Classical
unconditional
If walls could talk, the tales I would tell; of holding hearts, wearing joy, and carrying the burdens of too much to bear. I am a keeper of all; the good, the bad, & the sad. Follow along closely for this is a tangled tale of a love so absolute, no matter the changing hue.
By Greer Monroe3 years ago in Fiction
The Egg
I have no doubt that my father was born to be a happy, caring person. He worked as a farmhand for Thomas Butterworth, whose property was close to the Ohio town of Bidwell, until he was thirty-four years old. He drove into town on Saturday nights with his own horse at the time to engage in some social interaction with other farm workers. He drank three glasses of beer in the city while loitering in Ben Head's bar, which was frequently packed on Saturday nights with travelling agricultural labourers. Glasses banged on the bar as songs were sung. Father drove home at ten o'clock over a lonely rural road, prepared his horse for the night, and then retired to bed, content in his place in life. At the moment, he had no intention of attempting to advance in society.
By Bikash Poolingam3 years ago in Fiction
''If walls could talk'' A fiction story
I am a wall, made of rough bricks, and I have seen and heard many things throughout my life. People often talk to me, but I cannot answer back. However, there was a time when I could speak, and this is the story of that time.
By Majid Hussain3 years ago in Fiction
