a sour crust covers the day
binding every inch with sharp edges
that punctures the hardest of skin
unseal from within unuttered solitude
deep jags of sangria and saffron
a storm travels in bending curls
settling among the sky watchers
Arise
between the worn pages
an obscured story lives
evoking eternity's magic
each branch grows
beneath layers of earnest delays
hungry and waiting
for the arms of a lover
for the embrace of dire miles
each turn a backward ending
damned with tragedies and regrets
serendipities and sweet promises
collides and blends
upon the veneer of slow descend
deep slices in chartreuse yellow
inflames and bleeds
each a fresh papercut
arising from the imagination
of a single word
Falls to the Moon
lady of the night
swims to gather her thoughts
the pleasure of dipping
into the milky white halo
bellows inside
lean arms ready to fly
pointed toes ready for liftoff
eyes dreaming together
she falls to the moon
Art by Catnapping
Salvation
The blue infinity drizzles across the city, flying amok. Like a raving lover kissing the spaces visible only to escapists and wishful dreamers, it opens its eyes and melts the sky into the horizon. In the middle of an uneven highway, a woman sits inside a small red car. She waits, unsure of what she was waiting for.
Since two in the afternoon, she has been waiting. Her imagination wanders to her son and their many camping trips. While roasting marshmallows, he told her stories that involved serial killers and cartography. He loved maps and even has his bedroom wall covered in reproductions of a 1632 map of France.
She creates partitions in her mind. Mirror images of her old self and her new self. Each separated by a couple of years. One is content with her life as a mother and wife. The other one distraught by the lost of her only child. Both selves comes from the same place and has the same appearances. But neither of them belongs to her now.
She thought salvation would be found in a new place but now sitting here in her car with her suitcases, books and circular lamps, she couldn't continue. Her mind refuses to let her escape from her own madness. Her fingers would not move from their place on the steering wheel.
Toward night, she sits, still in a trance. The rain stopped but a dense fog began to swing its way toward the city, toward her car window. She saw only a thick layer of doubt rubbing against her eyes. Through the windshield and the fog, a small yellow light appeared. She turns on the windshield wiper but it wouldn't move. The yellow light started to grow bigger and bigger. Then it duplicated. They rushed pass her - a large bus. On the side is the word, "Reality" in large black letters. She turns the handle counterclockwise to open the side window. With her head out, she saw the back of the bus with the combined words, "Reality is Green Power" - an ad for environment friendly household products. She had hoped it might be a sign telling her what to do or at least something meaningful. A few giggles slipped out of her mouth.
She fumble through her black handbag for her cell phone to call her best friend about the silly sign. But she couldn't find it. Instead her fingers glaze her leather wallet. She flip it open to the two faded photographs of her son and her husband. They looked so much alike and even have the same uneven oval eyes. Now that her son's gone, she wanted to be alone, to be away from the man whose face will always remind her of her lost. But he was always the one that comforts her, shelters her even when she sometimes pushes him away.
The fog suddenly dispersed. The wind from the opened window throws its cold arms around her body. But she don't feel cold, only the sense of being in an open space. Calmness settles over her reveries. In the beginning, she thought she wanted to escape but now she know she should try to make amends. Her fingers slowly left the wheel, moving toward the key. But the car wouldn't start. After a fifth attempt, she closes the side window and gets out, taking her handbag with her.
The highway seem so short now. Her house, now much closer than before. She feels like a feather flowing in the breeze. Somehow everything's clearer, less clouded. She left her autograph on the windshield and began to walk home.
Saturday Wordzzle Challenge: Ten Word Challenge will be: partition, imagination, salvation, mirror image, green power, highway, roasting marshmallows, serial killer, autograph, cartography
Note: I edited this a bit and hopefully it's slightly better than the first version.
Since two in the afternoon, she has been waiting. Her imagination wanders to her son and their many camping trips. While roasting marshmallows, he told her stories that involved serial killers and cartography. He loved maps and even has his bedroom wall covered in reproductions of a 1632 map of France.
She creates partitions in her mind. Mirror images of her old self and her new self. Each separated by a couple of years. One is content with her life as a mother and wife. The other one distraught by the lost of her only child. Both selves comes from the same place and has the same appearances. But neither of them belongs to her now.
She thought salvation would be found in a new place but now sitting here in her car with her suitcases, books and circular lamps, she couldn't continue. Her mind refuses to let her escape from her own madness. Her fingers would not move from their place on the steering wheel.
Toward night, she sits, still in a trance. The rain stopped but a dense fog began to swing its way toward the city, toward her car window. She saw only a thick layer of doubt rubbing against her eyes. Through the windshield and the fog, a small yellow light appeared. She turns on the windshield wiper but it wouldn't move. The yellow light started to grow bigger and bigger. Then it duplicated. They rushed pass her - a large bus. On the side is the word, "Reality" in large black letters. She turns the handle counterclockwise to open the side window. With her head out, she saw the back of the bus with the combined words, "Reality is Green Power" - an ad for environment friendly household products. She had hoped it might be a sign telling her what to do or at least something meaningful. A few giggles slipped out of her mouth.
She fumble through her black handbag for her cell phone to call her best friend about the silly sign. But she couldn't find it. Instead her fingers glaze her leather wallet. She flip it open to the two faded photographs of her son and her husband. They looked so much alike and even have the same uneven oval eyes. Now that her son's gone, she wanted to be alone, to be away from the man whose face will always remind her of her lost. But he was always the one that comforts her, shelters her even when she sometimes pushes him away.
The fog suddenly dispersed. The wind from the opened window throws its cold arms around her body. But she don't feel cold, only the sense of being in an open space. Calmness settles over her reveries. In the beginning, she thought she wanted to escape but now she know she should try to make amends. Her fingers slowly left the wheel, moving toward the key. But the car wouldn't start. After a fifth attempt, she closes the side window and gets out, taking her handbag with her.
The highway seem so short now. Her house, now much closer than before. She feels like a feather flowing in the breeze. Somehow everything's clearer, less clouded. She left her autograph on the windshield and began to walk home.
Saturday Wordzzle Challenge: Ten Word Challenge will be: partition, imagination, salvation, mirror image, green power, highway, roasting marshmallows, serial killer, autograph, cartography
Note: I edited this a bit and hopefully it's slightly better than the first version.
The Chase
An earnest delayed reaction filters out of her lips as she push pass commuters. Their reactive respond is to ignore her as she leaps by. Layers of unrecognized sounds begin to shoot through the crowded air. Exiting one train to the next, Zena follow the skyblue man, already exhausted after three hours of running. She hungers for the old days. It was easier then. She always knew the criminals' next move and they stayed human throughout the chase. These days everyone knows witchcraft and anyone can turn themselves into their desired form with a sip of a potion and a verse of a spell. Zena wished she was born 100 years earlier or at least 50 years before magic upgraded humanity.
Stepping into the last car, she hunts for spaces he might hide - in the shadows of a person or an object, inside small containers - any place he can shrink into. She duck down as a blast of blue lights rush toward her.
The skyblue man stands in the center of the train not bothering to hide. His bemused lips starts to spread increasingly high, reaching the edge of his eyes, revealing his ultra shiny gold teeth. No one else is around to witness another life lost. They always wait for her. Zena wonders if their vanity has erased their fears. It didn't make much sense to her but it did made her job easier. He continues to shoot, shouting something foreign to Zena. An immigrant. She wonders if he even knows what he has stolen. He was probably hired to do just that and nothing more. A scapegoat really, to be dispose of after the deed.
The blast from his laser offends her ears. She close her eyes and picture him - a quiet man unsure of his emotions. The noise ceased. Zena comes out from behind the orange seats and slowly walk toward him. He stands frozen, his eyes slivers of blue. There is a slight tenderness in them but his half circle smile annoys her. It wouldn't be any use to try to save him. She learned the only way to help them is to lock them up and keep them from doing any more damage.
She takes his blue weapon away and tucks it into her belt. On his left hand, a chip - the stolen item. She place it inside her coat pocket. There may be some use for it later. As she try to locate her communicator, a shot echos into her ear. She turn to see the skyblue man on the ground, blue liquid leaking out his chest wound. Another shot and he evaporated.
On the other side of the train, Agent Violet, stands with her lavender smile which irks Zena. She had hoped Agent Violet died on her last assignment when she was blown up inside a ship. Zena throws her a silent lament and waits for Agent Violet to fall asleep.
She stare at the skyblue man and sighs with regret for another life that didn't deserved to end like this. The only reason to send Agent Violet is to destroy evidence. Zena takes Agent Violet's communicator and leave the subway station. At least this time she didn't have to do any cleanup.
3WW: Earnest, Layer, Reactive
Stepping into the last car, she hunts for spaces he might hide - in the shadows of a person or an object, inside small containers - any place he can shrink into. She duck down as a blast of blue lights rush toward her.
The skyblue man stands in the center of the train not bothering to hide. His bemused lips starts to spread increasingly high, reaching the edge of his eyes, revealing his ultra shiny gold teeth. No one else is around to witness another life lost. They always wait for her. Zena wonders if their vanity has erased their fears. It didn't make much sense to her but it did made her job easier. He continues to shoot, shouting something foreign to Zena. An immigrant. She wonders if he even knows what he has stolen. He was probably hired to do just that and nothing more. A scapegoat really, to be dispose of after the deed.
The blast from his laser offends her ears. She close her eyes and picture him - a quiet man unsure of his emotions. The noise ceased. Zena comes out from behind the orange seats and slowly walk toward him. He stands frozen, his eyes slivers of blue. There is a slight tenderness in them but his half circle smile annoys her. It wouldn't be any use to try to save him. She learned the only way to help them is to lock them up and keep them from doing any more damage.
She takes his blue weapon away and tucks it into her belt. On his left hand, a chip - the stolen item. She place it inside her coat pocket. There may be some use for it later. As she try to locate her communicator, a shot echos into her ear. She turn to see the skyblue man on the ground, blue liquid leaking out his chest wound. Another shot and he evaporated.
On the other side of the train, Agent Violet, stands with her lavender smile which irks Zena. She had hoped Agent Violet died on her last assignment when she was blown up inside a ship. Zena throws her a silent lament and waits for Agent Violet to fall asleep.
She stare at the skyblue man and sighs with regret for another life that didn't deserved to end like this. The only reason to send Agent Violet is to destroy evidence. Zena takes Agent Violet's communicator and leave the subway station. At least this time she didn't have to do any cleanup.
3WW: Earnest, Layer, Reactive
6AM Departure
He let go of her small shoulders, allowing his rough fingers to trace the subtle hair on her arms. His tall shadow embrace her pale form. She purse her lips together in a stern line of determination, trying not to let the tears leave her. In her long, white t-shirt coupled with a pink skirt and purple slippers, she shiver under his warm stare.
He casually takes hold of her hands and begin to search her face for anything he might have forgotten. She only missed him once when he was on a trip to her grandmother's. Now she would miss him more when they will be separated for long periods. A thousand hugs, a thousand dulcet words cannot soothe the pain that drenched her insides.
The young morning has barely caught the sun. In the front yard, they stand almost motionless, letting the cold wind splash against their faces. She looks up at the sky, at the few clouds that gathered in the corner, softly drifting about. Then her eyes stray toward the semi-dried grass. She shifts her small feet and throws a slow kick at his left foot. He let out a tiny chuckle. Her uncombed, limp hair scatter in rays of brown. An hour ago, she rushed to get dress and ignored the mirror. She didn't want to miss seeing him before he leaves.
She glance toward the house, at her mother staring back blankly at her through the front window. Turning to her father, she heard him said she should be inside. It's too cold and where is her coat? She grin at him and wrap her arms around his waist, resting her head on his brown cotton coat. He will come back to see her. She is certain as she soaks in the scent of his aftershave and black coffee.
A light drizzle begin to sprinkle the ground in quiet, chaotic leaps. He watch for a moment as the rain colors the grass a darker hue. He wish he had taken better care of the yard and the house. There were times he could have been fixing the roof or repainting some of the peeling walls instead of spending it with his daughter. He has no regrets about that and wonders if she would miss him when he's not around as often.
A light honk breaks him away from his thoughts. He nods his head toward the waiting blue cab. The wind moves strands of her hair over her jade-colored eyes. Using his forefinger, he glides them around her ear, smoothing out the rest of her hair. She is like him in so many ways - the same eyes, the same messy strays of brown curls. Eleven years old and she is already taller than he was at that age. He is grateful the divorce was amicable. Even without much restrains, he knows he won't be visiting as much as he would like.
He brush his lips on her forehead, the way he always do when he tucks her into bed after a reading from the large book of Grimm's fairytales. Her smile becomes more visible as he walk towards the passenger side and gets into the cab. As he is being pull away, he turns around to wave to her. She runs toward him, her cheeks now a set of rosy bubbles.
He continues to smile and wave even when he can only see blurs of her through the scattering rain. The image of her standing in the vertical lines of spring fill his mind as the cab turn the corner.
Search Engine Stories: Let it go
He casually takes hold of her hands and begin to search her face for anything he might have forgotten. She only missed him once when he was on a trip to her grandmother's. Now she would miss him more when they will be separated for long periods. A thousand hugs, a thousand dulcet words cannot soothe the pain that drenched her insides.
The young morning has barely caught the sun. In the front yard, they stand almost motionless, letting the cold wind splash against their faces. She looks up at the sky, at the few clouds that gathered in the corner, softly drifting about. Then her eyes stray toward the semi-dried grass. She shifts her small feet and throws a slow kick at his left foot. He let out a tiny chuckle. Her uncombed, limp hair scatter in rays of brown. An hour ago, she rushed to get dress and ignored the mirror. She didn't want to miss seeing him before he leaves.
She glance toward the house, at her mother staring back blankly at her through the front window. Turning to her father, she heard him said she should be inside. It's too cold and where is her coat? She grin at him and wrap her arms around his waist, resting her head on his brown cotton coat. He will come back to see her. She is certain as she soaks in the scent of his aftershave and black coffee.
A light drizzle begin to sprinkle the ground in quiet, chaotic leaps. He watch for a moment as the rain colors the grass a darker hue. He wish he had taken better care of the yard and the house. There were times he could have been fixing the roof or repainting some of the peeling walls instead of spending it with his daughter. He has no regrets about that and wonders if she would miss him when he's not around as often.
A light honk breaks him away from his thoughts. He nods his head toward the waiting blue cab. The wind moves strands of her hair over her jade-colored eyes. Using his forefinger, he glides them around her ear, smoothing out the rest of her hair. She is like him in so many ways - the same eyes, the same messy strays of brown curls. Eleven years old and she is already taller than he was at that age. He is grateful the divorce was amicable. Even without much restrains, he knows he won't be visiting as much as he would like.
He brush his lips on her forehead, the way he always do when he tucks her into bed after a reading from the large book of Grimm's fairytales. Her smile becomes more visible as he walk towards the passenger side and gets into the cab. As he is being pull away, he turns around to wave to her. She runs toward him, her cheeks now a set of rosy bubbles.
He continues to smile and wave even when he can only see blurs of her through the scattering rain. The image of her standing in the vertical lines of spring fill his mind as the cab turn the corner.
Search Engine Stories: Let it go
Elegy
she appears in memories ...erased
blurred excerpts inside ...an enigma
her unexpected words ...embattled
a heart enveloped in elation ...exploited
rushing down endless roads ...an escape
immoral verses sits inside ...each embrace
depletes her sanity ...a ghostly effigy
wanting to materialize ...in strands of elegies
she shadows the stars inside ...her eyelids
fighting neurotic highs ...mislaid endeavors
always yearning, but never finding ...happy endings
E is for...Elegy
Others in the series:
A is for...Alone
B is for...Ballad
C is for...Clouds
D is for...Damaged
Days Like These
Jacky wants to join the choral society, to belong to the pluralism of familiar faces and friendly voices but his shy ways and his non-vocal attitude pushes those thoughts to the back of his mind. At fifteen, finding his personhood is sometimes like climbing mountains that hasn't risen yet. The cruel humanity he has to confront every day at school, the malicious insults that ricochets from those boys without shame in showing off their underwear of choice, often cause Jacky to hide in the shadows of sugar treats and large books of mathematics. If he feels especially low, he reads from the books to keep the tears from surfacing. Inside his large figure, he disguise his lonely heart underneath a coat of silence and calmness. Somehow a blue ink spot seem to be on all on his shirts but he can never remembered where they came from. He used to help out at his father's printing press shop but always kept his shirt clean. He wonders if it means there's something wrong or maybe some magical force has done it.
Three times a week, Jacky visits the local library on Broken Butterfly street. He ignores the best sellers and go straight toward the back to the science fiction section. His fat fingers gracefully holds hardcovers full of heroines and heroes, inner demons and kingdoms of doom. Their faces echoes his imagination of a far better world. In his head, he is one of them battling dragons and evil warlords. He take names of his favorite characters and writes them in a small booklet. On rainy days when he can't get to the library or if he have no books to read, he would go through the list and imagine what the characters would be doing if they were here. Days like these, he knew, won't come again, not in this form or any other form. He cherish his time with those who knows him best.
Saturday wordzzle challenge - This Week's Ten Word Challenge: humanity, shadow, ricochet, wrong, pluralism, mathematics, personhood, printing press, ink spot, choral society
Mini Challenge: kingdom, take names, best seller, three times, inner demons
Three times a week, Jacky visits the local library on Broken Butterfly street. He ignores the best sellers and go straight toward the back to the science fiction section. His fat fingers gracefully holds hardcovers full of heroines and heroes, inner demons and kingdoms of doom. Their faces echoes his imagination of a far better world. In his head, he is one of them battling dragons and evil warlords. He take names of his favorite characters and writes them in a small booklet. On rainy days when he can't get to the library or if he have no books to read, he would go through the list and imagine what the characters would be doing if they were here. Days like these, he knew, won't come again, not in this form or any other form. He cherish his time with those who knows him best.
Saturday wordzzle challenge - This Week's Ten Word Challenge: humanity, shadow, ricochet, wrong, pluralism, mathematics, personhood, printing press, ink spot, choral society
Mini Challenge: kingdom, take names, best seller, three times, inner demons
Mend
Wearing a long cape, hiding her head inside a hood, Ella watches her feet housed in brown slippers as they go back and forth creating an elongated line, swift and knowing. Under the blue dawn's light, she saw the small cottage not far from her. Vibrant yellow glows brightly from the few round windows.
Ella ascends the stone steps and paused at the entrance. Up above she studied the sign, "Beauty Cures," in large, black serif letters with decorative dark curls framing it. She hopes it can be fix.
The bell rang softly against the thick, wooden door. Ella was surprised by the wide spaces and the wondrous feeling of being inside a cocoon of paradise. White curtains decorated the walls with floral patterns cut across them. The rows of soft yellow pillows on top of ligneous chairs matched the lit candles on the center of the table covered with a white cloth and beads of multiple colors hung around the edges. The gentle whisper of a flute flows quietly from a boy sitting in the corner.
A maiden with long, brown braids down to her knees, greeted Ella with a curl of her scarlet lips. She stretched out her arm clothed in smooth, tan fabric, around Ella's shoulder and leads Ella through a baroque door and into a small room with a singular round window framed by thin white cloths. She can see the sky, still navy and dark. The sun hasn't risen yet. But the warmth that surrounds her brings a bit of relief. Her chores will have to wait.
The maiden whose name is Rebecca, instructed Ella to sit on the white chaise in the center of the room before disappearing. Ella felt the silky cushion as she sat down. An old man dressed in an elegant suit came in and quietly placed two cups of tea on the smooth table. He nodded his head at Ella before leaving. The rise of smoke from each cups shaped like circles, dance into the air.
Rebecca came back, arms full of colorful glass bottles. She advise Ella to drink the tea. The warm liquid filled her mouth and throat with sweet tenderness. It soften her mind and eased her body. Without saying a word, Rebecca gently pulls the hood off Ella's head and begins to evaluate the cluster of grey hair.
Within moments Ella was dreaming of being in the dance hall inside the arms of a handsome man while cheerful music plays. Then the clock breaks her blissful moment. Down the slippery steps, she ran, her large gown bouncing about her. She heard her name being called but kept on running. The ringing of the clock continued. She saw her carriage and the horses, not far from her, shrinking to the ground. She hurry toward them but clouds appeared. The closer she gets, the thicker the clouds became.
Ella opens her eyes to the large green ones of Rebecca's. She sat up and without much thought, she knew her hair was mended. She can feel their lighter weight. A mirror was in her hand before she ask for it. The color was now her original blonde and looks even shinier than before. Strands of smooth curls framed her oval face with soft waves. When she combs through them with her fingers, she cannot help but feel dreamy.
Darkness has covered the sky when Ella steps out of the cottage. She can see the moon hugging the few clouds that gathered. When her godmother appeared to Ella, she did not believed her and asked her to prove her magic. She turned Ella's hair into a bundle of hay at first, then a blue pumpkin and towards the end of the evening, it was nothing but grey strands. Ella watched as her godmother cried herself into a puddle of liquid blues and only turned back when Ella's bird friend told them where to go. Tonight Ella is not going to attend the ball. She hopes her godmother would understand. As she slowly make her way home, she dreams of becoming a beautician.
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Beauty
Ella ascends the stone steps and paused at the entrance. Up above she studied the sign, "Beauty Cures," in large, black serif letters with decorative dark curls framing it. She hopes it can be fix.
The bell rang softly against the thick, wooden door. Ella was surprised by the wide spaces and the wondrous feeling of being inside a cocoon of paradise. White curtains decorated the walls with floral patterns cut across them. The rows of soft yellow pillows on top of ligneous chairs matched the lit candles on the center of the table covered with a white cloth and beads of multiple colors hung around the edges. The gentle whisper of a flute flows quietly from a boy sitting in the corner.
A maiden with long, brown braids down to her knees, greeted Ella with a curl of her scarlet lips. She stretched out her arm clothed in smooth, tan fabric, around Ella's shoulder and leads Ella through a baroque door and into a small room with a singular round window framed by thin white cloths. She can see the sky, still navy and dark. The sun hasn't risen yet. But the warmth that surrounds her brings a bit of relief. Her chores will have to wait.
The maiden whose name is Rebecca, instructed Ella to sit on the white chaise in the center of the room before disappearing. Ella felt the silky cushion as she sat down. An old man dressed in an elegant suit came in and quietly placed two cups of tea on the smooth table. He nodded his head at Ella before leaving. The rise of smoke from each cups shaped like circles, dance into the air.
Rebecca came back, arms full of colorful glass bottles. She advise Ella to drink the tea. The warm liquid filled her mouth and throat with sweet tenderness. It soften her mind and eased her body. Without saying a word, Rebecca gently pulls the hood off Ella's head and begins to evaluate the cluster of grey hair.
Within moments Ella was dreaming of being in the dance hall inside the arms of a handsome man while cheerful music plays. Then the clock breaks her blissful moment. Down the slippery steps, she ran, her large gown bouncing about her. She heard her name being called but kept on running. The ringing of the clock continued. She saw her carriage and the horses, not far from her, shrinking to the ground. She hurry toward them but clouds appeared. The closer she gets, the thicker the clouds became.
Ella opens her eyes to the large green ones of Rebecca's. She sat up and without much thought, she knew her hair was mended. She can feel their lighter weight. A mirror was in her hand before she ask for it. The color was now her original blonde and looks even shinier than before. Strands of smooth curls framed her oval face with soft waves. When she combs through them with her fingers, she cannot help but feel dreamy.
Darkness has covered the sky when Ella steps out of the cottage. She can see the moon hugging the few clouds that gathered. When her godmother appeared to Ella, she did not believed her and asked her to prove her magic. She turned Ella's hair into a bundle of hay at first, then a blue pumpkin and towards the end of the evening, it was nothing but grey strands. Ella watched as her godmother cried herself into a puddle of liquid blues and only turned back when Ella's bird friend told them where to go. Tonight Ella is not going to attend the ball. She hopes her godmother would understand. As she slowly make her way home, she dreams of becoming a beautician.
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Beauty
Undying Flame
Photo by Ghost Particles from his Rain Forests Series at Flickr
a slice of white rift
a flicker of gentle awe
upon tiny fingers
flawless and vulnerable
the evening unfurls
eyes open to meet the sky
to catch from below
a star's undying flame
The Mad Pedestrian
She arranged her blue hair in two rows of long feathers. Her dark eyes marooned on black eyeliners that she drew on in front of the muddy bathroom mirror in the subway station. On good days, she waver about like a night bird looking for a home. Her mock wings swings in ubiquitous sparks. Her dress made from paper and cotton drools on the floor as she walks dragging a black trash bag of belongings.
On days when worries carries her mind to unfamiliar places, she visits the house of saints and pray for guidance. Coming out to face the bright sunlight, she catches the warmth of a stranger's smile. It quickly vanished. But she didn't mind it. She has already caught it and locked it in her mind before they can take it away.
In the isolation of her tender head, she feels the burden of everyday people rushing by her without giving her a glance. It's a natural state that sometimes turns her into a mad pedestrian. She would start screaming hokum to their stoney faces just to keep her brain from falling asleep. And then suddenly everything goes away and calmness clears a path to a positive thought.
On the dirty subway floors, she sometimes lays on her back and think of what she might do to make her day less gloomy. Many commuters passes her by but she wouldn't move until a subway worker usher her to leave. She greets them with teeth of black gums and misplaced meals. But they never smiles back. Their discomfort slips out from under their frowns. As they walk away, she would mutter insults to their backs trying to provoke a reaction but they never turn around, not even to shut her up.
She was once a fairy, a sweet charmer with magical means. Now her wings are used and tattered, unable to take her anywhere far. During nights, she walks through the city of sullen lights with a small wand in one hand and a dirty paper cup in the other. But she never begs or steals. She works for her keepings, granting wishes to those who needs them. Mothers with small children veer away from her and fathers glance her way with a chortle. Teenagers fascinated by her fairytale clothing and dirty tear-stained face would stop and chat with her. Of what? She could never remember but she knew they were important conversations that triggered their young minds and merged their thoughts with hers. She wonder as she recall their raw faces of the life they might lead, of what they will become. A lawyer, a teacher or perhaps a giver of life. But they soon leave her thoughts and becomes a bit of foggy impression seal inside other muses.
There are no memories stored inside her mind that aren't bruised or stolen. Sometimes when she looks at the twinkling lights, her mind would go to a place with silver fences around a building of pink and white. She would see a woman with beautiful brown eyes and perfect manicured hands laughing about with young children, sending them off with large lollipops. On her white coat, a pin of a fairy made of silver and gold - a gift from long ago. The walls adorned images of winged figures in a forest of everlasting greens. Then everything fades into black and she wakes up underground next to the train tracks. But no matter the day, that image never completely disappears even when she takes in too much liquor.
3WW: Burden, Natural, Ubiquitous
On days when worries carries her mind to unfamiliar places, she visits the house of saints and pray for guidance. Coming out to face the bright sunlight, she catches the warmth of a stranger's smile. It quickly vanished. But she didn't mind it. She has already caught it and locked it in her mind before they can take it away.
In the isolation of her tender head, she feels the burden of everyday people rushing by her without giving her a glance. It's a natural state that sometimes turns her into a mad pedestrian. She would start screaming hokum to their stoney faces just to keep her brain from falling asleep. And then suddenly everything goes away and calmness clears a path to a positive thought.
On the dirty subway floors, she sometimes lays on her back and think of what she might do to make her day less gloomy. Many commuters passes her by but she wouldn't move until a subway worker usher her to leave. She greets them with teeth of black gums and misplaced meals. But they never smiles back. Their discomfort slips out from under their frowns. As they walk away, she would mutter insults to their backs trying to provoke a reaction but they never turn around, not even to shut her up.
She was once a fairy, a sweet charmer with magical means. Now her wings are used and tattered, unable to take her anywhere far. During nights, she walks through the city of sullen lights with a small wand in one hand and a dirty paper cup in the other. But she never begs or steals. She works for her keepings, granting wishes to those who needs them. Mothers with small children veer away from her and fathers glance her way with a chortle. Teenagers fascinated by her fairytale clothing and dirty tear-stained face would stop and chat with her. Of what? She could never remember but she knew they were important conversations that triggered their young minds and merged their thoughts with hers. She wonder as she recall their raw faces of the life they might lead, of what they will become. A lawyer, a teacher or perhaps a giver of life. But they soon leave her thoughts and becomes a bit of foggy impression seal inside other muses.
There are no memories stored inside her mind that aren't bruised or stolen. Sometimes when she looks at the twinkling lights, her mind would go to a place with silver fences around a building of pink and white. She would see a woman with beautiful brown eyes and perfect manicured hands laughing about with young children, sending them off with large lollipops. On her white coat, a pin of a fairy made of silver and gold - a gift from long ago. The walls adorned images of winged figures in a forest of everlasting greens. Then everything fades into black and she wakes up underground next to the train tracks. But no matter the day, that image never completely disappears even when she takes in too much liquor.
3WW: Burden, Natural, Ubiquitous
The Walls
The walls, they got plans for me. I hear them in the night discussing when and where. Their blurred voices flicker in the yellow moonlight.
Today, they seem to be closer. I can smell their rain stained surface covered with silent fingerprints. And I can almost feel the cold coming through their pores. I shiver at the thought of their intentions.
The quiet night hours are blurring with the day, hiding the in-betweens. I listen to the sound of sleepers, cuddled in their warm beds. They don't know. They can't hear what's going on. Their dreams are too loud, too expansive.
Some days I can almost dream the same way. Other days, the noise of the walls claims my every thought. I wait for the day I don't hear them. I'll be part of their world, part of them. For now I linger in the in-between. A few steps is all I need to separate myself from them.
Today, they seem to be closer. I can smell their rain stained surface covered with silent fingerprints. And I can almost feel the cold coming through their pores. I shiver at the thought of their intentions.
The quiet night hours are blurring with the day, hiding the in-betweens. I listen to the sound of sleepers, cuddled in their warm beds. They don't know. They can't hear what's going on. Their dreams are too loud, too expansive.
Some days I can almost dream the same way. Other days, the noise of the walls claims my every thought. I wait for the day I don't hear them. I'll be part of their world, part of them. For now I linger in the in-between. A few steps is all I need to separate myself from them.
Patches of Time
He carefully strings together thoughts of her, threading each one with a large, silver needle. Then he turns them into little squares with bright color background and uneven markings. Each small patch is then loosely duct-tape to the white wall in his livingroom.
Every now and then, he makes a piece from the things she left behind. A small loose yarn from her long yellow sweater that reaches over her knees. One small circular silver earring left on the bathroom sink. A broken black ribbon that used to tie her long black hair. Her things still resides on the shelves, in the closet, and on the floors, all cluttering his apartment but he see no reason to throw any of them away.
He stare at his collection during idle hours. A large lamp shinning on them which he pretends is the sun. Usually he sits in his small white chair sometimes with his arms wrap around a heart-shaped cushion, sometimes with nothing at all. His life with her all gathered on the wall, everything she was and everything he was when she was around. He stares for hours until his eyes grows cloudy and only eyedrops can clear his view. He wished he knew what caused her to leave but the answer never came.
The city has been covered in a hazy mist for a while now. He remember the day he woke up to find the buildings had disappeared into the sky. He wondered then if it was always there or perhaps it came after she left. Now he looks out the window the moment he open his eyes just to see if it has cleared. His view obscured by her absence has very little room for him to see his way outside. He immediately thought of getting a dog but then he remember she's allergic and didn't want to risk it.
In his sleep, he never dreams but when he wakes up he suspect that he did dream and that the dreams left him to go to someone else, someone who she is with now. He imagine whoever it is must know how to make spaghetti the way she likes it - soft on the inside but with a touch of hardness on the outside. He must know she hates milk and not just because she is lactose intolerant but because she simply cannot look at milk even inside a solid cup. He also must have a clean shirt ready in case she wants to wear it or have him wear it if they happen to go out.
He wonder about her and whether she gets enough sleep or if she still walks around with just a tshirt in the middle of winter. She never listens to him not even for the smallest things. Her eyes would stare directly into his, forcing him to change his mind and even if he might be right, she refuse to be told what to do. He let it go when she gets that way. It wouldn't do any good to argue with her.
He keeps his black suit neatly pressed hanging in the closet waiting for the day she would call. If he is prepare than they wouldn't lose any time. The first time he was late for a dinner date, his hair was a mess and sweat was all over his face. She took one look and broke up with him on the spot. It took a while to cool her temper but he cajoled her into taking him back.
From than on, he purposely set his watch twenty minutes ahead but he was still late. So he added ten minutes more each time he was late. The day she left, he was already ten hours ahead but somehow got home late. He saw a piece of her white blouse as she got into a cab. He yelled her name but she didn't respond. The cab took off but he ran after it and even turned two corners but it never stopped.
She left a short note tagged to the fridge door. Just a few words of apology and some reclusive thoughts he couldn't make out. She barely signed her name properly. If he didn't recognize her sloppy penmanship, he would have thought it was from someone else. The note still sits crumbled in the wastebasket by his bed. He takes it out sometimes to read it and always gets a different message due to her bad handwriting. He would make a piece of what he thought it says and stuck it to the wall. Some day he hope to find the note's real meaning.
3WW: Cajole, Recluse, Temper
Every now and then, he makes a piece from the things she left behind. A small loose yarn from her long yellow sweater that reaches over her knees. One small circular silver earring left on the bathroom sink. A broken black ribbon that used to tie her long black hair. Her things still resides on the shelves, in the closet, and on the floors, all cluttering his apartment but he see no reason to throw any of them away.
He stare at his collection during idle hours. A large lamp shinning on them which he pretends is the sun. Usually he sits in his small white chair sometimes with his arms wrap around a heart-shaped cushion, sometimes with nothing at all. His life with her all gathered on the wall, everything she was and everything he was when she was around. He stares for hours until his eyes grows cloudy and only eyedrops can clear his view. He wished he knew what caused her to leave but the answer never came.
The city has been covered in a hazy mist for a while now. He remember the day he woke up to find the buildings had disappeared into the sky. He wondered then if it was always there or perhaps it came after she left. Now he looks out the window the moment he open his eyes just to see if it has cleared. His view obscured by her absence has very little room for him to see his way outside. He immediately thought of getting a dog but then he remember she's allergic and didn't want to risk it.
In his sleep, he never dreams but when he wakes up he suspect that he did dream and that the dreams left him to go to someone else, someone who she is with now. He imagine whoever it is must know how to make spaghetti the way she likes it - soft on the inside but with a touch of hardness on the outside. He must know she hates milk and not just because she is lactose intolerant but because she simply cannot look at milk even inside a solid cup. He also must have a clean shirt ready in case she wants to wear it or have him wear it if they happen to go out.
He wonder about her and whether she gets enough sleep or if she still walks around with just a tshirt in the middle of winter. She never listens to him not even for the smallest things. Her eyes would stare directly into his, forcing him to change his mind and even if he might be right, she refuse to be told what to do. He let it go when she gets that way. It wouldn't do any good to argue with her.
He keeps his black suit neatly pressed hanging in the closet waiting for the day she would call. If he is prepare than they wouldn't lose any time. The first time he was late for a dinner date, his hair was a mess and sweat was all over his face. She took one look and broke up with him on the spot. It took a while to cool her temper but he cajoled her into taking him back.
From than on, he purposely set his watch twenty minutes ahead but he was still late. So he added ten minutes more each time he was late. The day she left, he was already ten hours ahead but somehow got home late. He saw a piece of her white blouse as she got into a cab. He yelled her name but she didn't respond. The cab took off but he ran after it and even turned two corners but it never stopped.
She left a short note tagged to the fridge door. Just a few words of apology and some reclusive thoughts he couldn't make out. She barely signed her name properly. If he didn't recognize her sloppy penmanship, he would have thought it was from someone else. The note still sits crumbled in the wastebasket by his bed. He takes it out sometimes to read it and always gets a different message due to her bad handwriting. He would make a piece of what he thought it says and stuck it to the wall. Some day he hope to find the note's real meaning.
3WW: Cajole, Recluse, Temper
Sleeping For Tomorrow
Underneath the cold, blue sheets, she lay awake listening to the analog clock ticking its slow minutes through the air like a long forgotten dream. In the semi-darkness, she watch the shadows shift as moonlight drifts across the walls and ceiling. She turn to her side when she heard her neighbor's truck coming near and as the engine dies down, as he slowly drags his feet to his front steps, she wonders if he had a good day at work.
The number two on the digital alarm clock glowed so brightly, she wonders how she ever get to sleep. And why does she still keep his cartoonish analog clock? He never did trust her digital, always double checking with his. She cannot remember why she keeps them side by side, only that she couldn't break the habit.
Only 2 a.m. How was that possible? She was in bed by midnight and now only two hours had passed? Is this a joke? Is this how her life will be? Crawling slowly by while nothing happens? She rolls over and screams into her pillow.
The changing of three to four didn't changed her mood or her restless mind. Her body aches but she cannot find the sleep that she yearns for. The last few weeks just keeps turning over and over in her head. If things were different, would she still be here laying in this bed thinking about it? Would she still have wished she was the other woman?
She turn to her left side, facing the window that leads to her neighbor's rose garden. It was dried and covered for the winter but she can still imagine how it looked just a few months ago when roses of various colors and shapes decorated the yard. When a few managed to crawl over her fence, her neighbor allowed her to cut them for her. She was delighted and surprised when the old woman gave her a dozen pink roses the next day.
For a moment, she can hear music, a rhythm that glides through her drowsy head. A slow dance by the water on a boat, the two of them wrapped together. Her cheeks rest on the collar of his neck. His lips blushing her forehead. A gentle glow of golden sunlight surrounds them while a violinist plays the most blissful melody. Their bare feet softly press lose petals, each step opens a intoxicating fragrance that clings to everything. Then the music begin to turn into sour, mad stompings. She was alone. The violin drips slowly with long tears falling to the ground where it covers the roses with a deep black. One by one, the pink petals mutates into dried ash. As it reaches her feet, she struggle to run away but it was too late. A beeping sound begin to ring in her ear.
She open her eyes. Why did she set the alarm for six when she didn't even want to wake up today? She throws it against the white wall. It landed on the ground, still whole, still beeping that awful sound. She got out of bed, picks it up and pull the batteries out and paused. But then throws the whole thing in the thrash can.
Back under the warm sheets, she hide her head under the pillows. Her neighbor's truck was leaving the driveway. If it was a couple of months ago, she would not have been home to hear that. A lot can change in a month, that was what he said. They didn't made any real plans, only that she would keep the house. A few months before, he told her to stop visiting him. She thought he was trying to make it easier for her but when she came by for a surprise visit, she saw the other woman and her long red curls. Her fingers with pointy red nails glided along his cheeks and the smile on his face was the happiest that she ever saw. It wasn't the face she was used to.
She supposed he knew she came by and that's why she got a note from one of the nurses. When she read it in the hospital hallway, she hid her eyes in her shawl, avoiding any onlooker. It was the worst feeling in the world. But then it's probably why it was so easy for her to let him go when he finally passed away. His parents questioned her behavior. They saw her dried eyes and casualty in not hugging anyone as a sign that she didn't care. She left them without a argument but wanted to tell them how much they did not know about their own son.
She turns over and place the pillow under her head. It was noon and the sunlight had sneaked in through the small openings in the curtains. A bit of light is on tip of the large picture frame, touching part of his dark curl. She smile. He always did liked being in the sun. On the day that he proposed, they were outside enjoying the summer weather. There was this theory that the vein from the heart runs directly to the fourth finger of the left hand and so she wore her engagement ring on her pinky. It meant she hasn't given her heart to him yet. His crinkled eyes laughed when she told him but he shrugged it off as part of her quirky charm. They danced on the dried lawn while he hummed a favorite tune of his.
When she woke up again, she knew what time it was by the sound of the truck pulling into the driveway. The engine roared for a while before shutting down. A smile started to crawl onto her lips as her neighbor boots' beat against the pavement with gentle sighs. He must had another hard day. She pulls the sheets to her chest. Maybe tomorrow she will actually get dress and out of bed. Or is it already tomorrow?
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Maybe Tomorrow
The number two on the digital alarm clock glowed so brightly, she wonders how she ever get to sleep. And why does she still keep his cartoonish analog clock? He never did trust her digital, always double checking with his. She cannot remember why she keeps them side by side, only that she couldn't break the habit.
Only 2 a.m. How was that possible? She was in bed by midnight and now only two hours had passed? Is this a joke? Is this how her life will be? Crawling slowly by while nothing happens? She rolls over and screams into her pillow.
The changing of three to four didn't changed her mood or her restless mind. Her body aches but she cannot find the sleep that she yearns for. The last few weeks just keeps turning over and over in her head. If things were different, would she still be here laying in this bed thinking about it? Would she still have wished she was the other woman?
She turn to her left side, facing the window that leads to her neighbor's rose garden. It was dried and covered for the winter but she can still imagine how it looked just a few months ago when roses of various colors and shapes decorated the yard. When a few managed to crawl over her fence, her neighbor allowed her to cut them for her. She was delighted and surprised when the old woman gave her a dozen pink roses the next day.
For a moment, she can hear music, a rhythm that glides through her drowsy head. A slow dance by the water on a boat, the two of them wrapped together. Her cheeks rest on the collar of his neck. His lips blushing her forehead. A gentle glow of golden sunlight surrounds them while a violinist plays the most blissful melody. Their bare feet softly press lose petals, each step opens a intoxicating fragrance that clings to everything. Then the music begin to turn into sour, mad stompings. She was alone. The violin drips slowly with long tears falling to the ground where it covers the roses with a deep black. One by one, the pink petals mutates into dried ash. As it reaches her feet, she struggle to run away but it was too late. A beeping sound begin to ring in her ear.
She open her eyes. Why did she set the alarm for six when she didn't even want to wake up today? She throws it against the white wall. It landed on the ground, still whole, still beeping that awful sound. She got out of bed, picks it up and pull the batteries out and paused. But then throws the whole thing in the thrash can.
Back under the warm sheets, she hide her head under the pillows. Her neighbor's truck was leaving the driveway. If it was a couple of months ago, she would not have been home to hear that. A lot can change in a month, that was what he said. They didn't made any real plans, only that she would keep the house. A few months before, he told her to stop visiting him. She thought he was trying to make it easier for her but when she came by for a surprise visit, she saw the other woman and her long red curls. Her fingers with pointy red nails glided along his cheeks and the smile on his face was the happiest that she ever saw. It wasn't the face she was used to.
She supposed he knew she came by and that's why she got a note from one of the nurses. When she read it in the hospital hallway, she hid her eyes in her shawl, avoiding any onlooker. It was the worst feeling in the world. But then it's probably why it was so easy for her to let him go when he finally passed away. His parents questioned her behavior. They saw her dried eyes and casualty in not hugging anyone as a sign that she didn't care. She left them without a argument but wanted to tell them how much they did not know about their own son.
She turns over and place the pillow under her head. It was noon and the sunlight had sneaked in through the small openings in the curtains. A bit of light is on tip of the large picture frame, touching part of his dark curl. She smile. He always did liked being in the sun. On the day that he proposed, they were outside enjoying the summer weather. There was this theory that the vein from the heart runs directly to the fourth finger of the left hand and so she wore her engagement ring on her pinky. It meant she hasn't given her heart to him yet. His crinkled eyes laughed when she told him but he shrugged it off as part of her quirky charm. They danced on the dried lawn while he hummed a favorite tune of his.
When she woke up again, she knew what time it was by the sound of the truck pulling into the driveway. The engine roared for a while before shutting down. A smile started to crawl onto her lips as her neighbor boots' beat against the pavement with gentle sighs. He must had another hard day. She pulls the sheets to her chest. Maybe tomorrow she will actually get dress and out of bed. Or is it already tomorrow?
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Maybe Tomorrow
Day Trippers
callous minutes drifts by
interfering with the unmovable day
a persistent nag shifts to the left
spells of drag flying among the day trippers
dusty farewells flickering about
waiting for another moment
hoping for something new
Waiting for Spring
He waits for the spring that was hidden inside winter. The cold bites into his thick skin, every now and then momentary erasing the warmth that had formed.
From the kitchen, he heard her rambling in the bedroom but makes no attempt at communicating with her. With his right hand on his coffee cup handle and his left hand flipping the newspaper, there was no way he was going to change his pace now. He takes another sip of the hot coffee, usually black but today it was full of cream and sugar. His tongue adopts the sweetness of the 100% genuine, real sugar cane before letting it go down his throat. He didn't like that avenge stuff that she always buys him.
Taking another sip, he listens to her voice, bouncing here and there. Behind the thin bedroom door, he could hear her shuffling suitcases and hangers. He turns to the business section - another big business merger. It makes him wonder if he should buy more stocks. It's not like he is desperate for money. He make enough to live on so why bother?
She came out of the bedroom with her face all puffy. Her green eyes were surrounded by red rings. He knew it meant she has been crying and now has gotten over whatever she was crying about. He smiles at her, stirring his coffee with the silver spoon that he brought when he first moved in. She gave him a careless look and went back to the bedroom. He went back to reading the paper. A new car - maybe that's what he should get. Perhaps a red one - one that attracts women. He never had that. The sound of a radio being turned on and the voice of a distant dreamer drifts through the air. It was one of his favorites, one that always makes him happy but today, it makes him a bit melancholy.
He pretends not to listen but couldn't concentrate on the article about some new business venture. She was definitely throwing his things on the bedroom wall. He can hear his record collection crackling. Then his statue of Ali, his collection of old tiny cameras...His shoulders fell when he heard the rattling of the bubble gum machine tumbling against the wall. It was his childhood gift from his parents. There were no gum but the plastic cases were still there. He wonders what's next.
But he didn't have to wonder anymore. She came out of the bedroom carrying two suitcases with sweat all over her round face. Her eyes stare at him, demanding and angry. He returns her gaze. With a goodbye falling off her lips, she pulls open the front door with a tragic force and carries her two suitcases as she walks out with her head held high. He wanted to tell her to take him with her but his lips refused to move and his feet flat on the kitchen tiles did not want to leave its spot. He didn't know why but "goodbye" just rolled out his mouth. Her eyes seem to be smiling at him but her lips was pursed into a mad dash. And before he could say anything else, she pulls the door close with a thunderous bang.
The mini statues of the his favorite baseball team fell onto the floor, breaking into bits. She was leaving and all he could think of to say was goodbye. That was all. Goodbye. He loves her but somehow his morning routine was blocking out everything that she said to him.
He took a sip of his coffee, now cold and bitter. Looking around his apartment, at all the things she destroyed, he felt a heavy sigh in his chest. It was a mutual breakup. That was what she agreed on. He thought he wanted that as well but now he missed her. He wondered why it was so hard for him this time. After all, it was the fifth winter that she decided to leave him. She usually returns to him during spring. He looks out the window, at the winter that still sits on the sidewalk and knew she wasn't coming back this time.
3WW: Avenge, Genuine, Ramble
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Take Me With You
From the kitchen, he heard her rambling in the bedroom but makes no attempt at communicating with her. With his right hand on his coffee cup handle and his left hand flipping the newspaper, there was no way he was going to change his pace now. He takes another sip of the hot coffee, usually black but today it was full of cream and sugar. His tongue adopts the sweetness of the 100% genuine, real sugar cane before letting it go down his throat. He didn't like that avenge stuff that she always buys him.
Taking another sip, he listens to her voice, bouncing here and there. Behind the thin bedroom door, he could hear her shuffling suitcases and hangers. He turns to the business section - another big business merger. It makes him wonder if he should buy more stocks. It's not like he is desperate for money. He make enough to live on so why bother?
She came out of the bedroom with her face all puffy. Her green eyes were surrounded by red rings. He knew it meant she has been crying and now has gotten over whatever she was crying about. He smiles at her, stirring his coffee with the silver spoon that he brought when he first moved in. She gave him a careless look and went back to the bedroom. He went back to reading the paper. A new car - maybe that's what he should get. Perhaps a red one - one that attracts women. He never had that. The sound of a radio being turned on and the voice of a distant dreamer drifts through the air. It was one of his favorites, one that always makes him happy but today, it makes him a bit melancholy.
He pretends not to listen but couldn't concentrate on the article about some new business venture. She was definitely throwing his things on the bedroom wall. He can hear his record collection crackling. Then his statue of Ali, his collection of old tiny cameras...His shoulders fell when he heard the rattling of the bubble gum machine tumbling against the wall. It was his childhood gift from his parents. There were no gum but the plastic cases were still there. He wonders what's next.
But he didn't have to wonder anymore. She came out of the bedroom carrying two suitcases with sweat all over her round face. Her eyes stare at him, demanding and angry. He returns her gaze. With a goodbye falling off her lips, she pulls open the front door with a tragic force and carries her two suitcases as she walks out with her head held high. He wanted to tell her to take him with her but his lips refused to move and his feet flat on the kitchen tiles did not want to leave its spot. He didn't know why but "goodbye" just rolled out his mouth. Her eyes seem to be smiling at him but her lips was pursed into a mad dash. And before he could say anything else, she pulls the door close with a thunderous bang.
The mini statues of the his favorite baseball team fell onto the floor, breaking into bits. She was leaving and all he could think of to say was goodbye. That was all. Goodbye. He loves her but somehow his morning routine was blocking out everything that she said to him.
He took a sip of his coffee, now cold and bitter. Looking around his apartment, at all the things she destroyed, he felt a heavy sigh in his chest. It was a mutual breakup. That was what she agreed on. He thought he wanted that as well but now he missed her. He wondered why it was so hard for him this time. After all, it was the fifth winter that she decided to leave him. She usually returns to him during spring. He looks out the window, at the winter that still sits on the sidewalk and knew she wasn't coming back this time.
3WW: Avenge, Genuine, Ramble
Search Engine Stories Prompt: Take Me With You
My memories erased by a passing zephyr
In the night hours, tentacles reach out from underneath a bottomless pit and begin to take hold of my lonely heart. Lighted by the peppermint ocean, I ran, my bare feet sinking deeper and deeper into the blue sand. Above me is the glowing moon that slowly drips with salty stars. No inking of where I am, my eyes wander here and there. Many random dreams begin to emerge, accompany by heavy footsteps that momentary quells reality. In the shadow of the wind, they morphs into dust. The past, the present and the future fuses together, changing into the now. Across the other side, a witness, a dragon with dull crawls. His eyes open wide in the wake of changes, changes that will come in the form of a brewing storm.
Dreaming in Circles
in circles we escape
our eyes blister and run
shifting our view ever so fast
in circles we tangle
the evening fog decorates the night
replacing our fears with forgotten steps
trees with cucumber leaves
falls down in circled greens
enraptured solitary inside a forest of yellow blooms
we yield to their lustful fruit
summer eyes wished only for the warmth
for tranquility to take over
dreaming in circles
One Single Impression: Circles (Forest River Journal)
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