Stream of Consciousness
Shadows and Light
He grew up in the soft hum of stained glass, where sunlight through colored panes made angels dance on the walls. The church was a fortress, its rituals a rhythm that promised safety. Prayer was a language he learned before he could read, and faith was a comfort as sure as his mother’s hand.
By Sound and Spirit29 days ago in Fiction
In Search of Eternity
His street occupied a position of rare absurdity on the map of City N.: it neither led to the sea nor toward the train station. By setting foot on it, one found oneself even farther from one’s destination. Moreover, it was far less well lit than neighboring Verdi Street.
By Anastasia Tsarkova29 days ago in Fiction
How to fill a hot water bottle. (Or, How to get through the night.)
1. Go to the cupboard where you keep all the towels and sheets. It's at the top of the stairs. Take a deep breath and roll your shoulders back. For this will take some effort. Reach up and dig into the mountain of materials. Past the scratchy towels, the creased sheets, the mismatched pillowcases, the marooned sock. Keep feeling until you find something somewhat soft. There might be a bit of matting from lack of use. With a slight hardness underneath. Grab onto it. Firmly. Begin to start pulling it out of its hole. Like a game of Jenga, don't let the mountain get on top of you. It helps to use one hand for steadying the mountain and the other hand for gripping on to the hot water bottle. Carefully slide it out. Take your time.
By Sarah O'Grady30 days ago in Fiction
A Bright Ribbon in Darker Times
A flower in a pot, a card and Heroes sweets in Morrisons brown paper bag warm the spot behind the door. I pick them all up, stunned, after reading his message, “I dropped a little something on the doorstep for you.” We are not lovers, not even friends.
By Moon Desert30 days ago in Fiction
Notes on Afterwards
I can no longer think about anything. I simply savor the moments when I can close my eyes and let myself be carried away by the memories of that night. Desire burns me, devours me, paralyzes me. Abrupt sentences, monosyllabic words, insults, linguistic pirouettes—from god to whore—loop endlessly in my head. It’s the moment when one no longer knows how to speak, like a newborn, the moment when the verb is not yet there. The moment when one feels the present instant in all its nuances: through touch, sight, taste, smell. The moment when one almost no longer exists. No, when one truly no longer exists, especially as an individual being. It is the moment of absolute fusion with another. It is the moment of coït. With two dots on a single i.
By Anastasia Tsarkova30 days ago in Fiction
