By: [Fireheart]
Genre: Post-apocalyptic short fiction
Mod's Comment:
This month, I have learned that having to search WritersCo for excellent writings turns up some unexpected rewards. WWIII is a well-written account of a person's first few minutes outdoors after the country has been blown up. The pace and rhythm of the prose, paired with vivid descriptions, hold the reader's attention. This piece's powerful wording and frightening imagery are too much for the characters to handle:

I was too numb to be afraid anymore. I lay awake in the safest place in our house- the closet beneath the stairs. For three days the ground had shook and hell had broken loose in the world around us. From the light streaming around the door, I knew at least half of my house was gone....
To see more, go to 318.Short Stories.WWIII

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Tears on my windows
heaven cries her song.
Of the opponent of moons
which hasn't shown for long.
Arguing clowds
shred the silent sky

I'm trapped at home
in summer

*deep sigh*


Mod's Comments: I'm sorry if my review isn't as detailed as usual this time, but all I could think of was, "beautiful". Now go rate it! And for fun, try linking the English wording to the original Dutch. 30.Poetry.Regenlied or Rainsong

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By [mousepoet]
Genre: General Prose

It's not very often that I consider what kind of sock I would be. Thus, Mousey begins this unique peice with a fitting statement: If I was a sock, I would never be matched. Indeed, our narrator's humble tone and vivid description establish a glorious mood, to tell us that whoever you are, you'd better be the best you that you can be.

Read it at 243.If I were a sock

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By [Eleanor]
Genre: Short Fantasy

If you find yourself getting too comfortable in a daily routine, perhaps you should consider making some new friends. You could pick up some great stories from them, or even learn about a new culture. As you can see, Mrs. Primpkin had no inkling of the surprises in store for her:

... Mr. and Mrs. Zwierszowski, are quite normal seeming at first glance, an elderly couple, gray-haired, kindly looking. They put their garbage and recycling bins on the curb every Wednesday just like everyone else does.

However, last summer I started to think maybe I was missing something. Going for my evening stroll as I usually did up to the end of the street and back down again, I heard a strange sound coming from the Zwierszowskis’ place. At first I thought it was the wind soughing through the pines before realizing that the air was particularly still that evening. I stopped and tried to pinpoint what it was I was hearing. It was definitely coming from the weathered wooden house next to the woods, and the more I listened, the more it sounded like music, like the singing of many voices, high and eerie, beautiful and ethereal.

Want to know what she was hearing? Read more of [Eleanor]'s elegant prose at 668.Prose.My neighbours, the Zwierszowskis.

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