though she normally loved rain. It was the type of rain that made you think that you’d never make it out. That’s what Olivia kept thinking. The rain made her depressed, and being depressed made her unable to write.

     Ten minutes later, she paid for her milkshake and left the diner. The streets seemed dirtier than when she had come in, but it was darker now, so there weren’t any people or very many cars. The block to her apartment building felt like ten as she ran through the rain. The same old dingy shops weren’t anything to look at anymore – they only led to the dingy old staircase into another dingy old building. Olivia slowed her walk as she drew nearer to the chipped door that led into apartment number 12. She closed her eyes as the shouting from inside grew louder. So much hatred had already flowed through her ears, and she was only 16. She turned from number 12’s door to number 11’s and knocked. She couldn’t bear the fighting tonight.

 

So I know that was super short, but it’s the most interesting part of my story so far, and it sounds pretty good. I hope you guys liked it! It was fun to come up with a tinsy bit of a different beginning, starting out depressing and getting better. I promise it will! Thank goodness for Pinterest, I have no idea how I would come up with characters without it.

Anyways, have a great day!

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The Golden Thread

She sits, quiet, in her corner, her hair as red as the threads wrapped around the man’s fingers. The threads tug him backward, their color fading with every step he takes in the opposite direction from where they want him to go. She makes a note in her thick sheaf of papers.

“Red for romance,” she whispers. There are at least fifteen threads wrapped around him, some almost white, some the fresh red of an open wound. “And red for rage.”

The man pushes forward, seemingly unaware of the threads holding him back, or of the small girl in the corner with her eyes laser focused on him. He passes out of view, and Fala turns her gaze to the next passerby. Her eyes widen in surprise as she takes him in.

A young man, around twenty, with wavy brown hair, lanky limbs, and wire rimmed glasses. She knows his type. Always lurking in bookshops and libraries, thinking they can make a difference. There wouldn’t be anything special about him, but for the the shimmering golden threads covering every inch of his neck.

Fala stumbles to her feet, numb from sitting for so long with her legs tucked underneath her.

“Gold?” She mumbles. “There has never been gold before.”

The young man pauses, tugging at his neck. Her hand leaps to her mouth as she realizes he is tugging not at his scarf, but at the gold threads encasing him. He has stopped right in front of her. What if he looks over at her? He will see a girl staring at something she should not be able to see.

But, the little voice in the back of her head murmurs, he shouldn’t be able to see them either. Or feel them. In fact, feeling them is even worse.

The young man has adjusted his golden threads and begins walking down the street. Fala, after a moment of hesitation, staggers after him.

It is disorienting to be out on the street after the long weeks she has spent in the alley, salvaging food from the trash bins beside her. Her steps are uneven, and she dodges vibrant colored threads with every step.

“Red is romance and rage, blue is sadness and pain, yellow is happiness and joy, green is melancholy and goodbyes, orange is friendship and fighting, purple is panic and pride,” she chants under her breath, winding pieces of yarn around and around her index finger. She almost trips on an aquamarine thread connecting to the woman walking beside her and has to start again.

The young man turns left, and she paces back and forth on the corner, deliberating. Is this worth leaving her safe haven, where she can observe the ties of passerbys’ life in peace?

But you have never seen golden thread before…

She forges on.

He pauses outside a toy shop, gazing at the display in the window, and at a pet store, where several puppies huddle in a corner. His fingers press against the glass, and his breath fogs it up. He waits a long minute before moving on.

After crossing several streets and turning many corners away from Fala’s alleyway, the young man stops.

“Are you going to talk to me, or just skulk behind me for the next three blocks, little girl?” He calls. Fala blushes and ducks her head, slowing until she comes to a complete stop several feet behind him. This is the closest she’s been to him, and her heart rises into her throat, gold glinting tantalizingly at the corners of her vision. “You can stop pretending like you haven’t been following me. We both know you’re there.”

“I’m not a little girl.” The voice that bursts from her mouth is not her own. He laughs.

“Of course you aren’t. No girl with gold like yours could ever be considered ‘little’.” Fala blanches.

“I… I don’t have any… I don’t have any money,” she stammers. He laughs again, and the noise grates across her ears, the sharpness of it a blade pressed against her throat.

“Oh, I’m not talking about money.” Alarms are ringing in her head, the low smoothness of his voice telling her to run away while she still can. “You think you’re the only one who can see them?”

“Excuse me?” Black spots are starting to cover her eyes, and she can’t seem to get enough air no matter how many deep breaths she takes. “I don’t… I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns around. His teeth are bared in a vicious smile, and they are pointed sharper than the dagger tucked into the waistband of her pants.

“It’s a blessing and a curse,” he sighs. “Keeping me chained in this mind, this body, but keeping me alive.” His eyes rove over her. “Yes, you have just what I need.”

“I don’t have anything.” That laugh again, rubbing her skin raw.

“These threads connect everything in the universe through emotion and thought, and you think you are exempt from them? You think you’re special at all?” His voice is malicious, and his words hold a hunger she hasn’t heard before. She is too afraid to answer.

“I can see them. Don’t you think I would know, if I had any?” She chokes down a mixture between a laugh and a sob. “I’m alone. Unconnected.” His laugh is tearing her apart.

“You’re wrapped from head to toe, darling.” His smiles stretches ever wider.

“I’m not your darling,” Fala states. “And I’ve told you, I don’t have any. Please leave me alone.” Her voice fades to a whisper. He regards her for a minute, his eyes wide and blank. He looks so empty, so innocent, that she almost relaxes. Then he takes a step forward, and she is frozen in fear.

“I’m not ready to die,” he tells her. “I will never be ready. I have so much left to do, so much left to give to this world. I can’t have that taken from me by something as simple as a weakening body.” He takes another step forward. “You’re going to help me on the way to great things, Fala.”

“I never told you my name.” He ignores her.

“With just a fraction of your gold, I’ll be fresher, younger, stronger. I’ll be able to accomplish great things. I just need some of your threads.” He’s standing right in front of her now, and his hands brush the bare skin of her wrists. She draws back.

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses.

“I’m not ready to die, Fala.” There is a warning in his voice, and her muscles tighten, ready to run, but she is a statue in his gaze.

“No one is.” He steps closer, now inches away from her.

“You should be.” Before she can react his hands close around her throat and-

Fala awakes back in her alley, just in time to see the young man walk by, wrapped entirely in gold.

In the Woods

Hey y’all! I’m Catharine. I’m new here, so I thought I’d share some character sketches and then part of a story I’m working on. (Sorry if there’s too much dialogue)(critiques needed)

Daphne Alderidge

This is Daphne Alderidge. She’s the main character of the story. She’s extremely ambiverted and has a group of close friends that she keeps around her. Daphne has one younger sister and an older brother in college.

Ajax Astor

Ajax Astor, 17, lives in the big house on Elmwood Street. He’s tall, strong, and Daphne meets him by chance in the woods. Ajax feels really deeply; he’s very tender and kind but covers that up as best he can. He doesn’t let on that he’s REALLY depressed…

Danae Hewett

Meet Danae. She’s been Daphne’s best friend ever since they were twelve, and Danae is the more optimistic of the two. She’s kind and gentle, and is the voice of reason in her friend group.

Iantha Isely

This is Iantha. She’s definitely a jokester and loves to laugh. She’s very close with both Danae and Daphne but also has a crush on [undisclosed character]. She is always ready to put a smile on her friends’ faces, but she can be serious when she needs to.

 

Now on to the story…

Part 1

Daphne looked up through the trees as she walked; spots of light came through and touched her face every now and then. She kept walking, trying to forget everything unpleasant, letting the golden sunshine wash all of her problems away. She spotted a log that she could sit down on and began to walk over to it.

“Hello.” Daphne stopped dead. She turned in a circle, looking all around her. Someone was there. “Up here!” She looked up and gasped – there was a person in the giant tree above her. He moved through the branches with incredible dexterity. Daphne just stared.

“Um – hi?” She stuttered. “Who are you?”

“I’m nobody. Who are you?”

“I’m – I’m Daphne.”

“Daphne…” He muttered. He peered down at her through the branches.

“What?” She was becoming a bit more confident.

“Nothing.” The boy looked around through the trees.

“You seem very secretive, nobody.” Daphne remarked, starting to become stubborn.

“My name’s Ajax.” He sighed.

“Well, what are you doing in the tree, Ajax?”

“I’ll – I’ll get down.” He clambered over a few branches, then dropped suddenly in front of her. “So,” he continued. “What brings you here today?”

“I’m just taking a walk.”

“Did you know this is private property?”

“No, I’ve walked here my whole life.”

“Interesting.” Ajax ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. His bare chest was heaving as he caught his breath from the jump. “I’d better go. I have other things to do.”

“But maybe we could talk again soon? We could be friends.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll come back tomorrow. I like walking here anyways.” Daphne took one last look at him, turned around, and started walking the other direction. She looked back after a minute and Ajax was still watching her. Not that that was a bad thing, it was just kind of weird. She began to run and within a few minutes she had gotten all the way up to her room.

 

             “Daph, why did you tell him you’d come back? He could be some hobo for all you know. And besides, how do you know you can trust him?”

             “Danae, you should have seen his face. He just seemed so lonely!” Daphne looked at her friends’ faces, staring back at her on her computer screen. They a bit suspicious. She didn’t get why, though. Had they seen Ajax themselves, they would have done the same.

             “It’s just a matter of safety, really. I mean, you don’t just go meet in the woods with a guy that you’ve never met before. He was in a tree? By himself? Yeah, that’s suspicious,” reasoned Iantha. She pondered her friend’s situation as she slowly twirled her hair. “I don’t think you should go.”

“But he’s so lonely!” Protested Daphne. She sighed and looked down at her keyboard. “Would it make you two happy if I just got his number and left?” Danae and Iantha slowly nodded, thinking of anything and everything that could possibly go wrong.

“Please, Daph, please be careful!” Danae pleaded.

“Don’t worry,” Daphne assured her. “I will.”

 

How did y’all like it? What did you think? Should I post another part?

Thanks for making me a part of Authors’ Press!

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the halloween house-a short story by isabel

the halloween house

there is a house, at the corner of candleberry and elm. it is an ordinary house, with a brown shingled roof, red brick walls, and green shutters. most of the time, no one gives it a second glance. their eyes slide right over it, moving from one house to the next. there is nothing special about it.

except there is.

every year, on october first, a halloween decoration appears. sometimes it’s something small, like fake spiders on the shutters. other times it’s enormous, like the projection of the incredible hulk, who raises his brings down on top of you. for a second you think you have died, until you realize it’s only a projection. but they’re always there. and they’re always different. and by halloween, it’s a wonderland of horrors.

the adults think it’s sinister. no one goes into that house, and no one comes out. it would be presumed empty if not for the annual event. they take turns ringing the bell, bringing cookies to make it seem like a friendly visit instead of a reconnaissance mission. no one answers. they try the door. locked. the same thing every time.

the children adore it. they gather at the corner of candleberry and elm, their eyes roving over the structure, desperate to be the first to spot the newest decoration. all of them relish in the mystery of it, the element of surprise that keeps them up at night.

all of them forget it, of course. they grow up, lose interest, head off to bigger and better things. all except for one.

egbert danielson is seven years old. he has curly brown hair, creamy brown skin, and thousands of freckles. he is just like any other child, except for one thing.

egbert is only happy for one month a year-october. it’s as if he saves all his happiness up for this one month, when the house on the corner of candleberry and elm comes alive. he is always the first to spot the latest cobweb, skeleton, or fake headstone. he notices things about the house that no one else does.

he notices the flashes of pale skin through the shutters, as though someone is running through the house. he notices the soft blue light that seems to permeate every crack of the building. he notices the pair of slippers sitting on the roof, right next to the chimney. he notices the cuts running up and down the arms of the woman who opens the door, when he finally gets up the courage to knock.

she doesn’t say anything at first. her eyes speak volumes. they are the same muddy color as ocean water, and they have a shattered quality to them. her skin is translucent, and you can see the outlines of bones through it. finally, she speaks.

“we’ve been waiting for you,” she smiles, her face skeletal as she leans forward and bites him on the neck.

the next morning, there is a new decoration on the halloween house.


hey guys! long time, no see, am i write? 😜 i hope you enjoy this seasonal short story. have a fantastic (spoooooooky) day!

love from,

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My story for Rachel’s contest #2

Hey y’all! So the contest continues. If you happened to read my story last week then you will find this is the continuation of that same story. If you happened to have missed my last post, CLICK HERE so you can understand this next part. Hope you Enjoy!

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I flew across the dew covered lawn. It was now 8:00. My 45 extra minutes were gone. Apparently I wasn’t going to school. But who could blame me? If you found out your alcoholic, gambling dad wasn’t even your real dad, and that your mom had kept secrets from you for the past 15 years. If everything you ever knew and loved was suddenly changed. If the person you thought you were, wasn’t there. You would miss school too.

I held my backpack strap to keep it from falling out my shoulder while my other hand clutched that little tiny flower I had picked up when my life first started to fall apart. I ran onto the sidewalk in the late hours of that soft and peaceful morning, with chilly wind and frozen dew scattered on the grass. For the past 15 years of my life I had always had a plan for everything. How I would start my day, get to school, accomplish my work, what to wear, when to eat, and so on. But nothing could have prepared me for today. I walked over to a nearby tree close to a stop sign at the end of our road. I slumped onto the ground, throwing my backpack off to the side. My toes were numb, my face red from the cold, and I could barely see because of my oncoming tears. I lifted the frozen flower to my face. What was I going to do. I wasn’t going to go back. I couldn’t. I needed help. And I needed it now. I never really had considered myself a religious person, but when I was little, Lizzie took me to her church. They talked about how Jesus heard our prayers and would help us. So, I did something I never had done before. I prayed. I shut my blurred teary eyes, I clasped my red, chapped hands, and I talked to Jesus.

Once I had finished I looked up. A red car had stopped on the side of the road and a figure was walking up to me. I squinted to try to see who it was. Was it someone who wanted to kidnap me? Kill me? Sell me? The figure continued to approach and I still couldn’t determine who it was or what it was. I could really care less if it was a killer of some sort. There was really nothing for me now. Then amidst my life-ending thoughts, I heard a familiar sound “Hunter?” “Are you okay? Why aren’t you heading to school?” Whoever it was I really didn’t want to deal with. So I thought about retorting “Yes. I’m totally fine. Every time life is good I sit under a random tree crying my eyes out.” But it was no time for sarcasm, sadly. I decided to look up. It was Ryder Collins. He had been one of my best-friends in elementary school. I developed a little crush on him in middle school. Not much to explain there. And in highschool I just gave up that hope. No one would ever see me as a girlfriend. Not many people even knew I existed.

He squatted down and looked at me. The smartest kid in 10th grade, one of the most popular, and one of the cutest in the highschool was next to me. I looked directly into his green eyes and I turned away from shame. His life was perfect, he could never understand mine. “I’m fine.” I simply said. I stood up, hardly daring to believe it. I was afraid it was a dream, it would fade away. Then, in a just one second, it became a nightmare. I picked up my backpack, the little flower, and I rose and walked off. I would figure this out on my own. I couldn’t let the guy I had a major crush on help me. I always screw everything up. My nightmare had become an even worse nightmare. But Ryder stood up and followed me. I tried to walk faster but the talented sprinter caught up to me. He grabbed my hand and spun me around. He looked into my eyes with a fierceness I’d never seen before. And he said “Hunter, I know somethings up. Please let me help you.” And that did it. I collapsed into my old friend’s arms and sobbed. We walked back to the tree and I told him everything that had happened. He kept going in and out of focus because my eyes couldn’t stay dry. He listened intently and once I had finished I moved the hair out of my face and wiped my eyes on my sweatshirt. Then he said “Hey. It’s going to be okay. Let me take you to get a coffee or something and warm you up. Then we can decide what you want to do from there.” And I shook my head yes. To be honest I was freezing. The old grey sweatshirt I had on didn’t have much wear in it anymore. My butt was wet from the melting dew on the grass and my sneakers were covered in wet grass.

I picked up my stuff and we walked across the street to his beautiful red truck. I climbed into the passenger seat. And he jumped into the driver’s seat and we drove off. I didn’t know what was going to happen or what I was going to do. I just knew someday and somehow I was going to find out who I was. No matter what.

 

Hope you enjoyed it!

 

 

 

My story for Rachel’s contest

Hey y’all! So the creator of the Author’s Press blog, Rachel Vincent *gives round of applause* is holding a writing/photography contest. I entered and so here is my story for her contest, Enjoy!

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I held the frostbitten flower to my chest. “Get out of my house right now!” I had heard loud screams of that nature for about an hour now. My mom and dad were fighting, AGAIN. It could be a soft and peaceful morning, like today, with chilly wind and frozen dew on the grass, everything would seem perfect. I would perform my daily routine to get ready for school and hope and pray that my parents wouldn’t fight today. But, despite my prayers and hopes they would always fight. Sometimes they would fight for so long I’d have to call my best friend, Lizzie to pick me up and take me to school. Most people hate highschool, and trust me I’m not to fond of it myself, but it beats having to stay home and listen to arguing for hours upon hours.

As I held the frozen flower to my chest tears streamed down my face, and you could see my heavily panting breath in the air. I was tired of it. Today was the day. I was finally going to speak up and tell my parents how I felt. I would finally tell them to quit arguing. I made my way up the brick porch steps and I inched closer to the door, while the screams kept growing in volume. I reached my shaking hand out for the door knob and I was just about to twist it when I heard, “Why don’t we have money in the bank Jen? Is it because that stupid teenage daughter of mine keeps spending so much on clothes?” I looked down at my attire, leggings, an old/grey sweatshirt, boots that were too tight, and socks that were barely white anymore. Yep, that was definitely why we didn’t have money in our account. “Rob, I wish you would stop blaming her! It’s your own fault we have no money in our account. Everyday you come home, grab my keys, and you take the car off to the casino to gamble and drink all our money away!” Mom spoke truth.

I leaned my ear closer to the door. School didn’t start for 45 more mins, I had time. “My daughter is the reason all of our money is gone! She’s always going out with friends!” Well let me see, the last time I went anywhere with Lizzie was about 9 months ago. She would always invite me along to other events, but with barely enough money to live on, I would always decline. I didn’t want Lizzie to keep paying for me, she had already done enough. Mom apparently stood there stunned at what she had heard because she didn’t retort at first. Then I heard her whisper something. Dad heard it too and he yelled “For God sake speak up woman!” And she did. She exclaimed “You want me to speak up? You want me to speak up Rob? Then fine. I want you to stop saying things that are untrue!” “And what might those things be Jen?” “Stop calling Hunter your daughter! She isn’t your daughter!” I stood there stunned. I had heard enough. I bust in the door with tears streaming down my face. “Mom?”, I cried. She couldn’t find the words to say, “Sweetie… I, I, I can explain.” But I didn’t want her to explain. The horrible man who I thought was my father, wasn’t. And who knows maybe my mother wasn’t really my mother! I ran out the door, fumbled down the steps, grabbed my backpack lying on the grass, and I picked up the little frozen flower. Nobody knew who I was. Nobody knew what I was. And worst of all, I didn’t even know who or what I was. But somehow and someday I was determined to find out. No matter what.

Hoped you enjoyed it!