#wanderloststories

Soap box, New York. A man whose stench precedes him, drags himself to the street. His legs don't work, he hasn't showered and beads of sweat cover his face. He sits himself down and strips himself naked. With every piece of clothing he removes, he proclaims, "I do not trust your God. I do not trust your faith!" People dressed in fancy clothes walk around him. Some stop to listen, some take pictures. He keeps going. A police car swoops in blaring it's alarm loud on a stuffy Saturday afternoon. A police officer walks out and reads the man his rights. The mad man looks up, smiles his toothless smile saying still, in a baritone this time, "I do not trust your God." Paramedics arrive. The man is naked. The perimeter has been sealed off. The cameras still click, the people are amused. The man chants almost in a trance, "I do not trust your God." "I do not trust your faith." The paramedic approaches from the left, the police man approaches from the right. They apprehend him. They bind him. He is thrown into one of their cars. The crowd disperses. All that is left behind is a trail of blood and his tattered clothes. A rat sniffs the rags trying to find food. The world goes on. #wanderloststories #newyork #writernetwork #readersnetwork #stories #shortstories #tinytales #tales #readersofinstagram #writersofinstagram #nycstories #nyc #metropolitanmuseumofart (at The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CS5mab9Mnhi/?utm_medium=tumblr

Window, Wicklow, Ireland. One fine day, as lightening struck, time stood still for a few seconds. A window opened and a young boy fell into an unknown space. A young girl, who often came to play there, watched him. Bewildered and afraid she poked him with her stick and asked, "who are you?" The boy looked up, his eyes strange, black with a tiny white pupils in between, stared back at her and he smiled baring his crooked teeth. Afraid, the girl stepped back, "who are you? Tell me or I will scream." But the boy stood up and looked around in wonder. He'd never seen this world, he'd only known his. He ran around, touching the stones, feeling the grass and staring up at the sky. The girl amused by his wonder, eased up and asked, "do you understand me?" The boy stopped and looked at her. He picked up a colourful stone and handed it to her. Hesitant, she accepted and smiled back. "So, you're new around here?" He looked at her and she thought he understood. She picked up a stone and handed it to him. He took it and jumped around ecstatically. The girl was perplexed. He ran upto her and extended his hand, she hesitated and put her hand forward. He grabbed it and swung her around. She laughed, he giggled and they danced around. Lightening struck again, time stood still, the window opened and the boy pulled the girl towards him in an embrace. They stood facing each other. His eyes black where hers were white, hers white where his were black. They then jumped through the window. Gone, disappeared. The rocks remained. She was never found. They thought she died. Lightening never struck twice, time never stopped. The window never opened again. She was stuck in another time. #wanderloststories #writernetwork #readersnetwork #write #read #writersofinstagram #readersofinstagram #wicklow #ireland #stories #shortstory #tales #tinytales #aroundtheworld #tales #yinyang #windows #storytime (at Wicklow, Ireland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFtQ9DesLCH/?utm_medium=tumblr

Spider's Web, New York. At the beginning, there was love, or so I thought. He'd hold my hand and his eyes would twinkle everytime I laughed. He'd never let go. I thought I'd found love. And I was lost in a beautiful world full of dreams. I should have woken up. It started small, the outbursts, the paranoia, the questions and then came the isolation. I stopped calling my friends, I stopped talking to family. It was just me and him. It was a phase, I thought. A lonely isolating phase. And before I knew it, it became a way of life. It wasn't one particular day, it wasn't one particular moment. It was timed. It was intricate. It was manipulative. It was intentional. I could never breathe again, I was suffocated. My voice was muffled to silence. My world reduced to him. Just him. This wasn't love. I was left with one desire, to escape. He only had one desire, me. And so we danced. Me struggling to leave, him strengthening his hold on me. The more I struggled, the tighter the ropes got. I thought I'd explode. And when you're so close to an explosion, your mind works in mysterious ways. You find strength to do things you'd never be capable of. He brought me to the park again, to celebrate togetherness. A prisoner allowed sun light to remember what she could never get. We stood by the railing. He was holding my hand, a little too firmly, almost as if he thought I'd run. I couldn't run. He wouldn't let me. The river looked beautiful, free and mighty. I jumped, he didn't let go. He fell in after me. I was finally free. He was finally dead. The fly escaped the web. #wanderloststories #read #write #writersnetwork #readersnetwork #writersofinstagram #readersofinstagran #read #write #stories #shortstory #tinytales #tales #nycstories #nyc #newyork #fiction #hudsonriver #storiesfromnewyork #storyreading (at Hudson River Park) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMddD8-MsXt/?utm_medium=tumblr

Fairy tale, Sintra, Portugal. A girl was lost in the woods. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She cried for her mother, she cried for her father, no one came. She wandered along the woods. Tired she sat on a log. A man dressed in a knight's costume came. He had big blue eyes, a big bushy beard and a sword by his side. The girl was terrified. He said, "don't be afraid, I am your knight." She retreated. He advanced. He swung his hand around and candy appeared in his palms. The girl was famished, couldn't resist. She grabbed the candy and gulped it down. He smiled as he watched her swallow. And the girl fell into a slumber. The man whispered, "all your troubles will disappear." She woke up to a beautiful place, a place so tranquil that she could hear the leaves ruffle. She sat on a tiny castle in the middle of the lake, dressed in a princess cloak. At first she was amazed at this corner of heaven she had landed at. Then came panic. Where was she? Where was the weird man? How did she get here? How would she escape? She saw him staring back at her from the corner of the lake. He was laying on his belly, with his head in his palms, staring at his little princess and smiling. This time he was dressed as a dragon. She screamed, she cried. He just kept saying, "now we wait for the prince to rescue you from the dragon! That's how the fairy tale ends!" No prince came, just death. They found her body days later. A note next to her body simply said, "the fairy tale didn't work." A serial killer struck again. #wanderloststories #writernetwork #readersnetwork #write #read #stories #shortstory #tinytales #tales #story #serialkillers #portugal #lisbon #readersofinstagram #writersofinstagram #aroundtheworld #travelstories #fiction #sintra #wander_lost_stories (at Sintra, Portugal) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMi-ut8srGE/?utm_medium=tumblr

Ode, Hamptons. To a bystander, the bench was ordinary. It overlooked the harbour in silence as the waves lapped at it's feet. But the bench housed many secrets. Secrets about the lovers that met at night, hiding from the world that wouldn't let them be together. Secrets about the old women who'd been best of friends and watched the twilight together for the past twenty years. Secrets about what emerged from the water late in the night when everyone slept. Secrets about the little girl who'd carved her dead dogs name on the arm rest and would leave a flower there everyday. Secrets about the sailors and their secret deeds that they never spoke of. Secrets about the boats that stood still and the boats that never returned. Secrets of the town, secrets of the ocean and secrets of the people. The bench stood through time, holding it dear. But to the bystander it was ordinary, something to forget. And yet the bench was an ode to all the secrets never told. #wanderloststories #read #write #readersnetwork #writernetwork #readersofinstagram #writersofinstagram #stories #poems #storiesfromnewyork #hamptons #sagharbor #easthamptons #twilight #dusk #aroundtheworld #tales #tinytales (at Sag Harbor, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CNj7XTCMHVx/?igshid=jvnrmz10vt1m

Spider's Web, New York. At the beginning, there was love, or so I thought. He'd hold my hand and his eyes would twinkle everytime I laughed. He'd never let go. I thought I'd found love. And I was lost in a beautiful world full of dreams. I should have woken up. It started small, the outbursts, the paranoia, the questions and then came the isolation. I stopped calling my friends, I stopped talking to family. It was just me and him. It was a phase, I thought. A lonely isolating phase. And before I knew it, it became a way of life. It wasn't one particular day, it wasn't one particular moment. It was timed. It was intricate. It was manipulative. It was intentional. I could never breathe again, I was suffocated. My voice was muffled to silence. My world reduced to him. Just him. This wasn't love. I was left with one desire, to escape. He only had one desire, me. And so we danced. Me struggling to leave, him strengthening his hold on me. The more I struggled, the tighter the ropes got. I thought I'd explode. And when you're so close to an explosion, your mind works in mysterious ways. You find strength to do things you'd never be capable of. He brought me to the park again, to celebrate togetherness. A prisoner allowed sun light to remember what she could never get. We stood by the railing. He was holding my hand, a little too firmly, almost as if he thought I'd run. I couldn't run. He wouldn't let me. The river looked beautiful, free and mighty. I jumped, he didn't let go. He fell in after me. I was finally free. He was finally dead. The fly escaped the web. #wanderloststories #read #write #writersnetwork #readersnetwork #writersofinstagram #readersofinstagran #read #write #stories #shortstory #tinytales #tales #nycstories #nyc #newyork #fiction #hudsonriver #storiesfromnewyork #storyreading (at Hudson River Park) https://www.instagram.com/p/CMddD8-MsXt/?igshid=1xivpu5ucgdmf

Window, Wicklow, Ireland. One fine day, as lightening struck, time stood still for a few seconds. A window opened and a young boy fell into an unknown space. A young girl, who often came to play there, watched him. Bewildered and afraid she poked him with her stick and asked, "who are you?" The boy looked up, his eyes strange, black with a tiny white pupils in between, stared back at her and he smiled baring his crooked teeth. Afraid, the girl stepped back, "who are you? Tell me or I will scream." But the boy stood up and looked around in wonder. He'd never seen this world, he'd only known his. He ran around, touching the stones, feeling the grass and staring up at the sky. The girl amused by his wonder, eased up and asked, "do you understand me?" The boy stopped and looked at her. He picked up a colourful stone and handed it to her. Hesitant, she accepted and smiled back. "So, you're new around here?" He looked at her and she thought he understood. She picked up a stone and handed it to him. He took it and jumped around ecstatically. The girl was perplexed. He ran upto her and extended his hand, she hesitated and put her hand forward. He grabbed it and swung her around. She laughed, he giggled and they danced around. Lightening struck again, time stood still, the window opened and the boy pulled the girl towards him in an embrace. They stood facing each other. His eyes black where hers were white, hers white where his were black. They then jumped through the window. Gone, disappeared. The rocks remained. She was never found. They thought she died. Lightening never struck twice, time never stopped. The window never opened again. She was stuck in another time. #wanderloststories #writernetwork #readersnetwork #write #read #writersofinstagram #readersofinstagram #wicklow #ireland #stories #shortstory #tales #tinytales #aroundtheworld #tales #yinyang #windows #storytime (at Wicklow, Ireland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CFtQ9DesLCH/?igshid=hytrsavhg5zp

Lair, Barcelona, Spain. Lovers and conquerors journeyed long and far to find the pyronymphs lair. But none could. The legend of a pyronymphs passion often drew the loneliest and the bravest. She offered a love like no other is what they said. For the passion of the pyronymph was intoxicating, the kind that was extremely rare. None but one had lived to tell the world. The pyronymph always hid in her lair, she wasn't easy to seek and wasn't easy to trust. She'd burn every man who came to her. All she saw was greed, all she sought was love. None wanted her, just the glory of conquering her. Long long ago she had fallen for a man who had promised her that he was different. He'd promised her that he too could explode like her. That they were made for each other, made of the same dynamite that decimates whatever it touches. She succumbed and fell in love. And together in their passions, they detonated setting fire to everything around them. She lost something that night. He left with the scars of glory, gone like the world around her, and took his promises with him. She was left with piles and piles of ashes, her lair destroyed, her spirit devastated. Claimed like a prize, he stole a piece of her heart and sold it to the man with the heaviest pile of gold. She sat on her ashes, nursing her soul. She rebuilt, she recovered, she learned. She built a stronger more obscure lair and thicker skin. She would stab her scar and remind herself that he had been the ember that burned her, that their union was a catastrophic explosion that left her with nothing. The world however remembered the explosion in all its glory. Years later, the explosion became a celebration. A festival where people light up everything that explodes and dance under the sparks. This is how the world celebrated the man who conquered the pyronymph. She watches these celebrations every year from her lair. While the world celebrates, the pyronymph stabs her scar, she remembers her lessons. People dance. The pyronymph simmers. The man revels in glory. #wanderloststories #writersnetwork #writersofinstagram #read #readersnetwork #readersofinstagram #stories #tales #travelstories #spain #barcelona #write https://www.instagram.com/p/CFYbEmrM4r2/?igshid=wthc7je1sg6p