Writing Exercise
Holly Golightly
Dear Holly, You’re quite the girl, but how would you like it if began calling you Lula Mae? Isn’t that what Fred calls you? It seems only fitting that if you’re to call me Fred instead of Paul (especially creepy now that he’s dead), I should call you Lula Mae. Barnes, is it?
By Harper Lewisabout 19 hours ago in Writers
Why You Should Edit Your Own Manuscript Before Paying an Expensive Editor
Finishing a manuscript is a huge achievement. It takes patience, discipline, imagination, and more emotional energy than most people realize. But once the first draft is done, many writers run into the same fear: *What now?*
By Mark Senegalabout 23 hours ago in Writers
Fetching
Dear Jack, I enjoy climbing hills with you, really I do. It’s so much fun running with the empty pail swinging by its handle with each step, and the fetching of the water from the well is also pleasurable for me, watching your biceps and triceps flex as you turn the hoist to raise the bucket. All of this is great fun.
By Harper Lewisa day ago in Writers
Digital Graveyard Confessions
I used to pour my morning coffee, open my laptop, and genuinely trust the words staring back at me. Now, I sip my brew with a heavy dose of suspicion. I am being haunted. Not by spirits, but by soulless algorithms masquerading as articles written by ChatGPT otherwise referred as journalists that often name me in them for ranking. I am featured rich, poor, an aggresor or a victim depending who has written it.
By Narghiza Ergashovaa day ago in Writers
The Furry Thief
That damn squirrel stole my sandwich again, leaving only crumbs and a note demanding “get better bread.” I tried reasoning with him, but he brought lawyers, three chipmunks in tiny suits. They won the case. Now I’m legally required to provide lunch, snacks, and emotional support nuts.
By Sara Wilsona day ago in Writers
My Favorite Number, 47, Should Be Yours Too
I am NUMBER 47 - don’t ever forget. I want to be 48 too, and my team is working on that. 47’s not my age. Lord, I am almost twice that number, and healthier than any before me. The BEST. That’s me. Donald J. Trump. I’m Number 47.
By Andrea Corwin 2 days ago in Writers
The Last Bite
Dad brought home extra meat and said it was cheap. It tasted fine, just sweeter than usual. A week later, missing posters went up. Last night, I found a fingernail in my steak. I heard footsteps upstairs, and he whispered, “Did you finish everything on your plate?”
By Tim Carmichael2 days ago in Writers
Prodigal Daughter
Muscles tensed. Stomach clenched. An involuntary regurgitation sweetened and seared her mouth. Watery eyes blinked. She knocked, too softly. She could run. The intercom hissed. Pounding blood drowned the words. The door swung open. For the first time in years, she breathed the aroma of mother's cooking.
By Rebekah Conard2 days ago in Writers
