52 Stories

“I’m scared of what you do to me,” she said softly. Her brown eyes glittered in the moonlight and his fingers suddenly itched to wipe away the mounting tears. She blinked – once, twice – and the tears never found their way down her cheeks. “I’m afraid for you,” she said again, tilting her...

The brightest star in the sky cannot compare to you my darling, you are trapped in the horizons of this feeble planet with an inability to extend and adapt its atmospheres for the nurturing of the  architectural structures of your bones where vast emptiness is needed to place your thrones and you sit in stagnancy and demand to create monuments and hail tourist attractions all the while, being the largest distraction for the ulterior motives of these beautiful corporate buildings lie in the roots of their concrete foundations and the founders, beautiful corporate men  in their immaculately pressed suits and shoes that cost more than what I could afford if  I sold my soul in a narrow back alleyway to the devil dressed up in a tie and suit with a briefcase to hold and imprison the souls of these narrow minded consumers that think they have control over the products they buy to feed their  materialistic hunger but if they question and think for a second longer they will come to conclude that it only feeds the emptiness growing and growing to devour the last speck of their human race that they hold no control, rather control holds them controlled by the very tree they murdered to destroy humanity a paper with symbols and numbers worth more than their souls  and for this reason, i cannot say the brightest star in the sky cannot compare to you my darling, for the stars have long gone and died for only darkness now resides. 

Even inside the room, she could heard the sharp clap and shriek to stop. It stilled the boys and they parted away from the little one like a receding water line. She noticed a clump of hair in the fist of an older boy. He pocketed the hair like a charm, looking up just in time to meet her gaze. She touched the place where her jaw met her ears. Her eyes never leaving his. So he swiped the same spot and felt a thick wetness coating his fingers. 

He spent a lot of his time on the mountain with his watch. His father had warned him that the hands would stop ticking, and when they did, his time would end. So he woke up in the mornings, packed a lunch and headed into the forest. He pasted the alpine tree-line, where the air was thin and the only animals were the birds and coyotes with strong lungs. His own used to contract, but with time and practice, they grew used to the altitude. And when he reached his spot, the same spot where the world was quiet, he would take his watch out and count the ticking. He counted each stroke, all sixty hits in each minute, and tallied them down in his notebook except the very last one. His life was over before he made his mark. 

The waitress’ hand startled me as she placed my latte down with a clink and clatter. “Thank you.” I stared at my phone, holding a gaze with the time that signaled the last message sent. Two seconds ago, and he was typing again. Bastille never took long to reply, it was like his hand was glued permanently to his phone, to his pocket. I planned what to say to him as I waited impatiently for him to arrive. Something along the lines of, “Were you taking a dump you bastard, why’d you take so long?” and his reaction would be priceless as he finally left me alone. But when he did show up, with the smile that made his eyes crease into thin crescents, I started stirring the cream and sugar, hating how quickly they separated.

But it doesn’t matter how beautiful that intention sounds. Morning came, and without the 40 oz beer and cheap white wine to whet our words, last night’s symphony unveiled itself. A cheap pop song. We woke up grimy, clothes and breath a night old, detangling ourselves and tugging on our hair, too ashamed to open our mouths. 

I don’t have to change my diet or my plans to accommodate and “us” because...

I am the embodiment of chocolate brown sheets, plastic phones and library books about to be over due. I am the Victoria Secret...

Invisible I merged my shadow with the shadows camouflaged into the darkness barely alive and for strength, I prayed to find a prey roaming these streets hiding what I seek to revive me suppressing her hostility or rather concealing me, the jealousy desperately seeking, streaking searching for a way of escaping through these gaping empty holes in her eyes that blinds them all with rays of dark light in a place of bright nights contaminating her soul purpose, her role to uphold peace in the Queendom and to feed the inhabitants words of wisdom, of faith and security but for now, she could only secure me and my hunger for her raging envy trapped inside with her insecurities I feed on as my thoughts carry, I sensed impurity near me so the crowd of beings I searched swiftly until there -  I found her the girl, engulfed in obscurity.  

Patterns are safe, but they can make you go crazy too. 

You would pilfer your mother’s favourite tea set, I...

Just, just for one second, she was captured by the beams of light dancing outside. And that was enough. Her...