short story
Dixie's Friend
We moved to the farm when I was only 5. I believe that to be the perfect age because I was so full of questions and curiousity. It was a 20 acre farm with a huge red barn and there was a babbling brook that ran beside the barn and the house and then under the road thru a huge metal pipe. Momma would take me out with her to do chores every morning and would occasionally let me wander. I would always go with her to the chicken coop, because I loved feeding the chickens to make them leave their nests so we could get their eggs! It was fun being so careful and putting the eggs in momma's basket without breaking them. Then momma always let me break them when we were making breakfast. SO FUN! As long as I didn't break any, momma would let me go to the barn to find poppa and let him know we were going in to make breakfast. He was always feeding the horse and cow. And then would milk the cow to bring in milk for breakfast. This one morning I spotted something move very high up in the barn. "What was that, Pappa?" I asked. "That is our barn owl. He gets rid of mice, rats and harmful snakes for us." he answered. "But stay clear of him, because they have a very sharp beak and claws. And he doesn't know you". I ran into the house as quickly as my little legs would carry me.
By T. K. Wilson4 years ago in Earth
Hooo!
Picture it, South Omaha, Nebraska. Don’t ask me the year because I really don’t know. What I DO know is there have been many an instance where the wildlife in Nebraska scared the bejezus outta me. From a barn owl on my fence during a smoke break to black squirrels with attitudes, and finally the unidentifiable mammal wrapped around my tire.
By Majique MiMi4 years ago in Earth
Little Seal
My brothers and sisters are strong. I am told we traversed the plains, even beyond the horizon where pink converges blue and expands into the great white heavens. I have no memory of this journey, but Grandfather says I have strength in my bones and that bones carry memories, so I am strong too. Most days, Grandmother boils willow bark and qulliq, which heal my lungs. My brother Nanook is growing the fastest; he is getting muscles and often pummels us younger ones to the ground to wrestle and Grandmother yells “get off Little Seal!” I laugh so hard I can’t breathe. That’s what grandmother calls me, Little Seal.
By Nicole Mitchell4 years ago in Earth
Little Seal
My brothers and sisters are strong. I am told we traversed the plains, even beyond the horizon where pink converges blue and expands into the great white heavens. I have no memory of this journey, but Grandfather says I have strength in my bones and that bones carry memories, so I am strong too. Most days, Grandmother boils willow bark and qulliq, which heal my lungs. My brother Nanook is growing the fastest; he is getting muscles and often pummels us younger ones to the ground to wrestle and Grandmother yells “get off Little Seal!” I laugh so hard I can’t breathe. That’s what grandmother calls me, Little Seal.
By Nicole Mitchell4 years ago in Earth
Little Seal
My brothers and sisters are strong. I am told we traversed the plains, even beyond the horizon where pink converges blue and expands into the great white heavens. I have no memory of this journey, but Grandfather says I have strength in my bones and that bones carry memories, so I am strong too. Most days, Grandmother boils willow bark and qulliq, which heal my lungs. My brother Nanook is growing the fastest; he is getting muscles and often pummels us younger ones to the ground to wrestle and Grandmother yells “get off Little Seal!” I laugh so hard I can’t breathe. That’s what grandmother calls me, Little Seal.
By Nicole Mitchell4 years ago in Earth
Inside and Out Life in the Islands
An Inside out Look at Life in the Islands Life in the Pacific Islands presents an interesting dynamic between law, culture, poverty and many other quirky things in between. Let’s take a journey and see just how special one particular place can be.
By Lyndsey Wilson4 years ago in Earth
The Esky
Caleb and Jarrad tilted the esky onto the grass, careful not to splash the contents onto themselves. The liquid glided smoothly from the tub, striking the grass below before taking its time to settle into patches of dirt. Once the pair had pushed the now empty esky to the back of Jarrad’s ute, Caleb lit up a cigarette and walked away in quiet contemplation, leaving Jarrad to gather the remaining components alone. His gaze zoned in on the missing cat poster clinging to his neighbour’s bins.
By Rye Taylor4 years ago in Earth
The Esky
Caleb and Jarrad tilted the esky onto the grass, careful not to splash the contents onto themselves. The liquid glided smoothly from the tub, striking the grass below before taking its time to settle into patches of dirt. Once the pair had pushed the now empty esky to the back of Jarrad’s ute, Caleb lit up a cigarette and walked away in quiet contemplation, leaving Jarrad to gather the remaining components alone. His gaze zoned in on the missing cat poster clinging to his neighbour’s bins.
By Rye Taylor4 years ago in Earth
The Life of a Housefly
A Housefly rests on the cold, tiled surface of a kitchen floor. Its life has been short, and it is ending now. In its last moments, the Housefly is full of resentment. The world all around it is bright and full of life, and it is all too aware of the brevity of its own existence. The plants on the windowsill are a vibrant green, the birds outside are jarringly loud, and even the impossibly old and brilliant sun seemed to look down on the Housefly with its billions of years of life and laugh.
By Anna Maria Barrett4 years ago in Earth
A listening
Eye of the aerial, batting it’s pristine awareness on the silver and red corral that lace her fingers. Her hands holding a spirit as old as the red dirt she missed as a child. Her nerve endings and new beginnings wearing a skin as young as the 28th spring. The bones of Poca hear the drops of verity before the canals of her listening could absorb such light. Light is information. Light is energy. Light is what light isn’t too. Trickling down from the blue ceiling, everything inside her becomes still, as the glass on a frozen lake lay placidly, as if there were no such creation of time nor pace, at least when a message is finding its place in her bones, in her wake. As if her blood halts it’s sacred dance and her breath holds sentient space for the unnerving importance of what her Creator might whisper. Spirit has no planner. Spirit defies logic. Spirit knows better than to cap a housing where a ceiling is impermissible.. For the fire we wake to and the lantern we sleep with are the signs of dawn and dusk for only the earthly plane. “Sanity for the mind” claims she. Poca has always detected the space that exists beyond the parameters of time– behind the bell at lunch and the confines of numbers, behind the alarm of her brother's phone that tells his brain he mustn’t rest another second out of fear for another man gaining what his rest aimed to offer, behind the ticking of a clock and the conditioning of a watch to do and to say, to begin your day’s doings and unbecomings, behind the Sun and it’s respectful descent for the day. Ungoverned by this manmade structure, she waits.
By Brianna Garcia 4 years ago in Earth
