Andreso
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Andreso

Something beneath Grandma's luminous corpse.

Winter's cold breeze gives what it takes, and we were set on a single floor house with a courtyard in between. Generations come with a different number of children. Grandma had three: my father, my uncle and my aunt. My father had two, my uncle and aunt each had three themselves. At that time we were eight grandchildren, two male, six female. Grandma got sick and lost her ability to move, or talk, or even to breathe. But sickness respected the light in her eyes. It was Sofia's birthday, the firstborn of my aunt. And she was always particularly connected to Grandma, she looked a lot like her when she was young. That day, instead of cake or alcohol, we had numerous gnostic and catholic rituals to wave her soul away. She held on to us until she heard the last words from all of her grandchildren. I told her that I loved her and that there's nothing to fear. She was spirit strong, that led to a successful fifty year marriage, 'til death did them apart. 

We kept her for another day in the deathbed, her sisters came from the city with their children (all grown ups) and some of their grandchildren that were close to her. They all waved goodbye to a peaceful looking beautiful corpse. It wasn't agonic to anybody, but it was kind of sad to all of us. She had a glass stand filled with toy frogs and ornamental frogs. That was her leap. I closed my eyes and saw essential light spores jumping with grace taking the form of a frog straight to a big white star. Then it was all tears and liquid laments. 

The discovery day came with the funerary service taking the body case of my grandma away. Between the wrinkles left on the bed, I found an egg. And it began cracking lightly. A little amphibian face looked at me, with the same look grandma gave me when I told her not to be afraid. It was kinda like a frog with little feathers on it. The sky outside the window was clear. And I thought clearly for the first time in days. I took the feathered frog within my hands, we heated. It tried to jump, but was still a little baby creature with no developed survival abilities. I took it to the roof where I looked at the stars. I lived on a city with no visible sky, and I loved to see the sky every time I visited my grandparents. For the time we were there, the feathered frog and I, taking a deep look to the shiniest stars, it had developed greater feathers with a golden tint on the tiny hair that feathers have. It jumped from my hands and expanded a hummingbird like wings, landed on my cheek and whispered to my ear in some language foreign to mankind. I took it with my hands once more, it stared into my eyes, gave me a smile and flew away into the sky with gracious movements until it was just a tiny spot disappearing between the stars. 

That moment I realised that stars are alive. And I also realised that my Grandma is a big one, the one that looks like a feathered frog, always in a leap. 

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Andreso
Something beneath Grandma's luminous corpse.
Winter's cold breeze gives what it takes, and we were set on a single floor house with a courtyard in between. Generations come with a different number of children. Grandma had three: my father, my uncle and my aunt. My father had two, my uncle and aunt each had three themselves. At that time we were eight grandchildren, two male, six female. Grandma got sick and lost her ability to move, or talk, or even to breathe. But sickness respected the light in her eyes. It was Sofia's birthday, the firstborn of my aunt. And she was always particularly connected to Grandma, she looked a lot like her when she was young. That day, instead of cake or alcohol, we had numerous gnostic and catholic rituals to wave her soul away. She held on to us until she heard the last words from all of her grandchildren. I told her that I loved her and that there's nothing to fear. She was spirit strong, that led to a successful fifty year marriage, 'til death did them apart. 

We kept her for another day in the deathbed, her sisters came from the city with their children (all grown ups) and some of their grandchildren that were close to her. They all waved goodbye to a peaceful looking beautiful corpse. It wasn't agonic to anybody, but it was kind of sad to all of us. She had a glass stand filled with toy frogs and ornamental frogs. That was her leap. I closed my eyes and saw essential light spores jumping with grace taking the form of a frog straight to a big white star. Then it was all tears and liquid laments. 

The discovery day came with the funerary service taking the body case of my grandma away. Between the wrinkles left on the bed, I found an egg. And it began cracking lightly. A little amphibian face looked at me, with the same look grandma gave me when I told her not to be afraid. It was kinda like a frog with little feathers on it. The sky outside the window was clear. And I thought clearly for the first time in days. I took the feathered frog within my hands, we heated. It tried to jump, but was still a little baby creature with no developed survival abilities. I took it to the roof where I looked at the stars. I lived on a city with no visible sky, and I loved to see the sky every time I visited my grandparents. For the time we were there, the feathered frog and I, taking a deep look to the shiniest stars, it had developed greater feathers with a golden tint on the tiny hair that feathers have. It jumped from my hands and expanded a hummingbird like wings, landed on my cheek and whispered to my ear in some language foreign to mankind. I took it with my hands once more, it stared into my eyes, gave me a smile and flew away into the sky with gracious movements until it was just a tiny spot disappearing between the stars. 

That moment I realised that stars are alive. And I also realised that my Grandma is a big one, the one that looks like a feathered frog, always in a leap. 
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

así el viento susurro las palabras

el puente colapso.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
así el viento susurro las palabras
el puente colapso.
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Written by Andreso

I was there, sitting right next to my trilobite alarm clock waiting for it to ring and announce wake up time. It might sound stupid stating at time going by, but everyones mind is disastrous and if I get the time right at its first, the day's managing will be right on spot.

It was a weekend day, light clouded, windy, a sight masterpiece itself. My phone rung. It was a newspaper reporter asking what it felt like. First I wondered, then I remembered that Christian Lötherforher had died last night on anti depressants overdose. Now I was number one and it sucked.

I felt stupid myself, I had considered I was a normal person in terms of physique and carnal anhelations. But then it came the tests, and when they all finished they said I understood everything about existence but Lötherforher's mind. I know that mind's gone. I understand that. The next moment I spent it wishing I had worn a bow tie for that special's day ocasion. Then I remembered there was nobody to celebrate with. All my friends called me a complex incomprehensible loon. And it was sometimes true.

But they just can't understand that I come from a humble home with a fixation for heirlooms and ripe antiques. Every object had its story, as I had as an object. But I'm a human compounded by everything a human's made of. A subject objectified by the other subjects just because I've provides my head thought and thought even in my dreams. And I always dreamt a normal life without being pointed, but I guess its something valuable when I present it in my curriculum vitae.

I had to grow up next to stock boys and mini market managers that could spend hours talking about that blonde haired girl that brought the milk on Saturdays. I had to grow watching the sun glaze and translating it to math, music and words. I had to grow to do things a normal man wouldn't do. But now that I do I wish I was stupid enough to avoid the focal attention on me now that Lötherforher is gone. So yeah, I miss Lötherforher and his manuscripts about life and life forms, I miss his face in the cover of the magazines. I miss myself as second, now that I can't get rid of my thoughts, I won't be able to get rid of your attenttion.

I'll just wait for another baby to take that title from me. Maybe act stupid once and have some friends or fun or that things people can talk about for hours like football and gossip. But that, for me, for now, is just a plain sheet with occasional lines that would cross or gather or collide, just as me scratching in my book things I think like this trying to write a thank you speech. So thank you for calling me smart guy on first grade Stew!

And also thank you mother, father, Herbert and my childhood's porcupine Stevie, for accompanying me in this painful and solitary process. Thank you, thank you and thank you too.

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Written by Andreso
I was there, sitting right next to my trilobite alarm clock waiting for it to ring and announce wake up time. It might sound stupid stating at time going by, but everyones mind is disastrous and if I get the time right at its first, the day's managing will be right on spot.

It was a weekend day, light clouded, windy, a sight masterpiece itself. My phone rung. It was a newspaper reporter asking what it felt like. First I wondered, then I remembered that Christian Lötherforher had died last night on anti depressants overdose. Now I was number one and it sucked.

I felt stupid myself, I had considered I was a normal person in terms of physique and carnal anhelations. But then it came the tests, and when they all finished they said I understood everything about existence but Lötherforher's mind. I know that mind's gone. I understand that. The next moment I spent it wishing I had worn a bow tie for that special's day ocasion. Then I remembered there was nobody to celebrate with. All my friends called me a complex incomprehensible loon. And it was sometimes true.

But they just can't understand that I come from a humble home with a fixation for heirlooms and ripe antiques. Every object had its story, as I had as an object. But I'm a human compounded by everything a human's made of. A subject objectified by the other subjects just because I've provides my head thought and thought even in my dreams. And I always dreamt a normal life without being pointed, but I guess its something valuable when I present it in my curriculum vitae.

I had to grow up next to stock boys and mini market managers that could spend hours talking about that blonde haired girl that brought the milk on Saturdays. I had to grow watching the sun glaze and translating it to math, music and words. I had to grow to do things a normal man wouldn't do. But now that I do I wish I was stupid enough to avoid the focal attention on me now that Lötherforher is gone. So yeah, I miss Lötherforher and his manuscripts about life and life forms, I miss his face in the cover of the magazines. I miss myself as second, now that I can't get rid of my thoughts, I won't be able to get rid of your attenttion.

I'll just wait for another baby to take that title from me. Maybe act stupid once and have some friends or fun or that things people can talk about for hours like football and gossip. But that, for me, for now, is just a plain sheet with occasional lines that would cross or gather or collide, just as me scratching in my book things I think like this trying to write a thank you speech. So thank you for calling me smart guy on first grade Stew!
And also thank you mother, father, Herbert and my childhood's porcupine Stevie, for accompanying me in this painful and solitary process. Thank you, thank you and thank you too.
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Bring fractal fatality

and overdose with me.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Bring fractal fatality
and overdose with me.
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Take a walk with me

throw wind to the fire

cast the shining

flag the enigmatic spot found in way.

Spray tan a sitting stone,

or a selfish rock,

or a shellfish looking for antlers.

Grim the letterace of illiterate cats,

kettering the hot spot

the flooded mutt sock

the boiled flu shot

and the plentiful fuck stock.

Raise the claw as a proper crab,

and dig a hole with mole dignity.

Unleash the bear hair

to the flower trails,

bring foxy tails

and rusty rat tales.

Use the solar system to explain teeth.

Use the bat wing to carry the moon.

Use the first heard symphony to fill the voidful mistakes.

And set to the winding sunsets your favorite window ever.

Dress as dirt.

Dress as soil.

Dress with roots and fruits and other edible plants.

Dress with leaves, and petals and memories.

And now carry on with me in this fallen rising kingdom.

As we walk we'll see how the eldest rise as the newborn keep falling.

And parents will keep calling as they're still parents.

And your secret love will avoid your calls as his secret love also avoids his.

And we'll hesitate.

And we'll levitate.

And we'll tattle tale.

And we'll rake the lake when its filled with leaves.

That's the easy part of it. But the conversation went too long to keep avoiding the bank line chat and the scorekeeper talk. But who's counting.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Take a walk with me
throw wind to the fire
cast the shining
flag the enigmatic spot found in way.
Spray tan a sitting stone,
or a selfish rock,
or a shellfish looking for antlers.
Grim the letterace of illiterate cats,
kettering the hot spot
the flooded mutt sock
the boiled flu shot
and the plentiful fuck stock.
Raise the claw as a proper crab,
and dig a hole with mole dignity.
Unleash the bear hair
to the flower trails,
bring foxy tails
and rusty rat tales.
Use the solar system to explain teeth.
Use the bat wing to carry the moon.
Use the first heard symphony to fill the voidful mistakes.
And set to the winding sunsets your favorite window ever.
Dress as dirt.
Dress as soil.
Dress with roots and fruits and other edible plants.
Dress with leaves, and petals and memories.
And now carry on with me in this fallen rising kingdom.
As we walk we'll see how the eldest rise as the newborn keep falling.
And parents will keep calling as they're still parents.
And your secret love will avoid your calls as his secret love also avoids his.
And we'll hesitate.
And we'll levitate.
And we'll tattle tale.
And we'll rake the lake when its filled with leaves.
That's the easy part of it. But the conversation went too long to keep avoiding the bank line chat and the scorekeeper talk. But who's counting.

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Written by Andreso

Look how beautiful it is in between,

the held distance of static expansion,

the full-grown eggplant

and drowned white cloths.

Look how beautiful the tree limb stretched,

a long-living caress in lily form,

or plant world prime minister

or just a flowered jester.

Look how beautiful the mind whereabouts,

and the carcass of the soul,

and the royal penguin feathers,

and the ice sculpted land.

Look how beautiful it is to love

the shadowed and enlightened,

the red and the blues

the friar's murderer and its clues.

Look how beautiful is the church outside,

and the grail,

and the green olive that grows in the gardens.

Look how great the beauty witholds itself,

what a perfect container was given,

in geometry, lighting and dripped stains,

and in form of shoes.

Look how beautiful that night was,

the stars hanging without entirely falling,

and the moon was free,

and the airplane lights also shining still.

Look how beautiful empty barrels are,

looks better with guava fruit inside,

and seeds make eating guava fun,

under the shade or under the sun.

Look how great the beauty expresses,

in homeless hair and deep brown eyes,

in golden nails and silver necklaces,

and the feeling of stepping in fresh grass barefooted.

Oh how beautiful it was to write,

the thanks, the unavailable footnotes,

the wine tones and hot cider cinammons,

the dancing ghosts and howling owls,

the whispered answers of spirit traits,

those chemistry students,

all the well planned allibies,

the escaping youth,

the everlasting stories,

ancient jade jewellery,

fresh orange juice,

inactive volcanoes,

sick thundestorms,

ashes,

matter,

darkness,

light,

time,

curiosity

perspective

and truth...

and your gorgeous face.

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Written by Andreso
Look how beautiful it is in between,
the held distance of static expansion,
the full-grown eggplant
and drowned white cloths.

Look how beautiful the tree limb stretched,
a long-living caress in lily form,
or plant world prime minister
or just a flowered jester.

Look how beautiful the mind whereabouts,
and the carcass of the soul,
and the royal penguin feathers,
and the ice sculpted land.

Look how beautiful it is to love
the shadowed and enlightened,
the red and the blues
the friar's murderer and its clues.

Look how beautiful is the church outside,
and the grail,
and the green olive that grows in the gardens.

Look how great the beauty witholds itself,
what a perfect container was given,
in geometry, lighting and dripped stains,
and in form of shoes.

Look how beautiful that night was,
the stars hanging without entirely falling,
and the moon was free,
and the airplane lights also shining still.

Look how beautiful empty barrels are,
looks better with guava fruit inside,
and seeds make eating guava fun,
under the shade or under the sun.

Look how great the beauty expresses,
in homeless hair and deep brown eyes,
in golden nails and silver necklaces,
and the feeling of stepping in fresh grass barefooted.

Oh how beautiful it was to write,
the thanks, the unavailable footnotes,
the wine tones and hot cider cinammons,
the dancing ghosts and howling owls,
the whispered answers of spirit traits,
those chemistry students,
all the well planned allibies,
the escaping youth,
the everlasting stories,
ancient jade jewellery,
fresh orange juice,
inactive volcanoes,
sick thundestorms,
ashes,
matter,
darkness,
light,
time,
curiosity
perspective
and truth...
and your gorgeous face.
6
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Written by Andreso

I looked at him once, and with just a deep stare at his eyes I understood who he was and why.

He was dressed in black with traslucid purple little round glasses. He was reading a large Schopenhauer's in a coffee shop. Even though he was three tables away I could smell his ripe cologne with tobacco scent. He had three empty espresso's cups in front of him. He didn't have a friendly face, and wasn't hostile either. His breathing was irregular. He had one sock white and the other black. He liked the music in the place, it was an acid jazz mix. Every time he finished a chapter he closed his book and made deep eye contact with the waitress. The waitress catched him everytime, and felt uncomfortable.

At the deepest peak of peeking, the man pulled off his glasses and stared back. My knowledge was vague by the void of his eyes. I started sweating even though I had cold coffee for a drink. The invisible line between our pupils standed high and dark as the universe continued expanding. For all that was made and taken historically, I found out that the cutest thing we both had in common was a lazy-eyed cat as a pet. The waitress brought him a fourth cup of expresso, and I had to go.

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Written by Andreso
I looked at him once, and with just a deep stare at his eyes I understood who he was and why.
He was dressed in black with traslucid purple little round glasses. He was reading a large Schopenhauer's in a coffee shop. Even though he was three tables away I could smell his ripe cologne with tobacco scent. He had three empty espresso's cups in front of him. He didn't have a friendly face, and wasn't hostile either. His breathing was irregular. He had one sock white and the other black. He liked the music in the place, it was an acid jazz mix. Every time he finished a chapter he closed his book and made deep eye contact with the waitress. The waitress catched him everytime, and felt uncomfortable.
At the deepest peak of peeking, the man pulled off his glasses and stared back. My knowledge was vague by the void of his eyes. I started sweating even though I had cold coffee for a drink. The invisible line between our pupils standed high and dark as the universe continued expanding. For all that was made and taken historically, I found out that the cutest thing we both had in common was a lazy-eyed cat as a pet. The waitress brought him a fourth cup of expresso, and I had to go.
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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Maybe hate is bold

in print and web

calling names

types

races

reducing a feeling to a face

and the weather is cold

in wintertime

when hate freezes

and joy squeezes

turning pyramids to circles

and circles to spheres.

Maybe yesterday was broken

and tomorrow seems similar

but familiar faces

in hard circumstances

will keep the wind coming

will keep the now flowing

and the brightest bulb glowing

and the strangest sphere floating.

Maybe the dusk smells ripe

and bleach stock is sold

and everything ends as it begins

with a deep stare through polished windows

the door is closed

the smoke is on

the cat is playing

and we're saying its over

under bomb shadows

and morgue lights

but the pyramid's broken

and turned into a circle

and the circle to a sphere

and the sphere into a star

that shines the brightest light

the one that seduces plant limbs

to grow and tickle.

So maybe life is strange

and parades with anger becomes war

but the horses are kept in a stable

and the weapons are held

breaking families

provoking

as the bold hate remains unpolished

as my shoes.

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Written by Andreso in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Maybe hate is bold
in print and web
calling names
types
races
reducing a feeling to a face
and the weather is cold
in wintertime
when hate freezes
and joy squeezes
turning pyramids to circles
and circles to spheres.

Maybe yesterday was broken
and tomorrow seems similar
but familiar faces
in hard circumstances
will keep the wind coming
will keep the now flowing
and the brightest bulb glowing
and the strangest sphere floating.

Maybe the dusk smells ripe
and bleach stock is sold
and everything ends as it begins
with a deep stare through polished windows
the door is closed
the smoke is on
the cat is playing
and we're saying its over
under bomb shadows
and morgue lights
but the pyramid's broken
and turned into a circle
and the circle to a sphere
and the sphere into a star
that shines the brightest light
the one that seduces plant limbs
to grow and tickle.

So maybe life is strange
and parades with anger becomes war
but the horses are kept in a stable
and the weapons are held
breaking families
provoking
as the bold hate remains unpolished
as my shoes.
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Written by Andreso in portal Micropoetry

My little red ballon

Big white sky

just tell me why

I lost into you

my little red balloon.

If you find it

you'll know

it's got a post-it

with written word 'flow'.

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Written by Andreso in portal Micropoetry
My little red ballon
Big white sky
just tell me why
I lost into you
my little red balloon.
If you find it
you'll know
it's got a post-it
with written word 'flow'.

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You are a window sign. In three lines, what will your sign say?
Written by Andreso in portal Micropoetry

For sale: Baby shoes,

worn twice

just twice.

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You are a window sign. In three lines, what will your sign say?
Written by Andreso in portal Micropoetry
For sale: Baby shoes,
worn twice
just twice.
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