SHORT STORY

           Outside the bunker it's hot. The heat found yet no home in the bunker. The heavy machine guns are greased and ready to nibble and bite whatever and wherever he points. To stay behind them gives you a sense of sureness. It's a sunny morning. Through the slits the grassy plain has an infinite look.           After the morning gathering, they're all waiting for the upcoming enemy offensive. Moral is high. Most of them have front line experience.           Several hours later the battle is at it's full. He shoots like crazy.           For one short moment he hears nothing, he doesn't exist. The bunker has been hit by a large shell and  collapsed. The munition that was stored underground ignites and explodes. He is propelled from the reinforced concrete grave in the direction of the advancing enemy troops. Some ...

Reinvent, commute whatever comes to mind, It will still be bound by the laws entwined. Abnegate, disown everything in sight,  It will still exist in all of its might.  Trick yourself, believe you will change the fate, Counter all the voices that could make you wait.  No, it’s not pure logic that will guide your lane.  Contrary – the madness is what keeps you sane.

"Who said money don't bring happiness must have been an old rich senile man"

The downside of illegal dreams Is that if cought you do the time Not in the prison of the world But in the jail inside your mind And if you look to ease your soul These aren't the lines you shoud've read Because a warm and healthy sleep Is not for those who steal a dream

We roam the seas with paper boats With paddles made of rotten cloth Chances so small and so remote That we will travel beyond the docks

I saw a man the other day, The oddest one I ever met. His eyes connected to a point, His face in smile of sour regret. He held a clock is his right hand And stared at it, but was away. Just as I took a closer look, I saw it ran the other way. Not to the right. Yes, to the left! A time-machine by all its means Trying to turn the hands of clocks, It was portraying our defeat.

It craves my skin and burns apart It tickles ashes through my heart Never too quite to abide Yet not so loud as to subside Througout the cracks it leaves a trail A geometry that will not fail To rumble voices in my head Always at night when warm in bed And there's no doctor that could tell What's the deep well in which i fell So all I do is hold on tight For all I have is a moschito bite

“Ridiculous”, he said And punched me with a twist: “One should forget the rules Or use them for his best. I say I do, I say I don’t, Because it serves my goal. But don’t expect me to be frank, That would exceed my role.” I stood and wondered with contempt: “Isn’t that what I craved? I followed you, and ‘cause of that I must accept what’s next.” It leaves me bare, or plainly numb. But I have come to find, That all the itches that we have Will scratch us. And not the other way around.

"Big Bang!" the Unknown yelled, And all that is contoured. "To some I'll be a God, To some I'll be obscure. To many I'll raise boundaries, To few I'll be see-through. To little I'll give green light, To a lot i'll ban the draw." "Big Bang!" I softly whisper And try to understand: "Am I the many, few or little In this rotating realm?" "Big-Bang" it's all I hear Some billion years away, And cannot temper tantrum. "For all I know, it's quantum."

                    From over two thousand years ago reverberate the words of Cicero:          "Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents , and everyone is writing a book ."

                  -Why are the clouds so low?                   -I don't know, but it doesn't smell like rain.                   The sky is covered in heavy rolls of fast moving clouds. It's dark as if night is going to take over.                   -It looks like a boiling foam... ash?!                    I don't answer her.                                    The field is flat with grey grass. The color of the grass scares me, I sit on my knees to better see it. Can't tell ...

                   Those who are not dead twist, bend and talk.                    If only the dead could speak.                            

                The house is empty.                 -Finally, a summer morning with a quiet house.                He got up and went to the bathroom. Teeth brush. Shower.                Downstairs he turned on the TV, still naked. His eyes are still sleepy. Just a lazy morning after two months of working round the clock and round the globe in the militarized junta that is telecom business.                His eyes switched from staring deep in to the TV to the moving trinkets on the shelves,next to the windows as the light coming from outside changes to a dim grey. His hands clutch the sofa as the house starts to tremble. He stands up in a crouched position ready to jump to save his life . Tripping on the coffee table and coat hanger he rushes outside slamming the door. ...

                                          Tremor of green                       Tears of rain                       Silence of life                        No pain                                               The sun is black                         Surroundings radiate     ...

                       I follow the sweet hills              A simple pleasurable walk              With details to unlock              Your body laying on it's side              Very easy to cover with my eyes

          -Don't fall in love with death. In death there's no conscience. In death there's no love. It's better to fall in love with lettuce. When did someone create something from death. Never...                Whispering:               -You know he preaches this every time.               -Shut up, you'll might learn something.               -Well I don't need...                 Thumps and the two whisperers hang with broken necks.              The preacher added :             - If you are afraid of death,  think of the silence and peace you had before you were born...