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Personal Writing > Sam's Shorties

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message 1: by Sam (new)

Sam Howdy. These short stories come to me in my dreams. So I write them to share with the world. Hope you enjoy!

message 2: by Sam (new)

Sam Round Infinite, Fight!
140 words

When I go to sleep at night, I always think about watching the sunrise the next day.

Some mornings the light seeps in colors, like a slow leak from an overfilled cup. Other mornings the sun comes up more purposeful and sudden. Luminous and gracious. It brings me great joy to sit in those auroras.

One particular dawn, the night held so tightly to it’s present time that the sunlight splintered the sky. The first daybreak looked more like a festering wound at that moment. The orange-red of the night burn made me miss the usual, gentle flows of the morning tide. Even on grey days, the sun never usually looks so grotesque! I guess even the abyss of the universe has troubles with regulating its moods.

How painful it is to fight darkness off, gracefully, continuously.

message 3: by Sam (new)

Sam Weird Dream
160 words

I am standing still. Eyes closed, skin luminous. My eyelids flutter open to greet the radiance before me. What I see instead is a large window encasing intense mixtures of colors; cream, yellow, white. I stand naked in front of this window of light, yet I do not feel ashamed. Time appears slower as I reach up to shield my eyes. I don a smirk from the relaxation and calm I feel.

Then suddenly, the window bursts with cosmic pressure, sending shards of glass through the room. Particles of the light itself, now trapped in this glass, seemed comfortably snug ripping into the first layers of my flesh. Now panicked, I tear a scrap of pure white cloth from the curtains to cover myself. The rest of the fabric display hanging from the window comes crashing down. I watch the first trickles of red bleed through from the forced copulation of skin and sun, as I coward back into darkness.

message 4: by Sam (new)

Sam OverThought
500 words

Sipping on coffee this morning, Queen and David Bowie’s “Under Pressure” is all I hear in my mind as I stare blankly out the front window. Earworms are the worst kind of worms, I think. There’s no squishy feel to them and no earthy aroma because, well, they’re imaginary. I can tell it rained heavily again last night. Everything’s the color of thick mud. I look on to my driveway and mourn over the war zone that happened while I slept. They say that the early bird catches the worm but they never talk about how the early worm gets eaten alive.

While leaving my house, I have to daintily step over bits and pieces of real earthworm that lie scattered on the way to my car. Why are there no proverbs written about the sun-charred, mangled pieces of worm left over from the early bird’s feasting? Are they not an important part of the life cycle, too? The proverb should read “the body and blood of the worm nourish the early bird.”

After dancing my way to my car, I get seated inside. I notice first how puffy my eyes look and think “This won’t do.” I quickly adjust my headscarf, dab on some liquid foundation, and reverse from my driveway. My little car sways from the brute force of the wind. It’s a cold day and the sun is trying desperately to wake up. I think even the trees cry with me during this season. The sun starts to hibernate and the sky becomes the color of cement. People talk about how lovely the fall colors are or how the cooler weather excites them into a pumpkin indulgent frenzy. All I see is death and decay. The bright yellow leaves litter the roads into the litany of a life’s cycle. The sky is an endless void of grey, sucking out the last bit of color left in the world. The air is crisper like it doesn’t have any energy left for nurturing. Shedding their tears, the trees look heavier than usual. I feel heavier than usual.

Along the way, I hear a few geese honking as my car paces with them. I think about how freeing it must be to fly, to travel by floating. I realize then that I’ve never craved wings to fly anywhere. I enjoy the view from the ground, where life finds a way. The earthworms have always thrived by burying themselves in what they love until it sacrifices its body. I think of the sacrifices I have made over the years and I wonder where my own decay gets recycled. What the earthworm never concerns itself with, is the fact that sustainable life depends on its decay. And why should the worm concern itself with its death? It is in that thought that I remember that life is meant to be enjoyed at the moment. Meanwhile, my overthinking, but still driving, mind narrowly misses hitting the squirrel attempting to cross the road.

message 5: by Coralie, Wordy Writer (last edited Mar 28, 2018 06:11PM) (new)

Coralie (corkybookworm) | 1249 comments Mod
Sorry! Just saw your posts! I'll add your points promptly! Oh, also, thank you for posting word counts!

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