No one really knew that Danny possess a magical power. Ever since he was a kid, he discovered that he has capabilities beyond any kids in the block. No one did ever knew, let alone his parents or his sister, Therese, that he can read minds.
Before anyone could think of something, he already reads what is in their head. He can feel all the emotions, the hurt, the anger and frustration of everyone. It is like an incessant shadow that even devoid of light, it still follows him around.
No one really knew about Danny's powers. He is wise...
He wandered a lot. Not usually while he was home, but when the time presented itself and he was in a new location before starting a new job, or before he was scheduled to leave. Staying in one place was too suspicious at times, though some places took his 'look' in strides, gave him attentions, asked him questions. That was no better sometimes. So he made wandering a pastime of sorts.
His focus mainly centered on terrain. Particular landscapes could prove resourceful in the heat of battle if he were to ever return there. Monuments, gardens, parks, fountains. The environment...
the memories throw me back in time,
to days and nights past.
Talking with lost friends,
and walking through fresh green grass,
the memories linger always.
seeing the sun slowly turn my skin beet red,
and the snow chill my blood.
seeing winter's past flit past my eyes,
and flowers bloom and wilt.
seeing words on my computer screen,
typed in earlier days.
the past is a tricky thing,
it lingers with us,
yet we spend our entire lives trying to make it last.
every moment of the past can be preserved in a way,
we just need to try...
Freewrite had been studying the whole damned week.
It was a chaotic week, filled with dark-roast coffee and cotton sweaters, self induced wakefulness like a ritual. Now, it was Thursday, and Freewrite still hadn't completed his research. He sat groggily, frustrated, hunched over a dark cup of coffee with a pen in his hand and a book to his left.
On the other side of the desks were threescore discarded books that had offered little relevance to him. Friday was tomorrow. Freewrite looked at his wristwatch. It was already 9:58 pm.
Freewrite realized that his thesis was due the morning...
There was blood on my pillow. And a tooth on the floor. And a snake in the corner, coiled around the arc of the rocking chair. The snake I don't believe had anything to do with the tooth or the blood on the pillow, but if that cold blood hadn't clicked me from sleep, opening my eyes on the tooth on the floor, I might not have rolled my eyes to the corner where the snake hugged the rocking chair. It's an old chair and probably felt the dry ribs of hundreds of snakes around its legs. But never in...
Twist. Pull. Pull. Bop. Twist. Bop. Pass... Was she staring at me? I mean, it was my turn, but it felt like she was looking me directly in the eyes. Come on... Probably just a coincidence. All the others were watching me to, just like I'm watching her right now. Oh God, I'm watching her and it's not even her turn any more. Focus. You're up next. Pull. Pull. Pull. This too easy. Bop. Twist. Pass. Okay, now she's definitely staring at me. Was that a wink? Oh, no. Just had something in her eye. Damn, she's kinda crackin at...
It was ridiculous that at my age I could not do anything without my parents getting involved. They were overprotective, talking me out any everything, listing all the possible negatives so I ended up believing them.
At fifty three I was single, living off their generosity, sharing hobbies, going on holiday with them, waking, eating and sleeping the same times as them.
Never had any friends, boyfriends, jobs, excitement of my own.
The police psychologist didn't think it that unusual that I ended up on a criminal career path, he told the court it was inevitable given the strange upbringing....
The day after tomorrow, this will all be over.
"You always say that," she whispers, as she tucks her feet up under herself and wraps her arms around her knees.
"One day it'll be true." He answers, heavy boots clunking on the wooden floorboards as he made his way over to the girl. "I got you something to eat." He handed her a sandwich and leant against the wall to watch her.
"How many days has it been?"
"It would be easier to tell you in weeks."
"Just let me go, please." They had discussed this many times, the talk...
The pidgeon man rolled off the sky-scraper. Thousands of birds flew with the updraft, gaining momentum as they hurled their bodies into his back. The crawling taxis below wailed insistently. Pedestrians opened their umbrellas, one by one. Sunset embalmed the towers in reflective flame.
The pidgeon man did not see what was beneath him. He only and always looked up.
His shadow grew on the pavement. He was seconds away from landing, yet the birds continued their sacrifice.
I don't like this piece at all. It is a depressing photo. :(
Read something else.
Day 1750: It feels eerily similar to Day 1. I wake up with the sun beating down on my face, no longer held in check by the facade I'm sleeping against. The heat is starting to sting, which I contemplate for a few moments. I'm so glad to be feeling something upon my skin which isn't gravel or my own beard, curling back up to itch me in the very same spots where I'm sore. It's as if even my own face wants nothing more than to detach and fly away.