She could feel it clawing at her as she sat in the room, nudging her, trying to pull her back.
The fantasy was becoming ever more difficult to escape from. The fantasy of her life years from now, successful job, a partner who was her equal and who she could love for the rest of her life, the promise of children, the happy ending that she had always desired.
It was consuming all her waking moments.
The hope that she held in her heart that she would survive this and everything would turn out well.
She hadn't needed to escape...
A coffee before bed.
For the soul that never came home.
No need to add sugar, because the dream will give the sweetness.
And when the morning comes, I'll make a coffee again. For the empty soul and empty days.
No need to add sugar, because im faithful to the dream.
Before the night comes, my life is always black and bitter.
As the walked along a long fenced pathway, she told Martin, that she was bringing him to a refugee camp, and that she couldn't tell him what time it is, because no one knows. She handed him a pair of binoculars. "Take these." Martin took the binoculars and she pointed her finger into the snowy distance. Can you make out that small shed out there?" Martin looked around in the distance, but could eventually see the shed she was talking about. "I do." "Listen, Martin, I need you to trust me now. You need to climb that fence, and run...
the fog sat heavy
in the valley cauldron.
each intersecting limb
was the peace of a friday
morning, interrupted.
we were singing
all the songs we had heard
before as children, and we
thought of having coffee,
but we didn't.
what does it mean
to be caught under a tree
at the break of what would be
a taciturn day, but wasn't?
Vanquished.
She looked at the body of her enemy lying there on the floor. She knew she should feel a sense of triumph, but instead there was only sorrow. Sorrow for the lost years, the million memories that would never be, the milestones both present and future that would never be shared.
For you see, the dead body belonged to her mother.
Her mother had run out on her father soon after her birth, and the girl had wondered all her life what it was like to have a mother. Someone to make sure her hair was perfect on picture...
It stayed there, staring... Just staring him down. There was no motion for what seemed like an eternity. He kept his eyes on the beast, unblinking for fear of its immense unstoppable powers.
And then the second of peace was over. He reeled back, shock rolling up his arms from the knowledge that he in fact, no longer had fingers with which to grasp the beast as arm's length. The black pit of teeth consumed the digits and sought more. Clutching the stumps to his chest, the victim scrambled for ground; an escape from the vivid Death that lapped up...
I could feel their glares. They loved to do this. I kept tripping over branches and I could feel the cuts on my arms.
They would save me eventually and they would take me home and I would tell mother what they had done. She would tell them to go home and tell brother to go to his room, there would be no dinner for him and I would get sad because I felt trapped. I felt wronged and needed my mother's comfort, but I knew that my tattle-taling would only result in spite from them the next time we...
I don't like insects. Nor mammals. Or birds. Especially I don't like humans. Or inanimate obects. Everyone thinks I'm weird. And so I am.
As one of the few survivors from the Roswell crash, I am allowed to be different. My brain is no longer functioning and I've forgotten my mission on Earth.
I can eat, talk, eliminate although most of the time I have no idea what I am doing.
Doctor Rushton say's that he thinks I'm far more superior than any politician he's met. He's a little quirky as I suppose you know.
Tomorrow we're going on a...
Modelling had never been her idea. The vacuous stares, the hours in front of the mirror. Was it her fault her proportions were perfect for summer dresses? It was a life she escaped the moment she fled her mother's house.
She didn't pick the color of her hair. It didn't come on a shelf, stinking up the bathroom with it's noxious fumes, attracting evil eyes from other women who thought they knew what she was like simply from the glow of her yellow hair and the swing of her hips?
The pitch of her voice wasn't her fault. How did...
The men and women in reflections only meet us when we meet them. Our relationship is one only in passing and it seems like every time we are reintroduced to them, they bare a striking resemblance to ourselves. They wear the same clothes, styled their hair the same way, even brought along the same items like a bag or groceries. But I wonder if they ever feel the same way that we do. I wonder if we go to meet them they are happy and the same things that we're happy about, or struggling with the same difficulties that life...