Fiction Commons^™

Excerpts

Manuscripts

Excerpts of unknown authorship.

Dictator, Rachel Whelan

Manuscripts

We stood between the giant columns of the mighty triumphal arch high above the riotous crowd of rejoicing people. Three of us, the spokesman, Comrade Jones, and I, stood on the decorated platform waiting for the cheering to cease, for the bands to stop playing, for some semblance of order so that the ceremony might begin.

Soliloquy At Dusk, Bob Harris

Manuscripts

Turn low the lights

Half shut the shutters

Seek out the comfort

Of your favorite easy chair

And there

In the intermingled mists

Of lights and shadows

I shall relate to you

The Story

Of Robert Lee

Pity The Poor Artists, William E. Hickson

Manuscripts

Sometime, when I have a few years to spare, I am going to run down the fable that has grown up around artists. I always wondered just when and where the idea started that artists were a people set apart, not just a section of our race in general. Being an artist myself, I resent both the idealism and the degradation that the world has endowed upon this simple everyday man who has chosen art as a profession.

Flames Along The Thames, Richard H. Jowitt

Manuscripts

A thousand flames ascend on high;

A thousand voices shouting cry,

"Oh, God, why must you now deny

our homes!"

Memory Picture, John Gumerson

Manuscripts

It is a delicate, fragile picture - that first memory. It must be handled carefully like an important aged document lest it crumble to dust. Swiftly, silently it must be viewed, for too much revealing of it fades into an obscure mist which defies definite outline. Yet transparent it stands - that Christmas of my fourth year.

The Life Of A Pledge, Betty Lee Snyder

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Rush week, came, and after the whirl

I emerged a sorority girl

(Oh no-I mean a potential one--

My year as a pledge has just begun).

Lights Out, Thelma De Boer

Manuscripts

One night two lightning bugs were resting on the same twig. The first lightning bug introduced himself and started the conversation.

The Feel Of The Soil, Norma Jackson

Manuscripts

When we arose, the sun had not yet begun to send its warmth through the rich brown earth of this southern Indiana farm. However, we were to plant potatoes and had a big day ahead. Soon the equipment was ready, and off I ran beside the horses, loving every particle of soft, red dust that played between the toes of my bare, brown feet. The road to the field was covered with this powdery, fine dust. It was my childhood obsession to make footprints, handprints, and pictures in it.

Woodland, Northern Michigan, John Bundy

Manuscripts

Illustration by John Bundy courtesy of the John Herron Art Museum.

Landscape, Willard L. Metcalf

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Illustration by Willard L. Metcalf courtesy of the John Herron Art Museum.

Rhapsodically Speaking, Alice Jean Fisher

Manuscripts

Like timid pizzicatos riding a sustained legato, the cricket sounds outside my window are cradling themselves in the fused night noises. Rising in gentle crescendos above them are waves of wind; now they waken the leaves; soft bits of breeze sift through screen and curtain to move a curl across my cheek - shyly, like a child fearfully touching a dog; and shyly too, retire till the now tremulous vibrato of the crickets plays the nocturnal solo once more. The wind mounts again. It throbs against these brick walls; rudely musses my hair, disturbing my thoughts; the sleeper on the …

Gardenia Memories, R. Gordon Moores

Manuscripts

A dazzling stream of golden morning sunlight slants between claret coloured drapes to touch three gardenias on a mahogany dressing table.

The Forbidden Fruit, Catherine Cunningham

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There are few people who have not known the thrill of "tasting the forbidden fruit." The desire to indulge in this exciting adventure is usually at its height when one is about fourteen, at least, in my experience it was especially pressing at that age. One of the "fruits" forbidden by my father and mother was flying; so, quite naturally, I began to "scout around" for someone to take me up. My father had always said that he would never fly until it was absolutely necessary, and mother argued that as far as she was concerned it would never be …

Combat, Jack Retherford

Manuscripts

The place was a small clearing in a forest in British Columbia. The contenders were two buck deer of about the same build, but one was younger than the other. The time was early morning, and the prize at stake was a herd of four does.

Marbles, Ione Colligan

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Jerry thought a moment. Then "I can't remember any memory verse from last Thunday. If I'm not absent any Thunday this quarter, will I get a bag of marbles?"

Trite, Alfred Brown

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"Everything is trite; nothing is new." Such is the expression of opinion I have heard in regard to all written and spoken thought - barring science. Who told that to me? Was it Miss Beuret? Have I heard it or read it from some other source? Never mind, the opinion probably is true.

The Sisters, Jeanne Gass

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"Kathy! Kathy! There's horses down there. Right down there by the river!" Pete came running, red pig-tails flying. Her old brown coat was slipping off one shoulder, her rolled stockings were drooping, and she was breathless with running and the excitement of her news. "There're right down there."

Two Poems, Mary Wiley

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Two poems: "Realism" and "Finale."

Favorites --- I Hate Them, Isadore Camhi

Manuscripts

It's a natural and very common prejudice, I think. Possibly you foster the same one. In me, however, it amounts to an obsession, a supreme dislike for -- favorites. It doesn't matter what kind of favorite it may be; a favorite book, a well-known actor, a famous food, a highly-touted athlete, or possibly even a favorite teacher. I'm against all of them -- before I know exactly why.