He was in his twenties, tall and very ugly. Clara met him at a party one night, when she was seventeen. His dance moves were impressive and his dress code almost conquered her, except she couldn’t get passed his looks. She was, like any teenager, very interested to look good next to handsome guys and she was indeed beautiful. Dark eyes, blonde hair, tall and thin, she was every guy’s...
When I was a teenager, I used to write little stories on my secret notebooks just to try and unleash some of the evil hormones tormenting me. Sometimes, they were very short stories, other times ransom thoughts, or small poems (indeed I used to write what I now hate the most haha), but no matter what I wrote, it always came back to the same feeling, unleashing myself and setting me free. I never...
New week, new Monday, new meeting at Writers Group,this time the first one at St. Marks Church after our long summer vacation. It seems that today our amazing crowd will be a little bigger than usual and it’s always exciting to meet new people and reunite with old ones. Monday has become, in almost a year, my favorite day of the week and it’s all because of those meetings and the...
Have you noticed how your dreams change as you grow up? Have you ever had a dream and didn’t let go until you were a grown-up? I doubt it. Usually they change shape, form, perspective and even if the essence is the same they aren’t. For instance among many other dreams, one of mine was to find a job when I grow up that will allow me to read constantly. At first I wanted to become a...
This story began on Day 28 and continued on Day 35. It’s starting to take shape and I think it needs time to grow and conquer. So here is the third part of the story. “ – I don’t, actually. I was trying to be polite; now that we’ve settled that, thanks for the light. Bye!” , I said, turning quickly away from her. I was hoping for her to take the bite; and she did. I caught a glimpse...
This story begins here, so let’s pick up from where we left off. Sometimes, a glass bottle won’t break when it smashes into a hard surface or falls onto the brick floor; sometimes, all it takes is a small crack or flaw and everything is lost and turned into an impossible to solve puzzle. That’s how she felt each morning and each damned day. Crying was not enough anymore; crying was only a...
She was walking towards the door. Nothing but the sound of her footsteps, on the hallway of her building, was disturbing the bliss of the morning. She turned the key into the lock and a door screak later, she was inside. Her clothes were all over the place; on the table, on the floor, on the stereo and even on the coffee pot she forgot to put into the kitchen sink last night. She was alone. What...
I am known for hating poetry, but even an insensitive soul like me has a favorite poem. I stumbled into it today while organizing the files in my computer and decided to share it with you guys. So, here it is the favorite poem of someone who mostly hates poetry. Lead – George Bacovia The lead coffins were lying sound asleep, And lead flowers and funeral garments – I stood all alone in the crypt…...
