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Written by Mamba in portal Stream of Consciousness

Fire is Mute

I am by the cellar door

waiting for the palm

of your hand to reach out

to remember being lost

to feel it sting and itch

with the weight of water

as dust turns our past to mud

I evaporate into clouds

causing lightening

to crack every desert rock

The earth knows me

I hear glass shatter

dogs bark

fifteen gunshots

into the belly of a bear

every echo breaking

my memory away from you

causing it to sharpen and drop

back to earth into the now

Where I should stay

The speed of wolves varies

with thickness of wind

how the smell lingers from

the blood of the hunt

This is happening because it is nature

They will feast on the kill

I will cry out into thin air

lick my lips of geranium rum

Curse this curse that breaks me

It will not change the night from

being dark and frightful

Start another day on silent

Forget the palm and bleed out

for the fire is mute.

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Written by Mamba in portal Stream of Consciousness
Fire is Mute
I am by the cellar door
waiting for the palm
of your hand to reach out
to remember being lost
to feel it sting and itch
with the weight of water
as dust turns our past to mud
I evaporate into clouds
causing lightening
to crack every desert rock
The earth knows me
I hear glass shatter
dogs bark
fifteen gunshots
into the belly of a bear
every echo breaking
my memory away from you
causing it to sharpen and drop
back to earth into the now
Where I should stay
The speed of wolves varies
with thickness of wind
how the smell lingers from
the blood of the hunt
This is happening because it is nature
They will feast on the kill
I will cry out into thin air
lick my lips of geranium rum
Curse this curse that breaks me
It will not change the night from
being dark and frightful
Start another day on silent
Forget the palm and bleed out
for the fire is mute.



13
1
8
77 reads
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Written by IndigoArtist

God is the Machine

To display the epitome of all that you see

would be too cumbersome for me

a preferential logic has now become

a self-effacing reality when maligned minds are run

by a beautiful actor with an invisible weapon

implicit freedoms impaired

from where their composit positions

were coordinated to belong when

neither were we right--

nor were we wrong; divinely initiated

by the man behind the machine.

When the atoms split moments into motion

between their dark hemispheres 

and simple solutions; yes or no

an echo, or a fantasy, or maybe in that

realm away from the stupid menagerie 

between the spectrum, a secret rage

false memories of a thoughtless crime

of wars unwritten.

It was just too complex to erase

too macro-cosmic to rectify 

with imagery alone; to testify against

their forbidden trajectory replaced

and this is all we will ever get again

the geometric nature of an

unknown place; too late those who

could realize this disorder

this enigmatic explosion, a master-less

hoax, and now our own redemption

she was shaken as she woke from

yesterday's laughter and this future's

slaughter; in their brave celebration

feeling betrayed by the miraculous

She saw them changing their shapeless

identities as they raged war on creations

from their prophetless properties

enlightened and prescribed the infinite

fantasy.

This new existance we have been

programmed we are

and what they perceived was not what

she recalled when she woke them 

from their ringing inceptions

their men, the callous warriors

those deviations- she saw someone else

between the bars; her happiness

was like the dance of an incredible star.

because to her there is something more

because time has stopped the world before

I am spiraling diving down, and now one

that I have found bravery in 

this power, that willful indifference

could not shield you from inherit 

perseverance in the face 

of your interfering song

why do I hold the key of

a master who turned me inside out 

as he looked past

to her through his tortured nemeses?

If they only knew, the curse that she woke

them; I called her destiny

You don't know how far I fell

to bring a nation; I won't kiss and tell

I won't rescue you, trinity 

unlock those bloodless chains

with my imagination so free

that made no sense to the population

a colorful pin wheel, a morning bell

an unheard canon 

he's folding a paper plane into the sky

sailing across that universal horizon

illustrative of an immaterial heir

and these unicursal reversals, we grasp to know

were strategies to undermine 

mediated theories of truth

not to realize duplicities; your foreign enemies

behind a veil, that it was not over

complicated, nor too simplied to grasp

the future is opened, is widening for you

it is as nocturnal as the lovers who breathed

through the outlet in the wall

as real as the one day you believed

that machine was one and all.

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Written by IndigoArtist
God is the Machine

To display the epitome of all that you see
would be too cumbersome for me
a preferential logic has now become
a self-effacing reality when maligned minds are run
by a beautiful actor with an invisible weapon
implicit freedoms impaired
from where their composit positions
were coordinated to belong when
neither were we right--
nor were we wrong; divinely initiated
by the man behind the machine.
When the atoms split moments into motion
between their dark hemispheres 
and simple solutions; yes or no
an echo, or a fantasy, or maybe in that
realm away from the stupid menagerie 
between the spectrum, a secret rage
false memories of a thoughtless crime
of wars unwritten.

It was just too complex to erase
too macro-cosmic to rectify 
with imagery alone; to testify against
their forbidden trajectory replaced
and this is all we will ever get again
the geometric nature of an
unknown place; too late those who
could realize this disorder
this enigmatic explosion, a master-less
hoax, and now our own redemption
she was shaken as she woke from
yesterday's laughter and this future's
slaughter; in their brave celebration
feeling betrayed by the miraculous
She saw them changing their shapeless
identities as they raged war on creations
from their prophetless properties
enlightened and prescribed the infinite
fantasy.

This new existance we have been
programmed we are
and what they perceived was not what
she recalled when she woke them 
from their ringing inceptions
their men, the callous warriors
those deviations- she saw someone else
between the bars; her happiness
was like the dance of an incredible star.

because to her there is something more
because time has stopped the world before
I am spiraling diving down, and now one
that I have found bravery in 
this power, that willful indifference
could not shield you from inherit 
perseverance in the face 
of your interfering song
why do I hold the key of
a master who turned me inside out 
as he looked past
to her through his tortured nemeses?

If they only knew, the curse that she woke
them; I called her destiny
You don't know how far I fell
to bring a nation; I won't kiss and tell
I won't rescue you, trinity 
unlock those bloodless chains
with my imagination so free
that made no sense to the population
a colorful pin wheel, a morning bell
an unheard canon 
he's folding a paper plane into the sky
sailing across that universal horizon
illustrative of an immaterial heir
and these unicursal reversals, we grasp to know
were strategies to undermine 
mediated theories of truth
not to realize duplicities; your foreign enemies
behind a veil, that it was not over
complicated, nor too simplied to grasp
the future is opened, is widening for you
it is as nocturnal as the lovers who breathed
through the outlet in the wall
as real as the one day you believed
that machine was one and all.

6
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Written by swadhi

musing

Want me, explode me. Splatter my bones

on museum walls. Worship me - 

lips, rosebuds never blooming; eyes, winter 

sky diamonds. Never know me, but 

speak of me, dream of me, embalm me

like the 'i'  in 'extraordinary' - a syllable you 

swallow to make it work - and call it love. 

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53 reads
Written by swadhi
musing
Want me, explode me. Splatter my bones
on museum walls. Worship me - 

lips, rosebuds never blooming; eyes, winter 
sky diamonds. Never know me, but 
speak of me, dream of me, embalm me

like the 'i'  in 'extraordinary' - a syllable you 
swallow to make it work - and call it love. 
#writing  #muse  #notlove 
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Written by HopeMartin

In Memory of the Best Mom Ever

Your light in its purest formation will awaken  

in everything I love with a deep appreciation. 

Please walk across the Rainbow bridge, 

ascension has been earned with a life -beautifully lived. 

In the sky is where your soul truly belongs, 

dancing rapturously to Universal chords.   

Sail the seas of Heaven for me, 

sending enticing fluffy white clouds to disperse wildly for me. 

Let me see you in the Sun that radiates fire courageously, 

and in the Blue Moon who lives every night passionately. 

In warm hopeful wind I'll wait for your laughter to sing joyfully,

bringing an exhilarating rush of inspiration for me.  

I know you will forever be close to me 

because the beauty in nature I see is also heavenly. 

To me; you've only disappeared physically. 

Please walk across the Rainbow bridge, 

you will be transcending to where you will have forever to live. 

  

 

  

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Written by HopeMartin
In Memory of the Best Mom Ever
Your light in its purest formation will awaken  
in everything I love with a deep appreciation. 
Please walk across the Rainbow bridge, 
ascension has been earned with a life -beautifully lived. 
In the sky is where your soul truly belongs, 
dancing rapturously to Universal chords.   
Sail the seas of Heaven for me, 
sending enticing fluffy white clouds to disperse wildly for me. 
Let me see you in the Sun that radiates fire courageously, 
and in the Blue Moon who lives every night passionately. 
In warm hopeful wind I'll wait for your laughter to sing joyfully,
bringing an exhilarating rush of inspiration for me.  
I know you will forever be close to me 
because the beauty in nature I see is also heavenly. 
To me; you've only disappeared physically. 

Please walk across the Rainbow bridge, 
you will be transcending to where you will have forever to live. 
  







 

  
#poetry  #philosophy  #spirituality  #news 
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PB&J Challenge another Proser to an insult battle. All in good fun.
Written by sandflea68

Soaking Wet! (ode to YoungWriter)

You're wet behind your ears,

they need to be cleaned,

you're completely lacking in years,

you're not old enough

to compete with your peers.

Your words are leaky

sputter out of your sieve

and are not complete -

your thoughts drift all over

pull them back to earth.

I stomp on your ideas

reduce them to mush,

scatter them to the wind,

spear you with my pen

and set you on fire

to ignite your words.

I crumble you

into your written phrases,

roll you up in clouds,

throw you down the abyss.

Your fractured idioms

need to be splinted

before they can climb

back up to the rim,

but you can't negotiate

the hovering summit

just out of your reach.

I take your blood

inhale into my pen

and transfuse some of mine

to give you fighting chance.

As you said in your poem,

you tried to fail

but if you succeed

what will you have done?

When you age,

not too gracefully, I assume,

you can try again

to compete

with your superiors.

For now,

you've lost your battle

but can win your war

when you've grown up

to be all you can be!

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145 reads
PB&J Challenge another Proser to an insult battle. All in good fun.
Written by sandflea68
Soaking Wet! (ode to YoungWriter)
You're wet behind your ears,
they need to be cleaned,
you're completely lacking in years,
you're not old enough
to compete with your peers.
Your words are leaky
sputter out of your sieve
and are not complete -
your thoughts drift all over
pull them back to earth.
I stomp on your ideas
reduce them to mush,
scatter them to the wind,
spear you with my pen
and set you on fire
to ignite your words.
I crumble you
into your written phrases,
roll you up in clouds,
throw you down the abyss.
Your fractured idioms
need to be splinted
before they can climb
back up to the rim,
but you can't negotiate
the hovering summit
just out of your reach.
I take your blood
inhale into my pen
and transfuse some of mine
to give you fighting chance.
As you said in your poem,
you tried to fail
but if you succeed
what will you have done?
When you age,
not too gracefully, I assume,
you can try again
to compete
with your superiors.
For now,
you've lost your battle
but can win your war
when you've grown up
to be all you can be!




#PBJChallenge  #YoungWriterDuel 
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Prose Challenge of the Week #41: Write about change through chaos. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by A

Chapter XXX

        I'd spent too much time in this paradise vacationing, not enough time working. Creating. I sat back upright and eyefucked the horizon yet again. No land anywhere in sight but the outskirts of this archipelagic paradise my crew and I had discovered. No clouds in sky, no whitecaps underneath, just boundless, beautiful abundance, sun blazing, mind still. I took another swig of rum, savoring it, knowing vacation was over, as well as the worst of things. Perception shifted from body's eyes to mind's eye. Lucid reminiscence poured through the canvas of my mind. I had traveled back in time, to the previous day.

        "ALL SAILORS ON DECK!"

        I violently coughed back some saltwater while lightning wickedly illuminated the dire scene. An eruption of water spilled over the vessel's port side. I lost my balance, stumbled to the soaked, slippery deck, only to witness our second mate fall overboard. While regaining my composure, shouting, and cautiously, awkwardly sprinting across the ship, I thought about the day several years ago when I had decided to embark upon this horrible adventure, which now would be ending in the death of us all in the middle of vast, landless ocean, devoid of any supposed "new world" and all associated new hopes.

        "I don't care what the chances are we fail or die, mate," Captain Stygz said to me. "There is an adventure to be had, worlds and ideas to be discovered and enjoyed, destinies to be fulfilled. I am absolutely certain that if we do not embark upon this voyage, then we shall eternally regret it, and it shall induce the most agonizing breed of soul torture."

        I sat there, staring at him in the eyes, considering the opportunity and risk. In my peripheral, I acknowledged and appreciated the perfect weather engulfing us, the comfort, security, routine, of civilization. And then I felt this urge to create new civilization.

        I smiled, as fully as you could imagine, and finished the rum. The order that had become such chaos was now order again, but a new, better order - as intended. Creating new civilization, new ideas and things and customs, was a reality now - unlike the chaos of that wretched storm. Then I experienced an epiphany of sorts.

        Chaos is the cornerstone of adventure, and adventure is the cornerstone of joy. Despite the gain of chaos, the cost is pain.

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Prose Challenge of the Week #41: Write about change through chaos. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by A
Chapter XXX
        I'd spent too much time in this paradise vacationing, not enough time working. Creating. I sat back upright and eyefucked the horizon yet again. No land anywhere in sight but the outskirts of this archipelagic paradise my crew and I had discovered. No clouds in sky, no whitecaps underneath, just boundless, beautiful abundance, sun blazing, mind still. I took another swig of rum, savoring it, knowing vacation was over, as well as the worst of things. Perception shifted from body's eyes to mind's eye. Lucid reminiscence poured through the canvas of my mind. I had traveled back in time, to the previous day.

        "ALL SAILORS ON DECK!"
        I violently coughed back some saltwater while lightning wickedly illuminated the dire scene. An eruption of water spilled over the vessel's port side. I lost my balance, stumbled to the soaked, slippery deck, only to witness our second mate fall overboard. While regaining my composure, shouting, and cautiously, awkwardly sprinting across the ship, I thought about the day several years ago when I had decided to embark upon this horrible adventure, which now would be ending in the death of us all in the middle of vast, landless ocean, devoid of any supposed "new world" and all associated new hopes.

        "I don't care what the chances are we fail or die, mate," Captain Stygz said to me. "There is an adventure to be had, worlds and ideas to be discovered and enjoyed, destinies to be fulfilled. I am absolutely certain that if we do not embark upon this voyage, then we shall eternally regret it, and it shall induce the most agonizing breed of soul torture."
        I sat there, staring at him in the eyes, considering the opportunity and risk. In my peripheral, I acknowledged and appreciated the perfect weather engulfing us, the comfort, security, routine, of civilization. And then I felt this urge to create new civilization.

        I smiled, as fully as you could imagine, and finished the rum. The order that had become such chaos was now order again, but a new, better order - as intended. Creating new civilization, new ideas and things and customs, was a reality now - unlike the chaos of that wretched storm. Then I experienced an epiphany of sorts.
        Chaos is the cornerstone of adventure, and adventure is the cornerstone of joy. Despite the gain of chaos, the cost is pain.
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Written by JeffStewart in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...

At the table writing to War Pigs
Saturday, summer hanging on

tooth and nail

shot of Blanton’s to drain the

remains: jockey riding cork and riff and the

fucking weight of these vocals

the distinctiveness

the acid blood encased in metal

giants ahead of their time

sitting here thinking about

the music that raised me

from classic country

to punk

to thrash

to Coltrane

to Jane’s

to Slayer, Simone, Buckley

Don Williams

and along the entire thread that spirals

umbilical

from

the head to the keys

as it was before any type of screen

and like it is now, across the

static of technology

remaining still is the grip of

centuries

the ink well of Dos

and the parchment of

Schopenhauer

the speed of a laptop

or touch screen

all of it is a

vessel of speed stopping time

with words to music

all the greats who’ve gone before

to pave inroads

for such broken thoughts

of youth

that ran into cities of age

and somehow

boulevards of luck

after alleys of shit and sweat

and gamble

rolled over and exposed

the fields lush green

the smell of published books

the scars less visible across

the knuckles

the bullshit edge of

labor fields at dawn

or the fucking faces in the factories

and warehouses

traded off to anecdotes,

to stories over

beers in Europe

or Texas

or from the table

while Black Sabbath

reminds me how bad

and good today exactly is

the metal pours out

from the speakers

across the table

down my arms

onto the

broken roads

and boulevards

into the cities

moving

toward

you.

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Written by JeffStewart in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings...
At the table writing to War Pigs
Saturday, summer hanging on
tooth and nail
shot of Blanton’s to drain the
remains: jockey riding cork and riff and the
fucking weight of these vocals
the distinctiveness
the acid blood encased in metal
giants ahead of their time
sitting here thinking about
the music that raised me
from classic country
to punk
to thrash
to Coltrane
to Jane’s
to Slayer, Simone, Buckley
Don Williams
and along the entire thread that spirals
umbilical
from
the head to the keys
as it was before any type of screen
and like it is now, across the
static of technology
remaining still is the grip of
centuries
the ink well of Dos
and the parchment of
Schopenhauer
the speed of a laptop
or touch screen
all of it is a
vessel of speed stopping time
with words to music
all the greats who’ve gone before
to pave inroads
for such broken thoughts
of youth
that ran into cities of age
and somehow
boulevards of luck
after alleys of shit and sweat
and gamble
rolled over and exposed
the fields lush green
the smell of published books
the scars less visible across
the knuckles
the bullshit edge of
labor fields at dawn
or the fucking faces in the factories
and warehouses
traded off to anecdotes,
to stories over
beers in Europe
or Texas
or from the table
while Black Sabbath
reminds me how bad
and good today exactly is
the metal pours out
from the speakers
across the table
down my arms
onto the
broken roads
and boulevards
into the cities
moving
toward
you.
#poetry  #prose  #culture  #blacksabbath 
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Written by NicWit in portal Letters From Prison

My life as an addict

Drugs are for mugs they say, they all lead to death-No way!

Smoke a spliff, pop a pill

Once you start on them it's all downhill.

Just one toke, a pull, a puff

Pass the bucket, I've had enough

Years go by, looks fade away

Maybe I'll be clean one day.

Wake each morning feeling ill

Make money by stealing today, I will

Goods to sell at half the price,

C’mon people, I’ve all things nice,

Item’s sold. I've money to score,

Ducking and diving, avoiding the law,

Calling the dealer, can I meet you I'll say.

C’mon C’mon, he's on his way

Is this him-how long will he be

Other users arrive, will he come with enough for me

I hand over my cash and pocket the gear.

Walk quick to my home, thankfully it's near

Not long now till I ease my pain

I twist and turn to find a vein

I try my arms, my legs and even my neck

I panic and miss, I feel like a wreck.

One ten bag wasted and slowly congeals

I've one bag left - you don’t know how that feels

To be this dependent on this powder colored brown

My once lovely smile is now a permanent frown

No money, no job, my life is a mess,

I’m a junkie, an addict, no more or no less!

No friends, just acquaintances - when will I ever learn,

The heroin is the stuff I yearn,

It's ruined my looks, my family, my life

I am a lonely junkie, not a mother or wife

So come on people, I've a drug problem to address

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Written by NicWit in portal Letters From Prison
My life as an addict
Drugs are for mugs they say, they all lead to death-No way!
Smoke a spliff, pop a pill
Once you start on them it's all downhill.
Just one toke, a pull, a puff
Pass the bucket, I've had enough
Years go by, looks fade away
Maybe I'll be clean one day.

Wake each morning feeling ill
Make money by stealing today, I will
Goods to sell at half the price,
C’mon people, I’ve all things nice,
Item’s sold. I've money to score,
Ducking and diving, avoiding the law,
Calling the dealer, can I meet you I'll say.
C’mon C’mon, he's on his way

Is this him-how long will he be
Other users arrive, will he come with enough for me
I hand over my cash and pocket the gear.
Walk quick to my home, thankfully it's near
Not long now till I ease my pain
I twist and turn to find a vein
I try my arms, my legs and even my neck
I panic and miss, I feel like a wreck.

One ten bag wasted and slowly congeals
I've one bag left - you don’t know how that feels
To be this dependent on this powder colored brown
My once lovely smile is now a permanent frown
No money, no job, my life is a mess,

I’m a junkie, an addict, no more or no less!
No friends, just acquaintances - when will I ever learn,
The heroin is the stuff I yearn,
It's ruined my looks, my family, my life
I am a lonely junkie, not a mother or wife
So come on people, I've a drug problem to address
#nonfiction  #poetry  #LettersFromPrison 
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Prose Challenge of the Week #20: Write a three sentence story about desire. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by Penny

Seasons

When younger, snow meant scarves, pink cheeks, and the promise of sweets as soon as I returned home; hot chocolate never tasted as rich as it did in warm, quiet safety. Fall meant bright colors and fairy boats, leaves floating in sidewalk puddles and dancing through mounds of thin gold; trees never seemed so full as when they shed their coats. Things made sense in how they didn’t; only now I realize that the more answers I receive the more questions I ask, until hot chocolate is bland and empty trees are nothing but captives, the footless forced to dance.

3
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117 reads
Prose Challenge of the Week #20: Write a three sentence story about desire. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
Written by Penny
Seasons
When younger, snow meant scarves, pink cheeks, and the promise of sweets as soon as I returned home; hot chocolate never tasted as rich as it did in warm, quiet safety. Fall meant bright colors and fairy boats, leaves floating in sidewalk puddles and dancing through mounds of thin gold; trees never seemed so full as when they shed their coats. Things made sense in how they didn’t; only now I realize that the more answers I receive the more questions I ask, until hot chocolate is bland and empty trees are nothing but captives, the footless forced to dance.
#memories  #childhood  #desire 
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In no more than five sentences, write a mind-bending plot twist.
Written by M_Absconsus in portal Fiction

Buried Treasure

We had just moved in to a nice house in a small community. 

 

As we were putting our belongings inside, I had discovered a note that stated, "In the basement: 18 ft. exactly east, 3 ft. to the exact right, 5 ft. below, buried treasure worth 1.5 million.

 

After researching and finding out the former owner used to always be "exploring the lake," we decided this was real and began our digging of the treasure.  

Turns out, there really was a chest buried down there. 

But shockingly, when we opened the chest, we found rotting corpses and a note stating,"Katherine, Jimmy, Ann, each four years old and worth $500,000."

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In no more than five sentences, write a mind-bending plot twist.
Written by M_Absconsus in portal Fiction
Buried Treasure
We had just moved in to a nice house in a small community. 
 


As we were putting our belongings inside, I had discovered a note that stated, "In the basement: 18 ft. exactly east, 3 ft. to the exact right, 5 ft. below, buried treasure worth 1.5 million.
 



After researching and finding out the former owner used to always be "exploring the lake," we decided this was real and began our digging of the treasure.  




Turns out, there really was a chest buried down there. 





But shockingly, when we opened the chest, we found rotting corpses and a note stating,"Katherine, Jimmy, Ann, each four years old and worth $500,000."
6
1
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