Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Outside of a dingy pub stands a solitary swing.
    The wind gently tug on its ropes making it move ever so slightly.
    It stands there in the rain. It stands there in the sun.
    Under the white innocence of powder snow and under the dully yellow oversight of the streetlamps.

    The ropes and plank always held that void with its levitated smile.
    Offering me company when my wish to go home had been answered with a popsicle.
    And those nights we sat in the solidarity that springs from being the sole inhabitants of that space and time.
    Blanketed in the fluorescent darkness of the night, and the warm voices from beyond the door to the pub.

    Time did as time does.
    That which were, stopped being.
    The pub closed its doors.
    The swing got taken down.
    I grew up.

    But at the apex of my prefrontal cortex.
    That swing stands, still.
    Smiling and solitary.
    In gentle motion from the tugs of a calm wind.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.