Benjamin > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

The polished wood feels like the edge of a shot glass between my finger tips, my lips cracked and dry, I crave that drink. The only sound is a c..

I loved it without doubt my tiny little sprout, but-- it always grew: to my knees then my chest then my head then the rest. ..

The work is hard the work is rough the work leaves you so dead and tired, you're stuck and mired. Hands are made crooked cla..

His memory works like a child's blocks fit together, brightly colored wooden pieces clumsily placed no matter whether they fit or matched. ..

Small flames waver against black like a jellyfish underwater; they lack substance. The fringe of night remains sketched, the sh..

Quaint faces in tiny boxes say crackle words through a blizzard of static. The ears have long since gone deaf trying to hear ..

Did I die?...did I die? I see a milky sky and black branches, crisp against each other above me, framed by a car window. G..

The waves of a mordant sea crashed into a wall of endless rock. Along the vertical shore a forest stood, a vast tower of green. Trees..

“We're out of fire wood again...” “There is nothing I can do about that, you want me to go out there?” ..

The room was filled with a dense smoke only tempered by dull yellow lights. A rabble of voices and shuffling footsteps passed through ..