Sprung from the grave

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           In 1943 on the eastern front a happy story for one but sad for many unfolded.

           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 of the soldiers, on both sides, stop as their minds tell them that there is a fast tumbling man through the air  grasping half of a machine gun.

         He lands on his bottom, covered in white dust mixed with blood, deaf and with obvious wounds. He has a puppet posture. With eyes wide opened he looks around,unable to move. He has no idea where he is or what he was doing. Soldiers surround him , some laugh, some say the divinity protected and gave him a second chance.

        "Sprung from the grave" are the words uttered on both sides for the next month.

THE END 
     

Eppur si muove

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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.

Money

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

Counterfeit Lullaby

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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

Rotten cloth. A poem about life.

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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

How to write

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   You have to master vocabulary and grammar. By writing you convey images. One good method is to study the classics, or articles written by professional literature critics that study great operas. Also your subjects should not be inspired by other authors. You are the writer of the scenes and also the director. It's hard work. Though writing may appear to many to be just a fad, a time killing experience in an infinite sea of wrong possibilities, words are limited. Life is limited and not a huge roam of possible combinations and permutations. Take a look at politics it's the most well written piece of fiction. Even your own life is a great novel, you just have to look at it from a creative and cold perspective.

Backwards

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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.

Innuendo

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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

Consequence

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“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

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"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."

Times are bad

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                    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."

Cherry tint

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                  -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 if it's green or ash gray. I squat for a moment and look around. She's standing on the other side of the ditch, on the road, nervous.
                  I turn to her to ask her  what she thinks. With the corner of my eye , as I turn, I see an amazed and scared look on her face. She gazes in to the distance behind me.  I turn in to the direction that she looks.
                  In the distance, an uneven trunk of what seems to be glass is spewing out of the ground. It's diffuse, with a cherry red tint. It reaches the sky and splits. A mute display .The tentacles follow the contours of the clouds. It's immense.
                 A beam of white light points to my chest. It comes from the trunk, from far away.

                -It's going through you. We need to leave... please.
                She's scared with tears in her eyes. No matter how we move the beams stay on us,and go through us. A loud crackling  echoes, a combination of thunder and breaking glass noise. There is no wind.

                I wake up.

I live for you, you die for nothing

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

The sun is shining every day

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           The sun is shining everyday
           No matter how far away
           No matter how deep you sway
           Don't let the world corrupt your way
           By default  it's incisive and grey

Cat lasso

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                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.
               Looks like a dust storm. It's coming from behind the house and advances.
               A siren shrieks. A loud amplified voice announces:
               "The controlled demolition is over"
               His adrenalin level shoots up as he discovers he can't go back into the house as the door is locked. He's naked outside the house in a tight packed neighborhood. He remembers that there are clothes strung to dry on the first floor balcony.
                Looking around confused and scared, he sees his cat coming home(after a rough night) jumping graciously over a bundle of rope. Inspiration hits him. He ties the cat and volleys it in to the balcony. The cat hangs on to the clothes. He pulls but the cat meows and resists. It props up with its hind legs on the balcony handrail.
               A passer by sees him and calls the police. The police officers laugh together with the crowd gathered to see the naked man with a lasso cat.
               THE END

Smokey

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                          A smoking short story:                    
                He has been following me for a long time. We struck a friendship. Met him through a friend's friend. He's annoying, present in my issues and in my thoughts all the time, almost. I have been pondering if his friendship is good or bad, he's...The problem  . He drives away my other friends. I  balance the facts giving  arbitrary weights. He's not good. He ruined my life. He must die.
                I  patiently wait for him. There he is . I broke his neck . Bye bye Smokey. I will remember you.

And that my friends is how you get rid of an addiction. You kill it. You personalize the addiction and turn it into a  negative persona . I am talking about smoking here.  :)

Predictors

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           There are  people that have the ability to connect to the collective mind. These persons have the ability to
predict what will happen in a certain period of time with the hive that is society. Usually, they are very bad at predicting details for a single person. It's not magic, it's a skill. They are the next step in evolution. In most cases they are nice.

            If you step out of the house, it's like having a mute conversation. Your unconscious reads and transmits.
            Your body talks more than you think.
            Sharpen your senses.

Calm

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            Be calm, it dilates time. It helps you find solutions.
            Tell me when did an agitated soul managed to do things in the long term.

No pain

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                      Tremor of green
                      Tears of rain
                      Silence of life
                       No pain
                      
                       The sun is black 
                       Surroundings radiate
                       I try to float
                       With a petrified heart
                     
                        In corners
                        I can only crawl
                        So I won't fall
                        From this cruel world
                       

The walk

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             A not so long poem masterpiece(hahaha):
         
             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

Orange

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          I think a good horror movie can be made based on this short fiction horror (read and tell me your opinion):    

          -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.
       
           The audience is silent. All of a sudden their hair stands up as if they are under an electrical field .The gravitation generator oscillates.

         
 
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