100 word story #1

The train came and people rushed out in clusters. A teenage girl with large headphones and a handful of gadgets smacked me with her backpack. A man in his 30’s stumbled when a radiant woman sought his embrace. I wondered if she will do the same. Will she wear an expression of glee, resolution? Or unease – my insides iced at the thought. The conductor held a bent woman’s bag, escorting her to the exit. I stared at the dispersing crowd, waiting for the verdict to arrive with her face. The last groups walked, chatted and laughed. She wasn’t there.

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A Barricade

 Now there is silence; convincing, dense.

A roadblock of dread: anxieties on what’s to come fueled by wrongs of times past. Next to the lumpy heap on sunless asphalt rests actuality and its plain might flees our naked eyes.

A playback of thoughts doesn’t still. Time drips like wax on flame.

Adrift in wakeful ages, I can’t locate the exit from the state of stand-by. Again and again, providence mulls if past our barricade awaits a second chance.

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Vulnerable

It fizzes beneath the surface of my beliefs. Emerging every now and again, it entraps the inner guards and turns them into a dubious pile of clutter.

In a vacuum-like reality, thoughts get scattered by powerful currents. A place anyone visits on one’s own: reluctant, we stand at the doorstep wishing there would be a welcome, a bare greeting, by another soul.

The hall of mirrors sits, flickering eyelids in mute grandeur. She knows no vice bridges a solitary strip of path, and no ignorance hides the doomsday away from percolating scope of self-reflection.

But we choose to keep trying, lost in the sound of piercing barks aimed at the heavens.

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On emotional banking

He steers away from heartbreak as if they have nothing to say to one another. Dozens of folders with snaps of his daily life depict his heart’s time-out: in them, he giggles, grooves, and exists.

In pursuit of positive thoughts and ceaseless triumphs, he proclaims his life a pain-free zone. As entire generations kneel before emotional buffers, most are oblivious to his cheerful numbness.

The planet journeys on, stumbling under the weight of selfies. Artificial intelligence is no longer a future away; each step of self-rejection brings him closer to his android possessions. Blinded by infinite filter options, he just keeps simpering…

Click?

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Colour-blind

I knew I had to get away. Summed up in a tempo of habits, days came to be a series of constraints. Inside the mind, repetitive motions ruled all awake hours. Unable to sleep through the night, weary, I grew blind to the view.

I knew I had to get away. Like a stale pond, repetition held me static; I was the prisoner of my own heart. No breeze, rain, nor thunder: only ill-fated tries to dialogue with myself. But chats, like hugs, are shared incidents.

I knew I had to get away. Spend a string of days soaked in varying worlds, even lost in ventures distant from my nature. Allow my senses to get overpowered with spices of others’ lives, if only for a few crumbs of time.

I knew I had to get away. And yet it wasn’t about chasing shadows of change. The barren, desperate landscape was a messenger uttering about many a smudge on my display. I needed to step out of my context, in order to get it back.

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Momentum

It lingers for a while each time we meet, wrapping us both in coats of recognition. You may not know how tender your manner is, or may not wish to act upon it. Once we part those alternatives stare at me, teasing. Until I forget.

But everything stops, briefly, as we’re there without any favorable aims in sight, allowing us to return to where we left off.

Moments stolen from decay are infused with comradery and recognition. Like a phoenix, our momentum glides between reality and dreams, touching on peaks of being alive and affairs that don’t even exist.

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Ignorance is made of politeness

In the realm of hierarchy people naturally accept their place, simply because it was there before the dawn of time.

The beneficiaries ignore that which doesn’t belong on their rack and, every so often, desirously look at silent behinds of those they deem superior. On occasion, displaying a chilly smile, they pass on handfuls of bank notes to those who are a class below.

As heavens carry true and false yells for change, most beneficiaries couldn’t survive knowing that people are just people. Less than an inch away sits the change, tragically patient, for that eye contact between the classes never comes.

037Jelena