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Written by scribblermikay

They were standing in front of each other as he was catching his breath, and she was catching her tears.

“Do you still love me?” he asked.

She didn’t expect this question. Although she is very sure of her answer.

“I never stopped loving you.

Ever since we broke up, it was still you. In the morning when I wake up. In the afternoon when I drink our coffee. In the evening before I go to sleep. Every time I pass by our favorite street. Even every song I hear reminds me of you.”

He didn’t utter a single word. He stared blankly to her eyes, waiting. It was pure silence. Until she can bare the silence no more.

“I’m sorry, but I still haven’t learned to stop loving you.” she finally said, then walked away.

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Written by scribblermikay
They were standing in front of each other as he was catching his breath, and she was catching her tears.

“Do you still love me?” he asked.

She didn’t expect this question. Although she is very sure of her answer.

“I never stopped loving you.

Ever since we broke up, it was still you. In the morning when I wake up. In the afternoon when I drink our coffee. In the evening before I go to sleep. Every time I pass by our favorite street. Even every song I hear reminds me of you.”

He didn’t utter a single word. He stared blankly to her eyes, waiting. It was pure silence. Until she can bare the silence no more.

“I’m sorry, but I still haven’t learned to stop loving you.” she finally said, then walked away.
#romance  #poetry  #prose  #story  #love 
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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Home,

They say, is where the heart is...?

If that's the case then I must say this once and for all.

There's a monster down the basement.

I starve it.

There's a ghost in the attic.

It's just there.

There's a shadow living under the bed.

It follows me everywhere.

There's a siren in my bathroom.

I think it should stay.

There's a queen in the dining room.

I obey her orders. (She orders pizza all the time.)

There's a kitchen filled with cheese.

I let it be.

There are guest bedrooms (I haven't counted how many).

I sometimes let homeless stay for the night,

But the furniture always gets messed up

And sometimes it's bad, but otherwise, it's all right.

There's life in the living room.

I like it bright and it has my favorite things.

There's a garden at the center.

It is where I'd rather spend most of my days.

There's a library I haven't cleaned for days.

It looks like a cat died in there but I haven't checked.

There's a corner where I keep the unused, the dirt and the trash.

It's overwhelmingly easy to get crowded up.

There's a garage with my car.

I've always wondered if there's gas in the tank.

There's something that seriously gets me bothered about the house, though.

I forgot if it's being mortgaged, leased, lent or if it is mine at all.

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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by poeticasymptote in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Home,
They say, is where the heart is...?
If that's the case then I must say this once and for all.

There's a monster down the basement.
I starve it.
There's a ghost in the attic.
It's just there.
There's a shadow living under the bed.
It follows me everywhere.
There's a siren in my bathroom.
I think it should stay.
There's a queen in the dining room.
I obey her orders. (She orders pizza all the time.)
There's a kitchen filled with cheese.
I let it be.
There are guest bedrooms (I haven't counted how many).
I sometimes let homeless stay for the night,
But the furniture always gets messed up
And sometimes it's bad, but otherwise, it's all right.

There's life in the living room.
I like it bright and it has my favorite things.
There's a garden at the center.
It is where I'd rather spend most of my days.

There's a library I haven't cleaned for days.
It looks like a cat died in there but I haven't checked.

There's a corner where I keep the unused, the dirt and the trash.
It's overwhelmingly easy to get crowded up.

There's a garage with my car.
I've always wondered if there's gas in the tank.

There's something that seriously gets me bothered about the house, though.
I forgot if it's being mortgaged, leased, lent or if it is mine at all.
#challenge  #story  #home 
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In Adrian Barnes’ “Nod,” the apocalypse occurs over a month as 99% of the earth’s populace loses the ability to sleep and slowly goes insane. In Sandra Newman’s “The Country of Ice Cream Star,” the world is full of children because everyone above the age of 21 mysteriously dies. For my challenge, invent your own strange take on the end-of-the-world story. Tell a story set in an apocalypse never or rarely seen. 200 coins to the most original work :)
Written by FarrellTimlake

Metaforphosis

Gregor Samsa awoke that morning to the realization that the transformation was a complete success. Indeed, presented with the grim possibility that the only way to continue as a species was inevitably to seek a viable alternative, something sustainable, insofar as having a reasonable chance of procreation bearing fruitful success, and maintaining steady nourishment through available resources, the notion that embedding human consciousness in the brain of a cockroach initially seemed ludicrous. Of course now, the point is mute for the advantages to proceeding with the experiment lends insights far beyond the limits of conjecture, which can only stab out like cerci to feel and sense but not know. 

Gregor does not think. He knows. And in knowing he justifies being far superior to the position he held on to, ever so uncomfortably as a biped only yesterday, doomed to constantly stumbling, rather than possessing six legs and all the stability and maneuverability they enable. From his perch, on the edge of the window, he grinds his mandibles sideways to and fro. Hunger has seized him but gazing at the scorched earth he no longer fears starvation but sees opportunity in a boundless feast. Even the most radiated fragments glowing phosphorescent green with the fallout of atoms split so recently present the potential for nourishment. Yesterday's decay and poison, today's rejuvenation and nourishment, he salivates and chews to master the art of consumption more completely before setting forth to enjoy a stroll in the nuclear winter where he shall seek his fame and fortunes so meekly inherited. 

A few of the race he shall presently leave behind, so jealous of Samsa's new appearance and wishing for their own salvation to manifest, knock upon the glass. Gregor barely pays attention to their distractions for the cracking crunch of their raps upon the surface present painful irritations to his novel sense of sound which is now so infinitely more sensitive. When one is quite capable of hearing even the hair of a flea's legs whistle while in flights to places more sanguine, then you can imagine how horribly uncomfortable the sounds of those desperately clanging while they cling so desperately to their final moments on earth might sound. Therefore, Gregor not only ignores them but he scurries to find an exit. 

"It is time to leave these fools behind" he says not caring if anyone in particular may or may not be listening. Their opinion would not be in the least bit relevant regardless, for satiating a ravenous appetite takes much greater priority. With that, he flattens out to navigate through the cracks and pays zero attention to their screams which will fade much more quickly with distance and distraction. Along the way he collects particles of some flesh from a fresh corpse but it is a genuine thanksgiving feast all things considered. Gregor wonders what took him so long to enjoy such a delicacy. "I should never deny myself what I want in life", he reckons, then concludes "I deserve it". A little while later he decides to focus his time on procreation and continuance of his new yet at the same time halcyon species.

He ducks into the rubble fragments to enjoy the view at the edge of the apocalypse. Gregor Samsa watches as the ash of civilization falls like grey snow. The end of humanity could not be more serene.

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In Adrian Barnes’ “Nod,” the apocalypse occurs over a month as 99% of the earth’s populace loses the ability to sleep and slowly goes insane. In Sandra Newman’s “The Country of Ice Cream Star,” the world is full of children because everyone above the age of 21 mysteriously dies. For my challenge, invent your own strange take on the end-of-the-world story. Tell a story set in an apocalypse never or rarely seen. 200 coins to the most original work :)
Written by FarrellTimlake
Metaforphosis
Gregor Samsa awoke that morning to the realization that the transformation was a complete success. Indeed, presented with the grim possibility that the only way to continue as a species was inevitably to seek a viable alternative, something sustainable, insofar as having a reasonable chance of procreation bearing fruitful success, and maintaining steady nourishment through available resources, the notion that embedding human consciousness in the brain of a cockroach initially seemed ludicrous. Of course now, the point is mute for the advantages to proceeding with the experiment lends insights far beyond the limits of conjecture, which can only stab out like cerci to feel and sense but not know. 

Gregor does not think. He knows. And in knowing he justifies being far superior to the position he held on to, ever so uncomfortably as a biped only yesterday, doomed to constantly stumbling, rather than possessing six legs and all the stability and maneuverability they enable. From his perch, on the edge of the window, he grinds his mandibles sideways to and fro. Hunger has seized him but gazing at the scorched earth he no longer fears starvation but sees opportunity in a boundless feast. Even the most radiated fragments glowing phosphorescent green with the fallout of atoms split so recently present the potential for nourishment. Yesterday's decay and poison, today's rejuvenation and nourishment, he salivates and chews to master the art of consumption more completely before setting forth to enjoy a stroll in the nuclear winter where he shall seek his fame and fortunes so meekly inherited. 

A few of the race he shall presently leave behind, so jealous of Samsa's new appearance and wishing for their own salvation to manifest, knock upon the glass. Gregor barely pays attention to their distractions for the cracking crunch of their raps upon the surface present painful irritations to his novel sense of sound which is now so infinitely more sensitive. When one is quite capable of hearing even the hair of a flea's legs whistle while in flights to places more sanguine, then you can imagine how horribly uncomfortable the sounds of those desperately clanging while they cling so desperately to their final moments on earth might sound. Therefore, Gregor not only ignores them but he scurries to find an exit. 

"It is time to leave these fools behind" he says not caring if anyone in particular may or may not be listening. Their opinion would not be in the least bit relevant regardless, for satiating a ravenous appetite takes much greater priority. With that, he flattens out to navigate through the cracks and pays zero attention to their screams which will fade much more quickly with distance and distraction. Along the way he collects particles of some flesh from a fresh corpse but it is a genuine thanksgiving feast all things considered. Gregor wonders what took him so long to enjoy such a delicacy. "I should never deny myself what I want in life", he reckons, then concludes "I deserve it". A little while later he decides to focus his time on procreation and continuance of his new yet at the same time halcyon species.

He ducks into the rubble fragments to enjoy the view at the edge of the apocalypse. Gregor Samsa watches as the ash of civilization falls like grey snow. The end of humanity could not be more serene.
#story  #theprose  #kafka 
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Written by Sweedle

THE LAST TIME I SAW RICHARD

He was sitting by his old outdated but still functioning computer.

Glasses well adjusted on his wrinkly nose and fingers taut with tension, I seen him typing words that struck his genius mind.

A cheerful man of 63, he was one of the best colleague I had ever had.

Though his assigned job was to act as a translator of Arabic and English, he was way qualified than what he was doing. Invaluable knowledge of literature and music and philosophy plus a gentlemanly sense of humor was filled inside of him. Whenever I visited his cabin, he would welcome me with his warm smile and something to eat ! He wrote many short stories , half of which I had devoured partly by reading them and partly by listening to them in his husky deep voice.

I would feel so good listening to him narrating different takes from him childhood and college years. Distinguished snow white mustache and hair reaching the back of his neck made him look charming and wise at the same time. Though he was very lonely. Death of his wife made him very sad. His elder son was in the states, living his life while here is Richard.

I never seen him again since that day, I wish I could .

Lonely but nice . Full of sweet and spice

I miss my story teller.

I miss you Richard.

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Written by Sweedle
THE LAST TIME I SAW RICHARD


He was sitting by his old outdated but still functioning computer.

Glasses well adjusted on his wrinkly nose and fingers taut with tension, I seen him typing words that struck his genius mind.

A cheerful man of 63, he was one of the best colleague I had ever had.

Though his assigned job was to act as a translator of Arabic and English, he was way qualified than what he was doing. Invaluable knowledge of literature and music and philosophy plus a gentlemanly sense of humor was filled inside of him. Whenever I visited his cabin, he would welcome me with his warm smile and something to eat ! He wrote many short stories , half of which I had devoured partly by reading them and partly by listening to them in his husky deep voice.

I would feel so good listening to him narrating different takes from him childhood and college years. Distinguished snow white mustache and hair reaching the back of his neck made him look charming and wise at the same time. Though he was very lonely. Death of his wife made him very sad. His elder son was in the states, living his life while here is Richard.

I never seen him again since that day, I wish I could .

Lonely but nice . Full of sweet and spice

I miss my story teller.

I miss you Richard.
#story 
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