Literacy is sought

while knowledge

is to abhor

Thoughts flow by

fields of erudition

in a translucent corridor

Obscure incantations

full of bestial

inhabited hollows

Current zeitgeist’s

broken promises

deadly foreshadows

Intellectual assassins

cultural conflagration

reason burning

Repeated mistakes

consistently made

no one is learning

It’s all games

inside the asylum

until students stampede

But there is hope

as the ignorance

begins to recede

Preference: Today, flying home in the plane — well, I'm still in it now — I felt that familiar anxiety. I've always been afraid of heights, and especially this time, with everything covered in white clouds and me sitting in a cramped space, forgetting even about the seatbelt. The messenger app kept showing an error, which made the boredom even worse. I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and tried to relax, but my thoughts just wouldn’t stop.

Then, in that moment, when the silence became almost unbearable, something strange appeared in my mind. For no reason at all, I suddenly remembered a grammar rule about Possessive Voice. And just like that, as if by magic, he appeared — a small, funny, slightly messy little character, with big glasses that kept slipping off his nose and bright "MY!" stickers stuck all over everything. From that moment, the story just started to come together on its own, and I couldn’t help but imagine it in detail.

And when I finally get home, I really want to eat.

The Story of Possessive Voice

One day, a small little character named Possessive Voice went into a café. He was so busy that he didn’t even notice he had taken someone else’s chair. His face quickly turned gloomy when he saw someone sitting next to him, also drinking coffee. "This is my chair!" he loudly said, grabbing a bag that was on the chair. "This is my bag!" he added, and immediately tried to stick a "MY!" sticker on it. But the sticker stuck so strongly that he had to pull it off, leaving holes in the bag.

People around him started to look at him in surprise. He seemed not to notice that all these things belonged to other people. He kept saying, "Everything’s mine!" and tried to take other people’s cups and spoons until the waitress came and took everything off his table. "Are you crazy?" she asked. "Don’t take anything!" But Possessive Voice just winked and said, "I’ll take it next time." The waitress rolled her eyes, and people around started to laugh.

In the end, Possessive Voice got so carried away that he even tried to claim the clouds in the sky, or at least the nearest rain! But when he tried to approach the clouds with a huge "MY!" sticker, the clouds just floated away, laughing. At that moment, Possessive Voice realized that maybe it’s not always a good idea to take everything.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

I’m sitting in a secluded part of the park, surrounded by autumn leaves, which cover the ground in colorful carpets. The cloudy sky hangs above, and the air is filled with a light chill. Everything around me seems to have quieted down — there’s not a soul in sight, only me and the fallen leaves, as if the world has paused for a moment. And in this silence, my thoughts slowly wrap around my soul like a veil.

I think about how wonderful it would be to find someone who understands you with just a word, someone who shares your thoughts and ideas. Someone who is as well-read, as intelligent as I am. Someone who also teaches English, just like I do. This person must be smart, elegant, and care about their appearance, because for me, looking after oneself isn’t just about how others see you, but how you show respect to yourself and to those around you.

Time, no matter how much we wish it would, doesn’t stand still, and I realize there is a small age gap between us. But it doesn’t matter. Age is just a number, and feelings and understanding are beyond time. Age doesn’t matter when there’s something more between us than just habit.

This person, with whom I always want to be, with whom I share every thought, every glance. With whom no words are needed because everything is already said with eyes, a smile, every movement. This is the one I want to spend all my days with, the one I truly adore.

And at this moment, amid the autumn silence, under the dim sky, I realize that you are the one I’ve been waiting for all my life.

© 2024 Victoria Lunar. All rights reserved.

I'm tired of sharing:

My reflection

my smile

my eyes

my nose

my dimples.

They're not mine though. Are they?

Your dimples

your nose

your eyes

your smile

your reflection.

No matter how far away I try to run,

Our shadow is sewn to my feet.

The bruised muse

Hissed soul steamed escape

Before tree finger marauders

Pierced his dried up dreams’s reedy spine

And noosed charity’s crystal cracked neck

Into a violent pearled burst

Dividing glum gold spoils

To black dog troughs

Second rate ingrates

And the hoodwinked anarchist parade

Marching through strangled forests

The bruised muse

Watches the lead hearted raiders

Clap freewheeling heels

The kinetic chaos

A ludicrous marvel of steel willed vanity

Pushing prostituted trust’s bladed menace

Through sunken wildflower weed valleys

Ousting in fist hammered defiance

The bruised muse’s spectating specter

While vampiric Judas Iscariots

Drain stained glass blood

From the muse’s broken swan neck palace

The turncoat fellowship

Gloating cloven dagger flame

Through sacred parchment

The tarry blizzard

Set to burn and forget

His bliss kissed sweet nothings

Swallowed through tongue torched surrender

To the betraying void

The frayed and dethroned king of fantasia

Exiting breathlessly

Holding onto the disintegrating wing

Of his flailing butterfly queen

As the scorching house of cards

Carries ash scarred tragedy

And lung blistered chokehold

Across a psalmist anchorage

Blackened and razed

The once harmonized sanctum

Poisoned by pride’s weighed scales

Tipped towards self anointed demigods

And so the thorn clipped muse weeps thunder

And her nailed feet mete out lightning stabs

Across night’s everlasting funeral

Though their ears are plugged tunnels

And their eyes stitched bound and blind.

In a caliginous haze, soft as winter mist,

the cry of a thylacine rises through the trees—

a ghostly wail, long gone but still stirring,

echoing over hills that know her no longer.

The forest is still, save for whispers,

believers' murmurs hanging in the air,

of a world slipping away, of shadows departing.

The quiet is a sign, some say, of separation itself:

this undoing of old things into echoes and winds.

Along the damp riverbanks, bones rest cold

beneath the weight of time,

silent underfoot in the pulse of dark soil,

their shapes blurred but long-staring,

waiting for the day when nothing remains.

A flash in the woods, a pang of memory—

there’s no farewell, only the sense of wiedersehen,

a half-formed thought, that one day we will

meet again in some untouched dusk,

where silence and song are all that’s left.

i haven't seen you in a year.

it's a relief.

it should be a relief.

instead it's a dread.

i'm not stupid. i know

you'll be back.

sometimes when i lie awake

at night

i feel your approach

fading away just before

you arrive.

i breathe a sigh of relief

and fall asleep.

i push you from my mind

because i have to.

i cannot think about you.

don't think about it.

don't think about it.

don't talk about it.

don't write about it.

but here i am. writing it.

thinking it. maybe you

were right.

maybe i did want it.

maybe i even

needed it.

i haven't forgotten.

my days are spent

not with sighs of relief

or the cherishing of each night

that i go without—

but instead with the fear

of the night you'll return.

because i know you will.

maybe once upon a time,

i thought you went away,

but i've given up on

kidding myself.

you are, after all,

a part of me.

isn't that what

my first psychiatrist said?

you are the rot in my gut that i

try to starve out of me;

you are the intrusive thoughts

that make me believe i am a monster;

you are the distorted disgusting image

of my bare body that i spend my life

trying to cover up.

you are the hatred that i

cannot beat out of myself.

i'm always externalizing my flaws.

building people in my head to blame

when i fuck up.

you are the shame.

so many people told me

i had no reason to be broken.

so i invented you

to break me.

and it worked.

which is why i know you'll

be back.

because shame doesn't die.

it can't be killed.

it can only be stalled, delayed,

pushed away towards some

abstract future date

that i know is fast approaching.

you're coming.

i'd like to say i'm ready for it.

i'm prepared, or at least i'll

have time to prepare, to guard my throat

against the acid reflux, to

build up my mental defenses and stand up

to you again.

but i'm never prepared.

that's the funny thing about shame.

it creeps up. subtle.

you are the space in my brain that i define

by what's around it, the life, the love

that you displace. because i cannot

face it head on.

i have to stay on the outskirts,

fencing off the pitfalls

in my brain, tunnels in the amygdala,

rivers in the frontal lobe

that will lead me straight to you.

you're the part of me

that i cannot admit is mine.

and until i can,

we'll be stuck in this endless dance

of torment.

you: my flaws, my shame.

and me: forever looking for

excuses.

John, a typical American guy in his mid-30s, was overly confident in his DIY skills. Whenever something broke in the house, he’d always announce, “I can fix that!” His wife, Susan, would usually roll her eyes and wait for the inevitable: within a few hours, the house would turn into a disaster zone, and John, flailing around with tools, would insist that he was “almost done.”

Today’s project? The washing machine. Seemed like a simple enough task—unless you were John.

“I’m just going to fix it up real quick,” he told Susan cheerfully, grabbing his toolbox.

“You’ll call a professional if things go wrong, right?” she asked hopefully, knowing full well that conversations like this usually ended in chaos.

“A professional? For me? Susan, you forget who the engineer in this house is!” he declared proudly, though his engineering experience mostly came down to assembling IKEA furniture... without reading the instructions.

The moment John opened up the washing machine panel, he felt like an explorer venturing into unknown territory. Before him lay a labyrinth of tubes, wires, and parts that looked like alien technology. Truthfully, half of it, he didn’t even know existed.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he muttered, pulling out an oversized wrench. John was convinced that any repair job always started with a wrench. Always.

The first sign of impending disaster came when John unscrewed the wrong bolt. Instead of removing a small panel, he accidentally disconnected a pipe, and a small stream of water began to trickle out of the machine.

“Oops, just a tiny leak! I’ve got it under control!” John called out, already ankle-deep in water.

From the kitchen, Susan peeked over at the unfolding situation and muttered under her breath,

“And why do I always believe he’ll manage this time?”

Five minutes later, the sound from the laundry room could best be described as “a shipwreck.” John was frantically twisting the water valve, trying to shut off the flow, but instead of reducing the pressure, he turned the valve off completely, causing a geyser of water to shoot out like something out of a disaster movie.

“John!” Susan shouted, hopping onto a stool to avoid getting her feet wet in the rapidly forming indoor lake.

“I’m almost done, sweetheart!” John shouted back, now waist-deep in water, one hand desperately pressing on the pipe, the other holding a bolt between his teeth.

“You always say that!” Susan yelled, but at this point, she didn’t even bother arguing. It was pointless.

Suddenly, John noticed something seriously alarming: the washing machine began to shake. As if the ghost of all past laundry cycles had come back to haunt it. The machine growled, and in the next second, a flood of soap bubbles erupted from it, filling the room. Now, not only was John soaking wet, but he was also covered in foam.

“Are you making soap bubbles now too?” Susan laughed as John’s arm emerged from the foam, still trying to close the machine’s lid.

But the machine had decided it wasn’t done yet. It continued spewing out foam, water, and—wait—a few socks from last week’s missing laundry.

“Maybe we should call a professional?” Susan suggested again, watching John hopelessly wrestle with the chaos.

“A professional?!” John, now moving like a sprinter, ran to the power switch and finally turned the machine off. But it was too late. The laundry room now resembled a swimming pool full of bubbles. “I fixed it! Just one small problem… Where’s our cat?”

At that moment, the cat’s head emerged from under a mountain of foam, looking like a spiky hedgehog made of soap. He glared at John with a look that said he understood everything about John’s “handyman skills” and slowly padded out of the room, leaving wet paw prints behind him.

John stood there, dripping wet, soap bubbles slowly sliding off his face, while Susan, now laughing uncontrollably, wiped away tears from her eyes. The cat, meanwhile, slinked off into the living room to recover from his unexpected bubble bath, leaving John to face the consequences of his latest DIY disaster.

John, however, wasn’t one to give up so easily.

“Okay, that didn’t go as planned,” he muttered, brushing the remaining bubbles from his head. “But I’m not done yet. I just need a different tool. The right tool.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “John, the only tool you need right now is a phone to call the plumber.”

“No way,” John insisted, rummaging through his tool box. “This is just a minor setback. I’ve got this.”

With newfound determination, John pulled out a rubber mallet, as if this would somehow resolve all his problems. He gave the washing machine a tentative tap. Nothing happened. Encouraged, he gave it another, slightly harder whack.

“John, what are you doing?” Susan asked, her laughter fading into genuine concern.

“Just… recalibrating!” he replied confidently, even though the washing machine clearly didn’t need “recalibrating.” It needed a miracle.

Susan shook her head, now preparing for the next wave of chaos. “Recalibrating, right. So, when’s the last time you ‘recalibrated’ something successfully?”

“Remember that time I fixed the dishwasher?” John said, puffing out his chest.

“Oh, you mean the time we had to replace half the kitchen floor after it flooded?”

John blinked, momentarily thrown off, but quickly recovered. “Well, yes, but that was just bad luck! This time, I’ve got everything under control.”

Just as he said that, the washing machine made a low groaning noise—a sound that no household appliance should ever make. Before either of them could react, there was a loud bang, and the door of the machine flew open, sending a wave of water and soap crashing across the floor.

John was now completely drenched from head to toe, standing in a sea of bubbles, his rubber mallet still in hand.

Susan couldn’t hold back her laughter anymore. “Control, huh?”

John looked down at the foam-covered floor, then up at Susan, who was trying to stay upright on her stool. “I might’ve… underestimated the situation.”

“Might’ve?” Susan cackled. “John, this is like Tsunami 2.0 in here! I’m surprised we’re not floating!”

John sighed, finally accepting defeat. “Okay, maybe it’s time to call a professional.”

Susan hopped off the stool, shaking her head with a smile. “I’ll go grab the phone. Let’s just hope the plumber doesn’t bring a lifeboat.”

As Susan left the room, John looked back at the washing machine. He wasn’t sure whether it was the glint of soap bubbles or his imagination, but he could swear the machine was mocking him.

"Alright, alright," he grumbled. "You win this round, but I’ll be back."

Meanwhile, the cat, now dry but still looking like it had just escaped a war zone, peeked around the corner, as if to check whether the coast was clear. Satisfied that John was no longer wielding his tools like a madman, it cautiously approached Susan, likely plotting its own revenge for the impromptu bath.

Just as Susan dialed the plumber, she heard John muttering to himself in the laundry room.

“What was that?” she called.

“Nothing!” John yelled back, though he was already eyeing the dishwasher. Surely there was something he could fix there. He was, after all, a man of ambition.

Susan turned back to the phone. “Hello, yes? I need a plumber. Urgently.”

By the time the plumber arrived, John had managed to half-dry the laundry room—well, sort of. The floor was still damp, and the washing machine looked like it had been through a hurricane, but at least the flood had been stopped. Susan greeted the plumber at the door, trying to suppress her amusement.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “It’s… well, you’ll see.”

As the plumber entered the laundry room, his eyes widened. He surveyed the scene: soap bubbles clung to the walls, puddles of water gleamed on the floor, and in the middle of it all stood John, holding a bucket, as if that had been his grand solution all along.

The plumber, trying to keep a straight face, cleared his throat. “So… what seems to be the problem?”

John, desperate to salvage some dignity, quickly chimed in. “It’s just a small issue with the washing machine. I think the water valve’s acting up.”

The plumber nodded, though it was clear he didn’t buy John’s story. He crouched down, expertly inspecting the washing machine, which by now looked like it had survived an earthquake. After a few minutes, he stood up and looked at John.

“Well, I can fix it, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Next time, maybe give us a call before things get this far.”

Susan, unable to hold back anymore, burst out laughing. Even John, standing there in his soaked socks, couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll let the professionals handle it next time.”

But of course, everyone knew that wasn’t true.

That evening, after the plumber had fixed the washing machine and left, Susan and John sat together in the living room, sipping tea. The house was finally quiet, and the chaos of the day seemed like a distant memory. The cat had forgiven John, or at least tolerated him again, and was curled up on the couch, blissfully unaware of future catastrophes.

“You know,” Susan said with a grin, “you should really write a book about all your ‘fix-it’ adventures.”

John rolled his eyes. “Very funny. But you know, I’m not that bad. I almost fixed it.”

“Almost doesn’t count, John,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ll stick to smaller projects. Like changing light bulbs.”

“Let’s just hope you don’t turn that into an emergency too,” Susan laughed.

But despite the teasing, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it all. John might have been the clumsiest handyman on the planet, but he always tried his best, and Susan loved him for it—disasters and all.

Just as they settled into the cozy evening, John’s phone buzzed with a notification. He glanced at it, his eyes lighting up.

“Hey, look at this!” he said excitedly, showing Susan the screen. “There’s a sale on power tools this weekend!”

Susan froze, her smile slowly fading.

“John, no.”

But John was already scrolling through the options. “What? Come on, think of all the things I could fix around here! The possibilities are endless!”

Susan sighed, leaning back on the couch. She knew how this story would go, and she had a feeling the next chapter in “Operation: Fix-it” was right around the corner.

She just hoped it wouldn’t involve the dishwasher.

The End (Or is it?) :-D

Victoria Lunar

The whispers started at midnight, soft at first, then louder, like dry leaves scraping across the floor. Claire froze in bed, clutching her blankets. She'd locked the door. No one was inside.

But something was.

A shadow slid from beneath the wardrobe, stretching tall, eyes gleaming red in the darkness. It grinned, its mouth wide, teeth sharp as broken glass.

"You shouldn’t have opened the box," it hissed, voice like a blade on bone.

Claire’s heart raced. She tried to scream but her throat tightened.

The last thing she felt was its cold breath on her skin.

Then a silence.

Dear God,

Today, I come before You with a heart full of thoughts, emotions, and questions. I am grateful for the blessings You've given me, the love and kindness I've experienced, and the beauty of this world that You created. At the same time, there are moments when I feel overwhelmed, uncertain, and in need of guidance.

You know my heart better than I do, and You see the struggles I face, even the ones I don’t always acknowledge. I ask for strength to face these challenges, wisdom to make the right decisions, and peace in my heart when life feels heavy. I trust in Your plan, though I sometimes find it hard to understand why things happen the way they do.

Please watch over my loved ones, guide them, and protect them. Help me to be a source of light and love in their lives. I pray for healing where there is pain, clarity where there is confusion, and hope where there is despair.

Thank You for being my refuge, for always listening, and for the unconditional love You offer. Help me to trust in You more, to let go of my fears, and to walk in faith.

With love and gratitude,

Victoria