"She whispered her evanescence into me.
She claimed
She would meet me in the valley, too
When she would be passing by
On the day of the bursting bubble
She would sleep upon my heart
Sing songs of melancholia to me
Taking me to...."
A Parade of Falling Rain
arcane matter out of place - invisible ticket punch
Tea With The Birds
Unlabeled
a longing for the impossible
Echoes_of_Rain
Flash Fiction
The Chaotic One
Pocket Full of Mumbles
Le Doppelganger
Without a Title
Entropy
Twin Things
Wordsmith Extraordinaire
Writing Down the Words
The Synchronicity of Indeterminacy
Meaningless
Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism
The Bestest Blog of All-Time
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FRENZY
My home was in the center of the river Our worlds never met I took her hands now After her body melted away into the river The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.
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MAGICIAN: The Clown
KINGDOM: Clownscape
BIO: I'm living inside my shadows and trying to study the effects of darkness on my skin..... if only it was rashes, if only it was rust, if it was a tattoo....... If I could write poetry.
Email: clownscape@gmail.com
SEEDS of ILLUSION
Susurrus Concepts of the Better Half*
AUTHOR: Telula Eyre
"Scamp Bits of Poetry. An easy art; to write on crumpled blue napkins in a bathroom stall, a ball point pen, blue ink, shaking hands. Nothing to fill a book with- just a bit of thought on thin cloth, ink bleeding through to the skin."
AUTHOR: If Only
"Warm tears? Or cold? Ancient heartfelt touches lasting more than mere moments? Or something new, something that thrills and pulses with a beat you can't quite keep in time? Inclined to grab for both? Perhaps they're the same. Touch of the air, smell of the grass, overcast sky above. A new perception to contrast this one. Enjoy your stay. Soft lullabies"
AUTHOR: Wm. Rike
"Draining myself, I was inverted alchemy,
transforming precious into base:
when first blast hit,
my flesh fell from my bones,
tenderly,
tenderly."
AUTHOR: Tea With The Birds
"The desert lies in front of him like a puzzle he can't solve. He recalls a picture pinned to a fridge in a kitchen in a big town. A picture drawn by a child with crayons. A picture of sand and sky and sun. Yellows and blues. The picture stays for years and the child gets bigger. He doesn't draw with crayons anymore. The picture starts to fade from the rays of the real yellow sun in the real blue sky of the big town. And then the child comes to the desert and finds that the sand isn't yellow."
AUTHOR: Anna Piutti
"I ran my fingers over dry skin and
heavy lids;
my stare caressed a clock obsessing
over sunsets.
I swallowed dreams, and vivid hopes,
cursing,
beforetime,
their lingering aftertaste."
AUTHOR: JEM
"It sounds like an oath - a dedication to cruelty or revenge. It sounds like the late night whisper of a young girl with evil eyes and sharp fingers. A girl who will tear a gap in the night sky - an everpresent white reminder that will burn until you are old."
AUTHOR: Saore
"If memory flies
on the tip of the tongue
during the last days of winter,
why wait for funerals to caress forgiveness?
If moths labial movement
hum innocence or irreverence,
why does memory begin to freeze
radical roots in autumn?"
AUTHOR: Rebecca Jane
"One June evening, at the Maxwell Street market, Evaâs dark eyes seduced a local ward politician. He would make her his wife after she attended lots of funerals with him where she used those eyes. Those eyes! Eyes that spoke rhymes"
AUTHOR: Sly Boots
"I killed myself to be born again
needles cover my middle hand
and all the worms eating my eyes
I will fall down from the skies"
AUTHOR: ELAshley
I watch you as you lay sleeping, listen to the sound of your dreaming. Do you dream of me? As I, when I dream of the sea, hear it speak with your voice? My lover is calling even now; I can hear her thundering beyond this room. If you awoke now, would you recognize your own voice calling me? Would you walk with me to greet her, feel her pull at us both, and under the burning stars make love?"
AUTHOR: Le Doppelganger
"Resting with my eyes closed is the only thing I can think, or want to do. If I look out of the cell, the light makes me see images. Spots dance before my vision. Even with my eyes closed, I still see the light. It permeates everything. I tried pulling my shirt over my head, but it was no use, the light still filters through. Even the back of the cell offers no escape any more. My retinas retain the never waivering light, no matter what I do."
AUTHOR: Ela
"Sometimes I even thought that someone is painting thru me, sometimes only to make a mess of my painting, and smile with a weird mischevious sense of humour. "what a joke", I hear the silent voice in my head "and she let me do it""
AUTHOR: Jadecham
"It may be out there still
for all I know.
Drifting toward it's destiny.
An unsubstantial ball of soapy film.
It contains nothing
and is contained by nothing.
Like human souls.
On the point of bursting
though not yet bursting.
Unsure what shape to take
but finally taking the only shape their natures will allow. "
AUTHOR: Janice
"It was her wish to be cremated and scattered to the wind. The scattering part hasn't happened yet. My brother, one of the people who found her when she died, promised to carry her ashes out to sea on one of his fishing trips. She would like that."
AUTHOR: Jill Terry
"Following his lead, in the hope of arriving at a plateau of understanding that will satisfy the yearning that lingers and torments her soul; she has distanced herself, just as he. For as many times as her heart lay unveiled before him, his remains locked away, hidden from her desperate grasp, as he would have it be. And still she knows for naught; why he will not let her see."
AUTHOR: Pauline Clarke
"On the northwest wall of my little cottage hangs a large gilt-framed mirror. It is round and slightly convex, so that if you peer into it, your face appears distorted. It used to hang above the fireplace in the house where I grew up, reflecting our daily comings and goings. I could stand in the kitchen doorway and see in duplicate my father in his green chair, my mother at the kitchen sink, and myself, dishtowel in hand, watching us all in the mirror."
The Indeterminacies of Synchronicity
AUTHOR: Indeterminacy
"Ruby had just seduced a rock. It was a sight to see, the way she'd sauntered up to it, placed hands on the creviced gray surface, and dug her fingernails into the stony flesh. The rock couldn't take it. Cracks began to show. Pebble dust shot into the air. But after a few token tremors it settled into a tame state. Now Ruby could do anything she wanted with the mineral formation: mount it, or mold it like clay into esoteric shapes."
AUTHOR: Michael U
"This seashore offered nothing but solitude. Eleanor saw the ocean as a frustrated entity, making insubstantial attempts to overtake solid ground, weeping shell fragments and kelp. Her empathy with its dilemma ran deep, for she was filled with the same need, both motivated and defined by desire and failure. When Eleanor came to the seashore, she had intended to surrender herself into its waves."
FOOTPRINTS
Design by Photokicho!
"My tribute to the world of magical realism. Where Imagination, too, is imaginary. The world of paradoxes and fallacies. Standing on the edge of the dreams. Falling asleep. Falling. A fall against gravity. And suddenly you realize that you have transcended space and now, are falling in time. To the beginnings of eternity. Illusions."
When Darkness Blinks
"A blog where I just keep on posting some of the random scribblings that I do. They are just some pieces of flash fiction that I scrap most of the times and forget. I use them most often as an outlet to by accumulating emotions. So, you can't really expect anything good out of them. But, at least, I'll feel I'm still breathing."
Lullaby
Where she lay among flowers
Among dewdrops, amongst bloodstains
Of her own.
Her soul laid asleep
In the white comfort of a swarm of wasps, butterflies
And the forgettings of 'had-beens'.
The forgettings of time, eternity and screams.
Dreams
Marched across her foreheads along with ants.
She was living on sounds.
Sounds outside her body
Sounds inside
Sounds in the distant no-where
She was sleeping on sounds
When I picked her from the muds.
I gave her my only moist room
Where I lived alone.
Unsleeping.
Where I stayed watching
The strange life of waters
And weaving blankets out of dreams.
I covered her with one of them
I tried to sing a lullaby
So that, she never wakes up.
She never did.
Mine insomnia, her sleep
Our worlds never changed
Mine insomnia, her sleep
But we told each other our stories
Mine insomnia, her sleep
And we each owned the others world
Her insomnia, mine sleep.
Gradually, I found that she melted in the water
The river was taking her home
I took her hands in mine for the last time.
She slept.
Just as I had taken her life once
Down the river-bed.
I set her free from the constant world of our insomnias
After which ants took her over
They went in through her earlobes
They came out through her nostril
They played with her body
Made love to her.
I lived on the sounds
Of her silent orgasms.
posted @ 5:40 PM
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