www #37 – Out of Breath – Text #1


Around me I see shapes

I am surrounded


There are too many forms


I can’t escape

I am a prisoner of this world

Of fakes and breaks,

And tears/i:/ and tears/e/

They come and grab me,

Try to catch a glimpse,

Cling to a piece of me. Continue reading


Featured Challenge #27 – Ghosts – Text#2

Escaping This World

by Garry Vakarian

« See? That wasn’t so complicated. » Priya words echoed in the empty void. Except I wasn’t listening. My mind and my attention were absorbed by the lingering image of Devon’s eyes – my first departed. She was chosen as my first culling and final exam for the Reaper’s assignment. She was staying at her favorite place, a small lake in the valley near her hometown. Her boyfriend had dumped her, and she had a mental breakdown at her work after that. Being fired from her job, and let go by the person, whom she thought was the love of her life was too much. She didn’t see the point of continuing her existence. After a rather short and grim post on her facebook page, she ended her life in the place she liked the most.

And it was I who had to take her soul to the afterlife.

In Purgatory, prior to meeting Devon, my supervisor Priya gave me the file on her case. Standard operating procedure required me to check it in order to better accompany the dead, and to effectively extract her soul from her body. In her dossier, I had access to a short summary of her life, the causes explaining her death and the location of the body. More importantly for my job, it had what we could call an autopsy report. In short, it gave the M.O. of her death, and how to “cull” or should I say extract her soul from the physical world and body. You see, the scythe isn’t just for show; it was our tool for exacting the incision freeing the essence of a person. Continue reading

WWW#37 – Out of breath – Texte #3

Finnigan Hawkmoth

Il coulait. Il avait beau essayer de remonter vers la surface, lutter de toutes ses forces — rien à faire, il coulait. A pic, comme une pierre, attiré par l’eau elle-même dans ses abysses.

Il se débattit encore plus fort alors qu’il sentait le froid des profondeurs l’envelopper, comme un cocon délétère, puis s’insinuer en lui. Ses muscles se raidissaient, solides comme des blocs de glace, et le peu d’air qui subsistait dans ses poumons se changeait peu à peu en givre…

Il cessa de s’agiter, acceptant la réalité, et leva la tête vers la surface — il en était maintenant si loin que tout, au-dessus de lui, semblait d’un gris profond comme un orage d’été.

Enfin la dernière bouffée d’air lui échappa comme une délivrance. Continue reading

WWW#36 – Broken – Text#3

by Irishdreamwalker


The marble sits in an expectant silence,
Waiting, fearful of what is to come.
Yet, excited. Now committed, it cannot run and hide,
Only hope, finally prepared for its fate.

The sculptor strikes with hammer and chisel,
Painful blows carving away layers of stone,
Digging deep into the core, cracking apart the hard shell,
Shattered fragments scatter over the floor.

Stone heart now exposed, the sculptor gently
shapes the rock, adding form with soft touches.
Deliberate blows and unconscious art combine,
guiding the marble as it learns to find its true self.

The sculptor comes and goes,
Each time bringing a voyage of emotions.
Meanwhile, the marble sits,
Waiting for the artist’s touch.

Waiting for completion.