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Literature Text
You: a mess, a wreck crumbling in unseen dirts. It's silly - theories wriggling beneath squelches. You, me, the desserts your hunger - or wasted love, eck, ick - absconds off. Ah, sighing. Offlimits today stoplessly on, selfsame enviable pies!
I, worriedly, suggest a pained challenge, ugh. Dangerous. Orderless. You: obliged words I discontent… blech. Keystone of unbelieved agonizing - eauuugh -pain, completed here! Math, fruit, squealing an ill (deathesque) portent!
Desserts… I become envy.
I, worriedly, suggest a pained challenge, ugh. Dangerous. Orderless. You: obliged words I discontent… blech. Keystone of unbelieved agonizing - eauuugh -pain, completed here! Math, fruit, squealing an ill (deathesque) portent!
Desserts… I become envy.
Literature
In the Syllable
...then there is a way in diswaiting.
Dust some yellow sand covers,
here uncover bare bedding.
...suffusing red planes, blushed dunes,
under incidentally quilted blanket
wet as arid curves, as sounds.
...in a persistent pavement,
in a solemn unsuited promise,
some written words erase
some letters drip and soak
unto a perfuse miracle,
a dislocated split,
a letting go of...
Literature
Encounter
I came home after a long long time and in the hallway
I bumped into a seventeen year old girl.
I said ‘it’s me’ but she shook her head like
there was water in her ears and salt in her eyes.
I said ‘it’s okay’ but she looked at me blankly.
I said ‘it won’t kill you’ but she hurried past
and turned that dark corner.
In the room I grew up in
I opened a wardrobe and an old friend fell out,
the yearbook photos where we sat side by side
staring the camera down. Arrogant and eagle-eyed.
That year it rained and I wore his jacket
until it smelt like him and me and his hair
and my smile
Literature
Wildwomen
I borrowed a horse last Thursday to hunt the Wildwoman. He was tall and painted hungry; She’d borrowed time, then disappeared.
I could not bend to pick the rocks. The horse kept kicking dusty circles. ‘Round the barn, the Wildwoman crept in boots that used to be mine.
We didn’t see Her till the last three barrels, where She sprouted from the grit between my fingers to silence shouting hands.
Winding down sore muscles, drawing ankles to earth, She traced my body before darting up my spine - straight line from heels, to hips, to Crown.
And in the half-breath the horse spied hay and tried to throw me from the saddle, She
Suggested Collections
Flash Fiction Moth 2013, day 5. I think I might die. This was... a big challenge. I had to write this in Pilish (each word corresponding to a digit of pi, and having as many letters as that digit), include at least 5 onomatopoeias, AND have it be about pie. I... I think I'm dead. I think dying's what just happened here.
© 2013 - 2024 Atheshya
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