December 9, at 5: Canicot told me, when we were sitting in his grove last summer, and the smoke from his wooden pipe and that from the fire were twisting like lovers up toward the blue bowl of the night sky. The old druid, mistletoe in his hair and eyes like caves, stared straight ahead through the flames, his voice rising and falling like the rapids in a young river.
Submit Go For the last fifteen years, Backhand Stories has published new short storiesflash fiction, non-fiction and essays by new and unpublished writers. The blog is currently on an indefinite hiatus, but will continue highlighting the many pieces that have been published over this time.
Please read them, enjoy and share! It started when my wife, Connie, decided it was time to have a baby. I was thirty-one and she was twenty-eight, a circumstance which I reminded her in my argument against the idea was no cause for alarm.
Finally, after several months, my reluctance to enlist in her project compelled her to resort to a not so veiled threat: She straightened, tucked, folded every size from infant to eight.
He was standing on the first tee taking practice swings. Larry skidded our cart to a stop near the ball washer. I stepped out of the cart drew my driver out of my bag.
I can go there any time I want… without moving a muscle. All I do is look to the sky and make myself believe that it is the sky above a beach in the Bahamas. I looked out over the city of Fairview.
No skyscrapers, no busied traffic, no flashy suits or crowded sidewalks. It was a small city that rested between the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. It was early in the morning. Clouds gathered up behind the mountains at this time and then bled out extraordinary storms in the afternoon.
The lightning was the worst, but that was just my opinion, I had a terrible fear of it. In ghettos street gangs with guns — pop! The tar surface was hot and soft to the touch, and he liked the smell of it.
There were no cars on the road. Only three people in the whole street owned a car, and they were away somewhere, probably at work, he supposed.
He closed his eyes, and the world became orange. He thought of his dog, Bonzo, who was orange and white. Certainly this part of the world, a bus stop near a doughnut-and-coffee place, its walls sticky red in the sun, with its pool tables and Pacheco.
It was where T. V judges passing sentence inaudibly in the background made sense.Explore the entire process of writing creative nonfiction, from brainstorming for the perfect idea to getting your final product noticed by literary agents and publishers.
This course will prove that creative nonfiction can be mastered. Creative writing exercise: what is the story behind this picture. Take a look at the image and write a mini story of not words. Forty-Four Short Story Ideas Here are lots of short story ideas that you can use as writing prompts.
Use these story starters on their own or to get ideas for the CWN online writing timberdesignmag.com'll also find links to more creative writing prompts at the bottom of the page. In her creative writing workshops British author Clare Wigfall read out the really short story „Safe“ as an example of a dystopian story, meaning a story which takes place in .
Writing Compelling Heroes Creating a hero (protagonist) for a story sounds simple. This is the person we care about, root for, want to protect. I think the main idea here is to get students to be creative and think outside the box.
Thinking of different adjectives to describe a person gets their minds going and most people need some help to begin a story.