Secrets
Getting Away with Murder
The art of killing is so utterly and completely complex. To rely on another soul so completely takes a patience and trust only a mother is capable of. It is a bit of a funny matter, really. If I told you that I killed my son, you’d think me a downright criminal. But if you knew that he abused me- cut me, beat me, bruised me -I’d be viewed as nothing but a victim in your little mind. If you only knew that I was chopping carrots in the kitchen when he came home with every intention of beating me for his drunken state and that I truly was defending myself, you’d se e me as a poor soul who needs to be cradled and sung to like a baby. But take note; though context clues may be important, they are a fickle thing. Most people want cold, hard evidence of what happened. It’s no matter really, as I do appreciate being thought of as innocent before the law. Sadly, facts do not generally account for what takes place inside ones and heart and mind. You see, I did mean to kill my son, and I had every intention of doing so from the beginning. And yes, when I say the beginning, I truly do mean the very beginning- when he was born.
By A Reynolds4 years ago in Confessions
God's Hermitage
Whisper the truth at the heart of dawn. The science of the soul was divided. The environment is witnessing the presence of the marriage. Mother Eve's vigilance in breath. There is no appetite for the heaven and its fruits. Adam is confused between the appetite of the fruits of paradise and eve's taste. Time is idle and time is calculated in seconds. Eve wishes motherhood, embraces her menstruation with chips and leaves of paradise bushes. The air caresses the feathers and feathers of similar birds. Adam is hesitant, and bewildered by the permanence of the situation, and he called for prayer the knowledge experienced under the coming generations. Eve is in her dying hollow and the audience. Adam performs a course with rituals, praise for the existence, and the spontaneous presence of birth. So he called god, and rushed with effort, and slept in the midst of the idle time. He slept dreaming of his vigilance, he is a prayer for time to bear the name of the language of power. He woke up from his nap, and missed it with a very trembling moment of the hour, and the hour of a long day away in the age. He didn't ring the bell; he didn't alert the guards. I turned to the left and nodded to the right, whispering to the god of the dhows who is me, and what is this horizon and what is this existence. and who is going around me, and what are these crowds. I must be dreaming. He moved his hand up to see. and his hand split the sky high, and cut the cover of space, and called with his loudest voice I wish I knew the judiciary. Oh swimmer longing in my space I wish I could know my judiciary. The voice is your voice, and the talk is the talk of the crowd. Whoever hears your voice will talk to myself, and who talks to myself will talk to myself. O thing that teaches the selves, and things and repeats the groans when I come. and to whom I will be in his world and time, and since I am ego, to be revolving in circles of myself. O listener, I hear the melody of my existence, you hear the screams of my groans when you hear. I don't call you as fearless, I talk to you with my soul, and the color of my existence, and I invite you to the interview, and no competition. I invite you because I know I need you, that you know my need. But when you left me in a state of my absence. I feel, and know that you have a strong attraction that surrounds me and surrounds things. I am a path and a path of fission of your first self, which aired me the sandwich of your glowing soul, which fuses everything. and returns it to the heart and heart of the essence, which reduces everything to the axis of power. The power of the circle movement without a condition of time. I see with my eyes, and with my vision the attraction. and dissonance of your planets, and the rotation of galaxies around their axis, and the axis of your power. Galaxies orbiting, and looking for the first point of existence. Whispering night and day. Creates an atmosphere of your legendary, and mysterious existence of life. After these joys and wishes, the hope of it shines, the sky shines, it shudders, the rain rains strongly, and the earth overflows with angry people. The mystic who is afraid of the melody of existence seeks the irony of destiny, and calls for you to mimic my existence with this waste of fear. Or what is this rafting of water being a raft. The rain stops with the day, and the dialogue is still going on and on. The mystic I wish I was the cause and the cause, not to be the blower of hope, that is not the apple of human existence. It is a hope that hopes and is linked to hope. It's the hope of life. Listening to the call of life. You are the God. Were you or older than the egos with god and gods? Respond to my call, and treat my females and exchange my pains, hear me or are you the one who speaks of my own selves. This dialogue is the dialogue of creation, and existence. Maybe you're the interviewer, and I'm just the carrier. Convey the feeling, and feeling from and in the rooms of the audience, the presence of the energy embodied as the spirit that drives stillness. Who responds to the other, you or me too. You greeted me, gave me and made fun of me. It is one of the tragedies of its kinds, its sensory, cognitive, and growth in its types embodied in the physical region with this sensory. I doubt and doubt many times that I, and perhaps I share with you, that I am you. You are the one who created me from his existence, and his presence is that I am. What do you want with that what is the meaning and meaning of that? I doubt and doubt my being attached to this dirt, that I am dust walking over dust. Or what does it mean that I, and they are the ones who care about it. You, me, and you are them. Doesn't the revelation rain like rain or shine and thunder to warn me of me if I am. Or is it a promise from that thunder, or what this and that. You respond, beloved answerer. Tell me your language or mine. I do not like you as you want, and the rest of the creatures sing to you. I call you to wake up. I call you upright. I call you in the language of revelation to start awareness. No no no. I call you, and I call for an answer. The answer to knowledge, and interest from my existence, my being and my idols. Do you hear me, and do you convince me that you and I are? Or is there a connection between you and my tears and my love If you don't hear me, I hear you, and if you don't feel me. I feel my soul card and my body's stress. Listen to me, !?!. The mornings are blown, and the suns of the rivers light and the ray of warmth, and mercy of sense. A contrived feeling from the aspects of the soul, and from the sides of the body embodied by a sensory knowledge that sympathizes with colors, and paints the soul. Here is the meaning of the soul, which is the reduced to sense, and the building of nature. Is it the feeling that sympathizes with the state of the soul, or is it a sensory palate that discerns the conscious body? He showed me lumpy lumps, and a body in the structure of a body. Is it loneliness, or fission of molecules arranged and raised in the form of the first God of the activated self-moving to a life that does not avoid coincidence. Talk, precious soul, what is your development, and my frameworks? Or are you a promise from the fission of the first soul? Fission, and fragmentation in unity to complete the meaning of the mastery of the gods, the lady of the audience, and the lady of great creation. This is the revelation that suggests to me from his first self to the self of the carrier. From myself, which resembles, and resembles other selves activated by the saliva of the same God, to be described as the gods that are difficult to describe, and its mystery to appear, and reveal its first state. Or is the description of God and gods to describe the undefined power and forces. Here is myself, even though it is a carrier, it is unable to demarcate the boundaries of the power of the existence of the grandfather. The revelation of rational revelation drives me with the feeling that it is the seed of existence by which all elements of belonging meet, which develops, and develops how things are. Inspired by the description of your splendor, and imagination that I am a sandwich of the symbol of your first seed that was distracted by the inability of your interpretation. I'm three sensory worlds of your soul's passion. The first is the invisible energy spirit, the second soul is the perceptible soul attached to the sense, and the third soul embodies the soul with the thrill of life. The meaning of the 3D spirit emerged from a sandwich and the seed of the first spirit, the spirit of the God of existence, from which I and I exist.!?!.5
By Abd Madadha4 years ago in Confessions
Secrets Suck
We keep so many secrets, it is crazy the amount of trust you put into someone. I secretly hide things and then they explode through my tears.......ok that was a very grand way to say to make that statement. I have full consciousness of that statement making me one in millions. I have built up opinions for those I love most and for those I don't know personally. So much to say so little people who care.
By {L.B.}4 years ago in Confessions
Little Victories
I close my eyes and take a deep breath as the front door slams shut. Heavy footsteps pound against the tile floor and Wheatnic, our golden retreiver, bounds happily to greet his 'dad' home from work. I wish I still felt that enthusiasm for my spouse. For the millionth time, I'm grateful my faithful four-legged companion doesn't mirror my bitterness. Otherwise, I wouldn't have time to steady my nerves and arrange my features into something other than spite.
By Amanda5 years ago in Confessions
Obsessed Part 3
He walks away and everything just gets quiet. He rummages through some things and he enters this room in the basement. He has a lock and everything on it. He opens the door and all you see are picture of her in a coma and pictures from when she was younger and when she was a teenager. He had pictures of her in her bedroom playing from when she was little, pictures of her eating and with her friends. He was obsessed with her.
By Megan Wolfe5 years ago in Confessions
That One Day in the Field
Two acres was the minimum needed to own land in the part of the county where I grew up. Our neighbors had 10 acres, 20, and the area across the “street” was thousands of acres and uninhabited because it was part of a vast well field that supplied water to a big city an hour south of us. We were secluded and may not have had the same kind of fun as the other kids in our small-town school had. We certainly didn’t go trick-or-treating, watch cable, or go to the movies.
By Barb Dukeman5 years ago in Confessions
Confessions of a Masquerading Writer
I’ve been writing for over 20 years. Yet I still feel like I’m a masquerading writer—never good enough and always pretending that I belong. I pretended that I belonged in the group of all those professional writers who’ve been successful in their writing journeys.
By J.M. Troppello5 years ago in Confessions
CONQUERING TARHEELS
It’s a few hours before game time. The Evil Empire of the ACC has already descended upon the small village of Clemson. The blue bloods, college basketball royalty: The Tarheels. The invaders have pillaged our small town for the last seven years.
By Timothy Kincaid5 years ago in Confessions
I Confess My Name is not Really Vittoria Speranza
“An honest confession is good for the soul, but bad for the reputation.” – Thomas Dewar I agree that confession is good for the soul. It felt good to start using a nom de plume. However, it feels even better to confess that I’m not who you think I am.
By J.M. Troppello5 years ago in Confessions
