WriterinWonder
Bio
Let’s talk about something uncomfortable…
.
Wonderlusty writer
Self-conscious
Passionate humanitarian
Clue-driven thinker
IG: @writerinwonder
Stories (14/0)
“A Poem”
"If he write you a sonnet he must really love you," she said out of nowhere. Pencils, pastels, erasers and white pages were all scattered around us. Magazines, books and leaflets were laying in between us, opened, one on top of the other. And the hallway of the residential block was empty, if not for the two of us. The pavement was cold, even though warm spring rays of sun were caressing our faces. Outside the window the sky was clear. Soft, cotton-like clouds drifted lazily on its surface.
By WriterinWonderabout a year ago in Poets
It Was 6 AM.
It was 6 am and it was my day off. The first one in a long while. When I looked out from the window of the bus I saw her sitting on a box. One of those big, green ones. Who knows what hides inside there. Wires, probably. Switches that control lights and buttons and the flashing green and red of the traffic lights.
By WriterinWonder2 years ago in Psyche
We are, “together”
Shut and secure, with headphones placed safely and tightly on both ears, disconnecting them from the outside world but placing them strictly in another. The wide, black, curtains were neatly tucked around the window, blocking any distraction of the passing of the day. Just the digital clock in the corner of the screen reminded them what hour it was. What day. Month. Because it’s been months since Alex left. Since they grew into that gaming chair, moving just for the main three necessities: food, toilet and sleep. But even the last one managed to catch them at their desk. Their eyelids would shut, suddenly, leaving them with their cheek slapped on the keyboard.
By WriterinWonder2 years ago in Confessions
The Night Call
The flashing lights of the 711 were casting their yellowish hues on the sidewalk in front of its entrance, not reaching high enough to touch the dusty orange, green and red sign above. But, although unwillingly, they did manage to caress Peter’s back, who was sitting on a low brickwork a couple of feet away. Just like the clerk inside the shop he was scrolling through the games on his phone, opening and closing them with his phone muted, not attempting to play any of them. This search for distraction was going on for a quarter at least, and one empty can of beer was laying on the ground beneath him while the new one, still covered in melted drops of ice, was standing on his side.
By WriterinWonder2 years ago in Pride
