Tag Archives: war

Dinner at Encarna’s

This is a story I’ve been working on off and on for about two years. It is set in an alternate universe, so it’s not supposed to be historical at all.

Dinner at Encarna’s

They say all is fair in war, except at Encarna’s. The centuries-old restaurant stood in a sheltered pocket of no-man’s land, aggressively protected by both sides. Encarna welcomed everyone to her table as long as there were no weapons or any violence within her walls. Breaking these rules could get you killed, or worse, banned from the restaurant.

Encarna’s was the sort of place that wasn’t supposed to exist in war. It survived in a bubble that was exempt from the reality of total war outside its walls. The food was extraordinary, but it also survived through some deeply-buried part of the group psyche that longed for a respite from our current hell. It was a miracle that they could still get the ingredients they needed, although I guessed that both sides were secretly supplying it.

I stumbled through the doors, dead with fatigue after twelve hours of guard duty on the front lines. The guns had been quieter that day, but the quiet times were almost as bad, as you strained to peer through the fog for special forces troops creeping up under barbed wire to toss grenades into your machine gun nest.

I saw her sitting by herself at a corner table, dressed in the crisp, clean blue uniform of the other side. Gleaming brass on her shoulders showed that she was a captain.

I’d learned to gather information quickly. The new uniform meant she was either new to the front or worked in a department that didn’t see action. But people sitting by themselves usually wanted to be left alone, and they were usually accompanied by at least one bottle. This woman sat sipping water. Maybe she is waiting for a date.

When meeting people you would shoot without hesitation the next day on the battlefield, shyness doesn’t mean much. I went up to her. “Can I sit down?”

She glanced up, flicked her eyes over my faded uniform, but then nodded. “Fresh off the front, captain?”

Officially, both sides were forbidden from talking to one another in Encarna’s. Officially, neither side was allowed to visit at all. On all reports, it had been destroyed in the shelling years ago, but Encarna’s was a world of its own. Even generals and field marshals would sneak into the restaurant when they could.

I nodded. “Not a bad day. Your guns were pretty quiet today.”

“All out for repairs,” she said, beginning the verbal dance that mortal enemies play in conversation—that dizzying mix of truth and lies you tell when becoming friends with someone you can never hope to trust.

“I guess you’re new here,” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Your uniform looks pretty new.”

“I came out for a nice night, the first in a long time. Of course I wanted to look my best,” she said. “Doesn’t your side still have dress uniforms?”

“We chopped them all up for bandages,” I said.

She nodded. “I thought I saw an arm sling with epaulets a while back.”

A waiter came and we ordered and then sat talking, as normally as if we were on a date back in normal times.

“So, are you Intelligence? Logistics?” I asked after the lasagna and paella had arrived, a lovely mix of Mediterranean cuisines.

“I’m in the Army,” she said with a smile. It was the typical stonewall answer. The fact was that I didn’t recognize the branch insignia on her lapels: a coiled snake around a star. “You?”

“Mine’s easy,” I said, pointing to my Infantry insignia. “There’s no mystery about me.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, and for the second time, she smiled.

“What’s your name?” It was a taboo question but I asked it anyway.

Her smile disappeared. “Captain Renzi,” she said. I knew that from her name tag. “You are Captain Foxhaven, but you are not English, are you?”

I shook my head. “Names have long histories.”

After the meal, Captain Renzi pulled out a few red banknotes—what on our side we called kommidollors—and stood up. “I will be sitting at this table three days from now.” Then she left.

It was devilishly hard, but I got an 8-hour pass three nights later and made my way to Encarna’s. Captain Renzi was already there in her corner. The waiter was just bringing her a plate of pasta.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” she said. “I was almost regretting turning down all the others wanting to sit.”

“It was hard enough to get away this early,” I said. “The Old Man always has work for me.”

“Order something,” she said. “We’ll split this, then eat that when it comes.” I felt a burst of pleasure at this and I ordered something quickly and got another plate to split the pasta.

“The Old Man?” she asked. “Do you mean Colonel Dreifuss?”

“You know him,” I said, surprised.

“We know a lot about your superior officers,” she said, with a tiny smile that made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to think of how she knew. I would rather have ten howitzers pounding my location for hours than one double-agent, moving around undetected.

“How long have you been at the front?” she asked. My internal alarms started again.

“About two weeks,” I said, although I had really been there for over a year.

She nodded. “Me too.”

We started eating, but I was tired of all the evasion and lies. “My name’s Marco,” I said. Giving information to the enemy was a bad idea, but there was not much she could do with my first name.

She nodded and took a couple bites. Then she seemed to reach some internal decision and put down her fork with a smile. She reached across the table. “My name’s Angela Renzi. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands.

The evening went well, and we mostly talked about our lives before the war: where we had gone to school and what life was like growing up. Just before we left, Angela leaned into me. “Listen, I don’t know what your patrol schedule is like, but stay away from the Red Hill area tomorrow.”

I was stunned. “What did you say?”

Her look was blank. “What? I didn’t say anything.” She looked at me steadily for a few extra seconds, then turned and left.

The road back to my barracks seemed longer than the three miles it was. The fact was, I was planning on visiting the Red Hill outpost the next day, but how could she have known that? It didn’t make any sense. It was a war; nowhere was safe, so why warn me about one specific spot? I did not sleep well that night.

The next day, I found an excuse to stay away from Red Hill. I agonized about the decision. Should I warn the commander of the outpost? If I did, they would want to know how I knew, which would open up a lot of uncomfortable questions. And what would they do, even if warned? It was not like they would evacuate the outpost, just because it was going to be attacked. If anything, they might reinforce it, which would not help anyone if the base was going to be heavily shelled. Still, the burden of unwanted knowledge weighed me down like a machine gun slung around my neck.

The next day, I was in HQ when the news came. Red Hill outpost had been destroyed. Sappers had dug a tunnel up to the walls and thrown in satchel charges and grenades. The fort was a wreck. The enemy had not been able to hold it, but they had destroyed a lot of its fortifications. I stayed away from Encarna’s for the next week.

But I could not stay away forever, and despite what had happened at Red Hill, I missed seeing Angela. After all, she had not attacked the fort personally, and she had only been trying to warn me. Still, it had thrown into sudden focus that the woman that I thought and dreamed about was an enemy that I was sworn to defeat.

When I managed to make time to go, the anticipation of seeing her again made me almost nervous. I put on my best uniform and walked the muddy wreck-strewn track the three miles to the restaurant. When I got there, Angela was sitting in her usual corner with two male officers of her own side. Disappointed, I went and sat at another table. I was almost finished when she slipped over and sat down across from me.

“I’ve missed you here,” she said in a low voice. “I’m glad to see you unharmed.”

“Why did you tell me that?” I said. “Isn’t that treason on your side? You warned an enemy about upcoming plans.”

“You couldn’t have stopped us anyway,” she said, in a way that annoyed me. “Plus, I wanted to make sure you’d be okay. When’s the next time you can be here?”

“I don’t know,” I said petulantly, but then reconsidered. “This Friday I have some time.”

She nodded. “I’ll be waiting over at our table.”

Our table. That made me smile and even as I watched her leave with the two other officers, it made me feel better.

That Friday, I was the first one there, but she came in soon after and slid into her seat. “Did you order?”

“I just got here. What do you want?”

“I like everything. You choose. I’ll pay tonight.”

“Oh, really? Is it pay day over there?”

“Something like that,” she said.

We ordered and chatted a little, but it was obvious she was preoccupied.

“Trouble at the front?” I asked after a while, trying to make it a joke.

Angela shook her head. “It’s not that. I’m just worried. About you.”

“I can take care of myself, don’t worry.”

“I know you can. You’re smart and lucky so far, but I’m thinking of down the road. We’re winning this war.”

“I think it’s pretty even,” I said, more than a little defensively. In fact, the war was dead even, with emphasis on the dead. Ever since I had been at the front, the war was just a huge meat grinder with men and women being fed into it from either side of no-man’s land.

“It was, but it’s not anymore,” Angela said. “Red Hill was just the beginning. We’re going to win this war, without doubt, and I’m afraid for you.”

Psychological warfare, I thought, the disappointment twisting my stomach. She had made friends with me and now was trying to sabotage my morale. “Are you trying to get me to defect?”

She looked at me and I saw the beginning of yes forming on her lips. Then she smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t ask you to. I know you wouldn’t.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t, any more than you would defect to my side,” I said.

The food came and we ate in silence for a bit, making only small remarks about the food. The atmosphere had changed. The word defect was almost as taboo in Encarna’s as weapons and like the word divorce in a marriage, it tainted the mood.

“Listen,” she said, as we were finishing up. “I don’t care if you tell what I said or not. I’d like to see you again, but I’ll understand if you don’t. In any case, please take care of yourself.”

“I’ll come here whenever I can,” I said. “I want to see you again too.” She smiled, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and left through the side entrance, back towards her side.

I got back to my barracks to find out that I had been reassigned, effective immediately. The new posting was thirty miles down the line, at another HQ. The transfer was a step up, but I was depressed as I packed my belongings in my duffle bag and got on the truck.

The next few weeks, I worked hard, but I never stopped thinking of Angela and what she had said. The war did seem to be going badly for us. More of our outposts were being taken or destroyed and the enemy seemed to find their way through our defenses almost effortlessly now. There was some talk of treachery. I was almost glad I could not go to Encarna’s to avoid any suspicion that I was a spy.

Two weeks later, the end of the war came for me. I was commanding a small outpost on what our maps called Hill 54. It was just after midnight and only the watch was awake when the side of the hill exploded. I was dozing in my cot and jumped up to hear shouting outside and submachine gun fire. Someone ducked into the tent and pointed a gun at me, shouting at me in the enemy language to get down. I fell to the ground, expecting every moment to be my last. Five minutes later, he told me to get up and I was marched outside.

Most of my squad had been killed, but three of us had been captured. They tied our hands and marched us down the slope and back across no-man’s land to enemy territory.

I won’t deny that I looked for Angela as we were searched, then marched to a truck and driven far behind the lines to a prisoner-of-war camp. If she was there, I did not see her in the sea of enemy uniforms.

What I saw depressed me. New weapons and fresh-looking soldiers were everywhere. The POWs were fed better than the officers at the front on our side. We were losing and everyone in the camp knew it. There was no talk of escape. We all knew the war would be over soon.

I was at the camp two months according the scratches on my bunk post when a guard came and called for me by name. I got some dark looks from the other POWs as I walked out, wondering if this was for release, interrogation or execution. The guard directed me to an administrative building. I walked into a small room with a table and two chairs. Angela Renzi was sitting in one of them.

She looked similar to the first time I had met her at Encarna’s, although the insignia on her epaulets had changed.

“Major Renzi,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“Marco,” she said. “I’m glad to see you.” She smiled but I saw the pity in her look. It incensed me as much as our unequal positions: she in a gleaming dress uniform and me in threadbare POW pajamas.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“I’ve known you were here even since you arrived,” she said, “but I couldn’t come visit without arousing suspicion. Now, however. . . .” She slid a newspaper across the table. It was from the day before. My reading ability of the enemy language was passable, but anyone could have guessed the meaning screaming from the headline in 100-point font: “PEACE DECLARED!”

“Your president surrendered,” she said. “We were five miles from your capital.”

My grandparents’ home was about thirty miles from the capital, in the direction of the front. I wondered if they had gotten out okay, if the places I remembered visiting in the summers were now nothing but smoking crater holes and death-infused mud.

“So did you come here just to gloat?” I asked.

“No!” She seemed genuinely shocked. “I like you, Marco, but this was the only way that we could ever have had a chance together.”

She was right, of course, but why did it have to be her side that won? I thought of our glorious historical sites that had never seen the tread of an invader before now being overrun with foreign troops, the sight of that hated flag flying in our skies. The thought sickened me.

“How did you do it?” I asked. “If you think we have a chance, tell me that.”

“We developed a way to read minds,” she said. “We would listen across no-man’s land at night through special machines and heard all your plans, all your intelligence.” She saw the look on my face and put up her hands. “I wasn’t reading your mind in Encarna’s,” she said. “It takes special machines that require a truck to move. There, I’ve just committed treason by telling you that. Do you trust me now?”

I wasn’t sure. I still felt as if I knew nothing, and Angela held all the power. I had lived with enemies too long to loosen my grip yet.

“If what you say is true,” I said, “then I should be released soon, right?”

“Next week, I think,” she said. “They are drawing up the articles of surrender now and those will be signed in three days.”

“Six months,” I said. “Everything should be mostly back to normal by then, whatever normal will look like now, at least for me. If you still want to see me, I will meet you six months from today at Encarna’s at 8:00pm. Then we can see if we have a chance.”

Angela took out a notebook and wrote the date six months from that day on it twice, then ripped off one of them and handed it to me.

“Captain Foxhaven,” she said, shaking my hand. “I look forward to not being your enemy. I hope to see you again at Encarna’s.”


Killing Oliver Twist

I cannot forget the first man I killed. That instant is trapped in my memory, as if in jagged-edged crystal.

I was eighteen and manning a machine gun. He emerged from the morning mist, searching the ground for something.

I fired.

Life over.

I killed countless soldiers later, but I only remember him. He was British, so I named him Oliver Twist.

I kept wondering what he was looking for.

After the war, I went to London. I stopped a woman and said, in halting English, “I am sorry for Oliver Twist.”

She stared at me, but I felt absolved.

 


Outside the Window

Well, for the first time in quite a while, I’m actually posting this on Wednesday. Despite this being exam week, I’m actually not as busy as I have been in the past few months.

FF158 Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

A bomb exploded. Amna saw the orange death-flower blossom a mile away.

She ran water for dishes—

A helicopter thundered overhead.

rinsed a plate—

An angry line streaked from the ground.

washed the cutlery.

The helicopter exploded.

She refused to hide. This had been her home for her whole life.

Somewhere nearby, she heard the rattle of rifle fire.

They won’t change me, she thought savagely. They won’t win!

Her favorite cup, which she had been gripping unconsciously, shattered. She stared down at the blood dripping into the dishwater and realized, suddenly, that nothing would ever be the same again.

 


The Submariner’s Dream

Let me tell you the account of trying to bring light to a Friday Fictioneers story this week. I had an idea I liked and wrote the story this evening. It came out to 119 words and I couldn’t reduce it without sacrificing vital parts of the story. So I wrote another one, which I liked even better. That one came out at 128 words and again, I didn’t want to sacrifice any of it. So I wrote a third story, which luckily came out to 100 words. That’s the one below, but if you want to read the other two, I’m going to post them on my blog tomorrow and Saturday. This week’s picture is thanks to Claire Fuller, the author of the award-winning novel, Our Endless Numbered Days.

copyright Claire Fuller

copyright Claire Fuller

The Submariner’s Dream

I dream the alarms sounded. I ran to battle stations, shoving past fear-sweating men in claustrophobic hallways.

I dream they waited for me at the missile room door. I had the keys. Buttons were pushed, codes entered, access granted: all perfect protocol.

I dream the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” lilted around us as we shot our world-ending payload out into the frosty Arctic night, leaving us empty, spent.

I awake, feeling hollow. I go to the bridge.

“Any contact yet?”

The captain shakes his head, despair in his eyes.

I take two more pills and sleep.

I dream the alarms sounded . . .


The Kiss War

I was lying on the couch reading one afternoon when my wife walked by and blew me a kiss. On instinct, I dodged it. She looked affronted but kept walking. I went back to my book, but several minutes later, I looked up to see her standing over me. Quick as a bullet, she smooched twice and blew them at me. Double tap to the forehead. I didn’t have a chance.

 

lips

War has never been so schmaltzy.

 

I might have let it go at that, but the next morning I saw that she had written 2:0 on the whiteboard in the kitchen.

“Oh, that’s how you want to play, is it?” I asked.

“Bring it on, jerk,” she said. I made as if I was going back for the cereal but then turned and blew her a kiss as fast as I could. She caught it and threw it back at me.

“Hey, no kissbacks!” I said.

“Sorry, them’s the rules.” She smirked and changed the 2 to a 3.

I entered by the garage that day when I came home from work. I could hear her making dinner in the kitchen. I took off my coat and boots and then crept noiselessly into the kitchen and up behind her. She was chopping carrots at the counter.

“Kiss kiss kiss!” I shouted. “Three points for me.”

She screamed and spun around, throwing the knife at me. It shot past my ear and hit the fridge, clattering to the floor. “Don’t ever sneak up behind me! Are you crazy?”

I assured her I wasn’t. “At least I got three points.” I went and changed the tally on the whiteboard.

“Who cares? I almost killed you.” Then she relaxed. “Sorry, you just really scared me. Welcome home.” She gave me a kiss, then grinned. “One more point for me.”

“What? I kissed you back.”

“But I kissed you first, so I get the point.” She went and changed the tally to 4:3, then staunchly refused to let me kiss her until dinner was over.

“We need to make a rule,” I said when dinner was over. “Contact kisses don’t count. I don’t want to be keeping score all the time.”

“Fair enough,” she said. Then she dove behind the table and fired a kiss at my leg. I ran into the hall and for the next half hour we ran around the house like kids, firing kisses at each other. By the end of it, the score was 54:42 for her.

The next day at work was exhausting and I forgot about our little kiss war as I staggered through the door. “I’m home!” I shouted. The house was quiet. I was just wondering where she was when I saw a bunker of couch pillows built in the kitchen. There was a smacking sound and then another.

“Got you!” she shouted.

It was a bloodbath of affection. I was pinned down by the doorway, still in my boots and coat. I had to take them off before I could even get down behind the couch and take cover. I finally charged the kitchen but it cost me dearly and by the time I reached the bunker and we declared a truce, the score stood at 93:44.

I had to end things once and for all. I went down to my workroom that evening and with a box and a length of wire, I started to create my ultimate project. I brought it up as my wife was in the bathroom brushing her teeth and when she came out, I was standing there, box between us, button in my hand.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a kiss nuke,” I said. “15 million kisses at the push of a button.”

“But, but you’ll be kissing yourself too,” she protested.

“I’m willing to do that.”

“There’s no way this house can withstand 15 million kisses all at once. You’ll be kissing all the neighbors with this. I won’t have you kissing the neighbors!”

“Sorry,” I said. “This is the way it’s going to be. Now kiss this contest good-bye.”

She suddenly started laughing. She laughed and laughed until she fell on the floor. I went over and helped her up.

“Come here, you dork,” she said. She gave me a real kiss and a hug and we stood like that for a minute.

“So what now?” I asked.

She looked up at me. “I don’t know. Wanna have a hug o’ war?”


The Battle of New Semester

I’ve been busy lately with work so I wanted to write a post explaining why I haven’t been around as much as I would like to be this week. This is what came out of that. My wife says I’m being silly and, of course, she’s right.

(For those of you who don’t know, I teach ESL at a university.)

Destination: Inbox (Source)

Destination: Inbox (Source)

The Battle of New Semester

I knew it was coming for months before it hit. I watched it appear on the horizon like a tsunami viewed from the relative ease of a tropical island beach. Over the weeks and months I watched it get closer, with anticipation at best and at worse, resignation.

Then, on January 5, it hit.

The invasion of the new semester.

It started slow. The first wave was mostly Administrative Duties, buzzing in from above, peppering me with emails. “Re: re: re:!” went their machine guns. “FYI! FYI!” They were slow moving and I could pick them off easily enough, but as the week progressed, each progressive wave got thicker and closer together.

The 5th Division Placement Tests made an amphibious landing on Thursday and I was busy for two days putting down that threat, until finally everyone was in their place. Unfortunately, we weren’t without casualties. Our general went down with the flu and a few NCOs as well.

Of course, this was just the vanguard attack. The main invasion force came the next week and the battle settled down into the daily slog.

The Class artillery is not that bad. Every morning at 8:30, the shelling begins, with 30mm Grammar shells coming in from the right and Writing mortars whistling in from the left. You just have to endure and after a couple hours they slack off before a shorter American Culture attack in the afternoon.

Worse are the Lesson Plans. The sneaky blighters sneak up and sabotage your defenses and equipment, making you unprepared for the daily Class shelling. Sometimes I can pick them off with a few well-aimed shots but other times I spend hours hunting them down, the battles going on into the evenings and spilling over to the weekends.

It will get better though, after a few weeks. I’ll set up anti-aircraft batteries to knock down the Administrative Duties and dive-bombing emails as they appear. I’ll establish a wider perimeter to take care of lesson plans from a greater distance and the daily shelling of Classes will become routine. Things will settle down soon. Soon.

That’s teaching for you.


Approaching Storms – Friday Fictioneers

Copyright Kelly Sands

Copyright Kelly Sands

Approaching Storms

A storm was coming.

Rebecca stood, tied to a stake, on the uncannily silent beach, watching coal-black clouds gather and build. She had deserted. Tomorrow she would be shot.

Lightning blazed through the approaching tempest. In its fitful glow, a warship appeared, then many more. They were not friendly, Rebecca knew. The invasion had finally come.

Darkness thickened but still no alarm sounded. The sentries must be asleep.

She imagined herself raising the alarm, being pardoned—a hero. She pictured the invasion force rescuing her. The calculating wheels of  self-preservation spun. She opened her mouth to scream, but still hesitated.

 


The song of the old country

I’m lying in a hospital bed after having had knee surgery, writing this on my phone. That’s right: nothing stops me from doing Friday Fictioneers!

image

The Song of the Old Country

“At first it was a scuffle, and then a big kerfuffle. How we all did grieve when we had to leave.”

Grandpa’s songs always started like that. Then he would sing about the paradise of the old country before the war.

Grandpa’s light-hearted songs could not prepare me for the reality. Even as an adult and wearing a radiation suit, my eyes filled with tears as I looked out over the blighted wasteland.

I turned to go when a flash of green caught my eye. A clump of clover had burst from the poisonous ground. Grandpa’s old country was returning.


Homecoming – Friday Fictioneers

Copyright D Lovering

Copyright D Lovering

Homecoming

The whole town was there, standing in hushed anticipation for the return of Senor Najera’s son from the war.

“He was wounded,” someone whispered. “Hit by the enemy’s new weapon.”

The ship approached, the gangplank descended, and Mateo Najera appeared. The crowd gasped.

The rags of the once-proud army uniform were stretched over the misshapen, hulking figure that shambled off. One huge eye lolled at them, roaming witlessly.

Senora Najera tore from her husband’s restraint. “Stop!” he shouted. “What if he’s contagious?”

“He’s still my baby,” she said and ran to embrace him until her tears wet his festering skin.

 


All Wrung Out

This story deals with somewhat disturbing material. Just a heads up. It’s a story for Al Forbes’ Sunday Photo Fiction. A bit over the word limit, but please forgive me this time.

All Wrung Out

I feel wrung out, with a soul like an old dishrag, flapping in the burning wind. But you gotta keep on, so I flip a smile, crack a joke and pretend. We all do.

“We got a drill hole on 10th Avenue,” Marc calls. “A real slip-n-slide.”

“And here I forgot my bathing suit,” I say, climbing into the truck.

There are no survivors, of course. The laser beam drilled a perfect hole down through the 20-story building, gutting it and disintegrating everything in its path. Nobody calls us when there are survivors, only when there is “organic material” to clean up. I don’t mind the “organic material”; it’s picking up the body parts I can recognize that gets to me. Nobody said war was pretty.

“Do you ever wish one of those lasers would get us?” Marc asks that evening. “Just erase the memories and nightmares forever.”

“What, and leave this dream job?” I say, laughing and taking a swig of beer.

He looks at me with pain in his eyes, pleading silently for me to be serious, just once. But I can’t do it, because I feel so thin inside that if I stop smiling, I’ll shatter.

I’m just all wrung out.


Redoubtable Writing

cognitive articles for intellectual writers

Lady Jabberwocky

Write with Heart

Fatima Fakier

| Self-actualisation | Achieve your potential

The Pinay Ajumma

just sharing

The Green-Walled Treehouse

Explore . Imagine . Create

One Minute Office Magic

Learning new Microsoft Office tricks in "just a minute"

lightsleeperbutheavydreamer

Just grin and bear it awhile :)

Linda's Bible Study

Come study God's Word with me!

Haden Clark

Better conversations toward a better tomorrow.

Citizen Tom

Welcome to Conservative commentary and Christian prayers from Gainesville, Virginia. That's OUTSIDE the Beltway.

The Green-Walled Chapel

Writings on Faith, Religion and Philosophy

To Be A Magician

A fiction blog of funny and dark stories

My music canvas

you + me + music

Eve In Korea

My Adventures As An ESL Teacher In South Korea

Luna's Writing Journal

A Place for my Fiction

Bikurgurl

Traveler, Writer, Eclectic Unschooly Mama, Postcrosser, Cancer Survivor,Crafter, Gardener, & Voracious Reader, sharing bits of my life at Bikurgurl.com {pronouns: she/her/hers}

Upper Iowa University

Center for International Education

Here's To Being Human

Living life as a human

jenacidebybibliophile

Book Reviewer and Blogger

yuxianadventure

kitten loves the world

Strolling South America

10 countries, 675 days, 38,540km

It's All in Finding the Right Words

The Eternal Search to Find One's Self: Flash Fiction and Beyond

Reflections Of Life's Journey

Lessons, Joys, Blessings, Friendships, Heartaches, Hardships , Special Moments

A Writer's Path

Sharing writing tips, information, and advice.

Chris Green Stories

The Best Short Stories on the Internet

Finding Myself Through Writing

Writing Habits of Elle Knowles - Author

BEAUTIFUL WORDS

Inspiring mental health through creative arts and friendly interactions. (Award free blog)

TALES FROM THE MOTHERLAND

Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!

Unmapped Country within Us

Emily Livingstone, Author

Silkpurseproductions's Blog

The art of making a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

BJ Writes

My online repository for works in progress

wordsandotherthings.wordpress.com/

she is confidence in shadows.

Musings on Life & Experience

Poetry, Fiction, & Non-Fiction Writings

Outside The Lines

Fun readings about Color, Art and Segmation!

obBLOGato

a Photo Blog, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to dear dirty New York

Björn Rudbergs writings

Poetry and fiction by a physicist from the dark side

SightsnBytes

A.K.A. Ted White

WordDreams...

Jacqui Murray's

The Day After

Musings, Photography, Writing, and More

%d bloggers like this: