the sound of bullets.

of Matt Howard

I ask myself if I am worthless or, at least worthy of anything? The demons in my circle demand a sacrifice and I cannot choose between dignity and bravery. But when the headmaster’s tongue lick my lips, I start to cry. Nobody shall cry in the circle. The whips of rumors and lies graze my skin until it bleeds and I feel numb. They ask me again–the demons. I look at them with my white eyes, lost in the forest of burning trees and crepitating branches, and surrender both my dignity and bravery for slavery. And now what I only hold is the sound of bullets through the laughter of mouths. The shrill of scream and gun replace the tick of the clock and it has become my sweet-sounding wind; my forbidden nature where I rest my bones. Sometimes too I ask myself which one can make me feel slightly worthy: the ring of a shot in my throat or the others? And I have found the answer when I pull the trigger in everyone’s head.


WORD COUNT: 176

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

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black flower.

of April Morales

Sometimes I reflect on the shore of the violet sea about being late, just like this time. I ask myself, “am I late to experience the flutters the others feel when someone holds them or grasps their fingers?” I draw a circle on the sand to mirror the cycle I am in. I have closed myself from availability; too afraid that what comes from the outside of my box will only destroy than nurture me. Or is it that I have the bars too high to reach for anyone? I hope not. I will consider this as fear the–of being spoken by another’s mouth or being called by another’s attention. For years that I have locked myself in my own asylum, I have forgotten to see the sun or even how hot it feels. I can only imagine its beauty, but never its feeling. As the waves crash on the shore in this afternoon, I look at the couple, too far from my reach on my right, with longing. They are drenched in sweet syrup and, like the curse embedded in heart, I can only feel anything, but happiness for them. I have watered myself into a flower filled with sorrow and selfishness. And now that I am here, I do not know how to kill it.


WORD COUNT: 217

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

glamour.

of Jacek Dylag

The afternoon is setting and the orange haze of the sun covers one side of your face. My fingers itch and they remove your honey-colored sunglasses; then, they pause and let my eyes be surprised to your startling silver eyes. And my lips stretch to show its gratitude to the Lord and to try tamper the glamour of the heart rising to my throat. All of a sudden, as if you have it in your veins too, you grasp my cheeks with your warm hands and under the public’s eye in the open field, our lips meet. Now I can taste the paradise after death in this secret affair. Before I cave in the sadness creeping, I push our lips tighter as if the oxygen will not last after the kiss.; surely, it will not. When our foreheads touch, a tear slips from my eye and you do not brush it away; how painful is it to know we cannot live in this hidden home of ours.


WORD COUNT: 167

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

wandering down the streets.

of Dzenina Lukac

If my tears are to blame for the sorrows of the rivers in your heart, I must not fall apart, but to smile and wake another day, knowing I still linger somewhere in you. It is a cliff with thousands of deaths, but these are the deaths I own to love; the ones I created by blood and time. There are still nights where I wander down the empty streets when I feel lonely; you are not here anymore, but I am not alone with you in the theaters of my mind. Then, there are dark hours when I will pass by your house and see the lights of your room burning; I will cry solemnly. My mindless spine will walk me home empty handed, but my heart is filled with content that at least I have seen the lights of your room. But, dear, oh my dearest, I hope it is enough.


WORD COUNT: 153

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

dilemma.

of Paul Morris

I read fiction books. Their words, all high and hazy, spiral into my heart. It will always feel like a house where I can cry or sleep without nightmares. I can draw friends and make them like me or be friendly to me. The books these authors wrote are much more than letters, but a life. Every day, I read and try to finish one house (I call the books with this term since I started reading). And for every paragliding I travel to, I always end up with a satisfied smile. But I need to start constructing another house again. I live alone in my barely-paid apartment (I received the notice to leave last week). As a jobless reader, the books are my only safe hearth. I speak the words out loud while I read, to forget the hunger for living the nights without food (two night ago, I ate a page, but hurled). I hear a loud knock on my door and an angry, manly voice behind it. I drop my book and laugh loud while I face the chaffed-paint wall.


WORD COUNT: 183

Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.