The poet's mind was turning stale
after all his submitted stories began to fail.
No more online challenges!, he swore,
until another contest announced by Vocal.
His pen rattled from its sheath and set out to prevail!
About the Creator
mokradi_
Pari (he/they)
A BIPOC settler in Coast Salish Territories of so-called 'Canada'.
On the road to reconciling the worlds within while reclaiming my journey, one story at a time.
#multiculturalstories
#transgenerationalmemories
Universal Order
Stay in my arms, keep me warm, take me away to an island of cottage houses that live in heaven. If I could reside in a rose, sleep on a candle, eat grapes from the moon and have a bubble bath as my bed then joy would wake my soul every morning from the mountain. Gazing into the ethera from flesh to alternate realities; my soulmate is seen picking flowers, singing with the greenery, flipping pages lost in a book, barefoot soaking in a riverbed. While my wild hearted kids spur in a child’s world dispersed in the wilderness of Mother Earth’s fortress. An immeasurable treasure filled of pain and pleasure such is the adventure of life. An experience that unfolds you to your core, shedding layers to your purpose and the one course to take is… suffering. A blessing or curse? Advantage or disadvantage? Suppose you could say it differs between individuals. For he who has been wounded and healed learns to stitch others. And it’s when death ground swallows you that you’re made to dig into the trenches of your neglected parts. It is then when meaning is uncovered and you fall into the universe but realise it was just the doorstep of your soul. Preordained by the structurelessness of time’s myth every piece will fill when it’s destined in the open passage universal order. The heart’s deepest desires will blossom when the season is right.
By Haytham Trueheart4 days ago in Poets
Gossamer
"Murray! Wake up!" He loved that period between waking and dreaming. To him, it was like entering another dimension; more of a dreamscape than dreaming itself. There was an otherness to it that he wanted to grasp and yet deeply respected the fact that it could never be his totally. This is what gossamer was; flighty and light, a wisp of smokiness, an idea suggested but not fully revealed, a slit in cloth, a copse in the wood.
By Rachel Deeming6 days ago in Fiction
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