~As the dust fades –
like a broken heart
I lie forlorn
yet I never forget

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Short Story: Love Letters to him Part 2| By Ellie Rayne

The Stranger's Wall

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It had been a couple of days since Elena last seen her bestfriend Matilda. They are both studying in different schools. But the love letters is still proceeded to be given to Michael Johnson through Matilda’s help.. But after awhile Elena feels concern. Due to none of her love letters were replied back by him.

One day, Elena went grocery shopping alone for her mother and bumped into Michael by coincidence. “Well hello Michael. How do you do?” Asks Elena sweetly as she blush. He smiles at her as he starts selecting a few apples to buy. “I am well thank you.. Miss?” He seeks for her name to address her. “Its Elena Gray. I am sure you know who I am right?” Asks Elena with her eyes blinking hoping he does.

“Sorry no.. I do not. But nice to meet you still for the first time.” His words drew…

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staring at the walls dying inside refusal to cope tears fall the ground is saturated they get up, and move along with life as there is no choice.

Staring
at the walls
dying inside
refusal to cope
tears fall
the ground is saturated
they get up
and move along with life
as there is no choice.

Killer Treads Friday

One Poet Ranting

The web page flickered across Big Bob’s face as he stared at the ad. He couldn’t believe it, a great top of the line treadmill for only twenty dollars. He reached down and pinched the gigantic roll of fat around his waist.

“You my friend have to go.” He ran his hand through his middle aged hair then picked up the phone and dialed the number on the screen.

No answer.

A short story about a man who buys a twenty dollar treadmill and finds out too late that the machine has a taste for blood. A short story about a man who buys a twenty dollar treadmill and finds out too late that the machine has a taste for blood.

He held on a moment longer and just as he was about to hang up. Someone picked up. It was an old sounding voice; no not old, creaky was the word I was looking for. It had the feel and sound of one of those old doors that would swing open in a scary…

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Tarantula

O at the Edges

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Tarantula

The patience of stone, whose surface belies calm.
Neither warm nor cold, but unfeeling.

It digresses and turns inward, a vessel reversed
in course, in body, in function, the

outward notion separate but inclusive,
darkness expanding, the moist

earth crumbling yet holding its form:
acceptance of fate become

another’s mouth,
the means to closure and affirmation

driven not by lust nor fear
but through involuntary will.

Neither warm nor cold, but unfeeling.
The patience of stone.

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