humanity
For better or for worse, relationships reveal the core of the human condition.
Death unknown
How do you get over death? Is there a way? Why does death hurt so much? All I know is I have been going through death my whole life, and it never gets easier. I take death to the extreme now. I have got two phone calls saying friends are dying past two months. They say death comes in threes. But why? Why does it have to come in threes? Why can't it be one and done? Does it ever end? There is so much running through my mind I don't know where to begin. I want it to stop. I don't want to hear about another person is dead.
By Laura mclean5 years ago in Humans
Matryoshka
Svobody Prospekt 13, Lviv, Ukraine. The city was awash with the smells of summer. Inhaling deeply, I smiled. Spectating from my customary corner table of the Grand Hotel was never tiresome. Masses of commuters vied for position in jerky, accelerated bursts, an undulating metal quilt in which the covers were constantly fought over. One must be fast on their feet when negotiating the streets of Lviv! Traffic signals are brief and motorists will simply not stop if they do not have to. It's all a bit of a cowboy movie showdown, really. Both you and the oncoming driver know the light is about to change. Squinting, you catch each other's eye: I dare you! Extremities twitch in readiness: Signal change! Draw! And even though your vehicular opponent exhibits no indications of slowing, you simply - step, into the crosswalk and proceed! Sometimes, the driver will nod in respect, smile or even a chuckle. More often than not, there is swearing.
By Cindy Ichikawa5 years ago in Humans
Fortuna
It had not rained for two weeks. The ants claimed refuge from the summer heat in their hills, the birds in their nests, and the squirrels in their trees. The farmer found no such respite and was forced by necessity to make his monthly journey to the communal well at the edge of town. He said bye to his wife, untied his mule, and set off on his journey armed with his walking stick and eagle-like sight. He had made this same trek a thousand times, and not once did he complain or resent the simple but arduous task. On his way towards the wooden gate, a group of dusty, oblivious children ran in front of his path and sent a shudder through him that shook his weary spirit. Whenever he heard the carefree chuckles of the adolescents or saw them running at full speed to eat their lunch he was reminded of his frail state. He had grown old. Since he was ten years old, he had been working on the patròn’s estate, living in the same one-room red brick hut that he was born in. His translucent skin, brittle platinum hair, and malnourished appearance made the children scatter with fright in their hearts whenever he approached. The farmer was a sinewy skeleton blanketed in a taut skin covering. The other workers often referred to him as a specter that haunted the estate. His appearance betrayed his personality. The trials of rural life had hardened his exterior, but the beauty of nature had softened his soul. He removed himself from earthly concerns, besides his daily chores, and would seldom make conversation with his neighbors. They were far too young to say anything of importance. The farmer usually sat in the patròn’s gardens during his leisure time, listening to the bees and smelling the sweet lavender and cardamom plants, while the other tenants whispered about the triumphs, and more likely defeats, of the romantic revolutionaries. Recently the eastern front guerrillas had made it as close as two miles away from the capital, where the farmer lived. Rifle shots and stifled screams could be heard by the workers at night. The children would sometimes pretend to be soldiers and play with sticks that resembled gun barrels. The farmer did not place any emotion or expectation in the amorphous revolution. He had lived through five defeated revolutions, each one bloodier than the last. In his youth, the farmer would daydream about joining the freedom fighters, and he almost did. But those bygone days were like the memories of an old lover: bittersweet. The early revolutions captured the imagination of the whole country. Every night rebellious citizens would furtively turn on their radios to hear the developments of the guerillas; adjusting the volume so it was as silent as a mosquito’s hum. But it seemed to the farmer that whenever the rebels made considerable gains, the government would reclaim just as much land in another province. So, the farmer gave up on his dreams of equality and freedom, resigning his life to one of simplicity and duty. In any case, there were more pressing matters to attend to the chickens must be fed, the cows must be milked, the soil tilled, the food prepared, and the water collected. Revolutions demand sacrifices of body and spirit. They were complicated, nasty affairs. And at the end of it all, there was rarely anything to show for it. The farmer knew all of this and decided to continue living his straightforward existence.
By Dominic Obraitis5 years ago in Humans
Bittersweet Cinnamon
“Wake up hon, she needs you” -A faint voice called out. The smell of cinnamon filled the room. His head pounded as he reached for his phone, accidentally pushing empty bottles to the floor. He felt the coins on the table, on top of his mother’s notebook. He grabbed the closest to him and held it in front of his face barely able to read the engravings on the coin:
By Andres Montero5 years ago in Humans
Mystery Journey
One day you are sitting at home writing about adventures you will never go on and the next day you are living in one of your adventures. Here I am, face to face with a lion. This lion is beautifully gold with a strong muscled body. He walks stealthily towards me and I back up slowly just a bit without removing my eyes from him. His movements started to increase towards me, and I move back just as fast as he was coming towards me. I started to tumble from the dry loosely white sand and pitch backward falling into a dug hole in the sand.
By Frederica benjamin5 years ago in Humans
The Unambitious Social Climber
I am an unambitious social climber. I have no real desire to achieve anything, and I never have. Yet, things always line up in my favor. An opportunity I did not ask for comes to me, offering a clear path to having more. And then, for no reason at all because I do not desire anything, I put in the bare minimum effort that the opportunity requires of me to get more.
By Tiannah Steele5 years ago in Humans
A Life Well Spent
Lorraine Hobbs walked through the park noting the people who passed or who played with children, who fed ducks or who picnicked. She was not there to people watch, but she found the scene comforting. Absorbed in her observation, Lorraine almost missed Principal Rosa Castañeda sitting on a bench, sketching a group of young men throwing a frisbee. Time had etched more lines on her face, and she was a little rounder than Lorraine remembered, but the discerning hazel eyes and the rigid posture remained.
By K. P. Gordon5 years ago in Humans
This Watery Earth
Not every Capricorn is obsessed with money and inherently cold. That’s the opinion of people who, forever reason, felt threatened by our presence. I’ve been in situations where people hear Capricorn and immediately they put their guard up or whip out their extraordinarily limited understanding of what the sign represents. Oddly enough, I’ve been in the presence of a Capricorn other than myself since I was born. I can tell you this about us—we are some of the quirkiest, silliest human beings. Admittedly, yes, we can appear cold if anybody pisses us off or chooses disrespect over common sense. Specific to myself, I resonate greatly with the major identifying tenets of the Capricorn sign. Though I be a person of earth, my moon sign resides in Scorpio, a water sign. I am in many ways a rock filled with water.
By Marquis D. Gibson5 years ago in Humans
