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Here i am again, stuck in conglomerates made of forgotten and downtrodden emotions, that live to be repeatedly crippled by the loud, heavy rain of cities captured by aluminium, filled with lost figures that stray further from reasons to find reason. The celebrations eventually settle, and the seasonal effects grow deeper, the professional buildings in the large, intrusive cities will beg for attention, as i quiver in my cabin on my hill of introversion, remote and entangled in the webs of my mind, as it reminisces about a quiet winter that fears its own bite, and of a storm that slows the world down, and interrupts its noise, for we are helpless to the outside forces we fail to predict.

I will listen to entire eternities of songs until my very being dissolves into a cluster of unembellished sounds, then will dream chapters, and forget them for many days, and live with my frustration until they reappear in more dreams, though now they live in separation, but later will form constellations that will once again save me from my ordinary fears, and from my rush of hatred, in the form of tactile regrets. Any intervention will be met with glares and slight anger, for their words never come with a perspective that aligns with my rage. However, it will always be followed by soft reflections in the form of perfumed apologies that i always feel come from my need for resolutions, rather than any need for something internally revitalising. Here i am again, stuck in depression, with nothing but a will to create. I am an optimistic *******, lost in self-doubt.
Angela Liyanto Sep 2018
There’s dirt on her shirt, after the rain.
She rubs it off a thousand times.
'It's not coming off.'
She wanted to cry.
She lay on the pale bedroom floor,
with her ***** white shirt,
with the rain outside her window.
A flash fiction.
Amar Nov 2017
Her eyes glinted. They were dark fire. Her hair, like swirls of night, flowed down her arm. The hint of a smile was the breaking dawn.  

My body shook, breathing ragged. I clenched my fists, fighting desperately against madness. She played. I resisted. My lips pursed.

Three years ago I had lost. That voice, once loud and sharp, had played gentle chords. The memory was a persistent echo. It pierced. The dam was about to burst. Again.

She had become a spell, that time, enveloped me like a mist, lifted me into a fantasy, and let me drop. I crashed like glass on floor.

Not again; but I couldn't. She was magnetic. She was transcendence. My heart surged, like a moth to a flame.

Enough! In two steps, I obliterated the space between us and tore the canvas into half. Then another, and another...

Pieces of paper lay strewn upon the floor. Suddenly I was alone. I gasped. My eyes closed. The pain cut in like a knife.
This is prose. It's a flash fiction piece I wrote some time back.
Shroombloomer Jan 2015
She looked up to the towering evergreen and wondered if the paradoxical romance was yet to begin again. She hadn't given up, was it the rolling synapses that captured her heart or the lonely thoughts? And would she ever know? Was she meant to? Scouring her brain for the reckoning, imaging his cynical gaze meeting her own,that sudden illumination it dawned, and capturing smile that followed. Retrospective Love uncertain. Only one truth lingered: his brain was the one she craved another chance to explore. A sleepy afternoon to lead him down the rabbit hole once more. A Crow materialized in the branches of the lush tower above.Would it become a ******?
3 minute flash fiction
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Yesterday she was nowhere to be found
In the earth or under the earth.

Suddenly she is all here - a bright soon
Of a tomorrow in earnest and potluck joy, embers and pyres, iris and the merriment of ochre.

A star groomed by outer space - spilling wet ash
And fissured out by the tailored saw of the wood.
Now something is stirring in the smolder.
We call it a girl.

Still wowed.
She has no idea where she is.

Her eyes, chalcedony stones, explore ripening doomsday and an ivory moon rock.
Is this the world?
It confuses her. It is a great numbness.

She pulls herself together, rousing to the new weight of things
And to that maternal figure nuzzling her, and to her down burrow.

She rests
From the first infinite shock of light, the empty laze
Of the curious and their curious questions -
What has happened? What am I?

Her ears keep on inquiring, blissfully.

But her legs are impatient,
Mending from so long nothingnesses
Her tiny hands are restless with ideas, they start to try a few out,
Swaying this way and that,
Grasping for balance, learning fast -

And she's suddenly upright

And stretching - a giant hand
Strokes her from top to toe
Perfecting her outline, as she tightens
The knot of herself.
Now she comes to -
Bold, beautiful - Argentina
Over the weird world. Her nose
crimson and magnetic, draws her, consciously sounding,
A petite yaff, aimed towards her mother. And the world is warm
And gentle and softens her daze. Touch by touch
Everything fits her together.

Soon she'll almost be a woman.
She wants to be a Woman,
Pretending each day more and more Woman
Till she's the perfect Woman. The immortal Woman
Will surge through her, weightless, unbound, a twirling flame
Beneath silver gusts,

It will coil her eyeballs and her heels
In a single outlaw fright - like the awe
Between mortar and firework.

And curve her neck, like a crocodile emerging from the placid pond
Among lilies,
And fling the new moons over her shimmery banner,
All the full moons and the dark moons.
Booming, ineffable delight.

— The End —