Floating plushie

(the first ever winter that turned into summer overnight) Her ancestors as if condemned, none of them entertained hope, but she suspended the warped war and soared up to the multicoloured moonbeams, living out the world's dreams as its youngest resident. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

Biting the biting frost looking into the sun warm and golden-coated they become The outstretched hand suspended in the air as if... Feeling with his gaze the crusty old cheek, wrinkled, soft, yet red At the same time, as hard as rock, healthy under the power of tenderness of a wide, innocent smile. The earthy cracks around the eyes, under the same bloom of thousands of skins - firm, glowing but al...

Love but You Love trees with their trunks moving too deep into the ground, or way up reaching further and further into a sky, never quite understanding the sense of direction  when they choose to exist as they lend themselves for people to reach the sky they're made themselves of while digging into their earth. Black, on white paper, on which the same people glue death to life. the unfilled s...

Weightless, as if the sun has burnt ties, unburnt loving raw connections giving people the nudge to move stairless climbs into what others might call the impossible resistance to power. Imponderable, he climbs the insides of the wrong stomach, rounded by taken [almost never given] pleasures. Ceased to be more than more. Never the same. Never before, always in the after. The sun would weigh the lin...

Fish She got on the local train, settled for one seat, no one seated right next to her. Within seconds, she discovered the next seat was utterly splashed with dry mud stains. Next, on the other row of seats, an old man, a fisherman, an angler, with a handmade walking stick, eating some bread or pastry that got him into a sea of crumbs. No swordfish. She wondered: could all these people be savage?...

As this is a reading of Haruki Murakami's short story "Concerning the Sound of a Train Whistle in the Night or On the Efficacy of Fiction", there will be no transcript other than the cover picture for the episode. I hope you enjoy the short story as much as I do. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

She'll find peace in the greens and reds and nothing in-between in the paper tissues for tears after tears that soak spilt water making it one with them in the blood nebulae that float magically in body tissues, broken, exploded into pieces, magnetically, kinaesthetically suppressed in zero gravity - stop As she'll slowly elbow waves with legs stuck up to the knees rotating pyramid mountains upsid...

Born. Childhood. Raised. His adulthood not up to the bar. They didn't build themselves up nor their houses by mixing clay with crumbs of bread. How then? Sold their hearts when they left their lands. Sold them. All. Not a single dime of their soul left. Or maybe one. One flicker. Nobody's home. Intoxicated with untrusty behaviour. Possessed by all the people he had ever met. The only memory he did...

harassed down a lane. The setting sun through the dusty midsummer landscape slipping past weary, unnoticed beauty, dissatisfied, cynical. The hopes of youth - ulcers arguing, speaking, self-absorbed, not even noticing how stubborn. On the crest of a hillock, the little creature hurtled off into the forest: didn't bust, ran into, eyes closed, revived. -through the thinly treed forest, a patch of da...

They dragged him. They dragged him out of the woods when no one saw when no one was there to stare. Bogged down by no remorse. Drowned out in the noises logging machines make and that could have drilled open even a heart of stone. If no one but them knew, conscience was more likely to feel clean. At least, this is what they thought. Tied to no mercy the six feet of him: he didn't have one mark, th...

They said that what was ‘us’ must die. The confession twirled over half of the city: half-asleep, half-naked. Half-truth. It spiralled into whispers we hear every night before we go to bed with someone else, or no one. It sank in so that sometimes I think I feel the ache of the water running through my body. 70% - 60% - 50%: less water than in other bodies. Half-empty, half-full. It let the candle...

Threefold blossoms: tenfold more than tenfold. To some, evolution branches humanity out into existence. The hatchling of a dream: the perpetual movement of the species. Miscarea permanenta a vietii: visul pe care ultima geana de netrezire, de somn il atinge ca si cum ar sparge coaja unui ou. Waiting: the non-movement of movement. The noise in the mind -short-circuit- the straight line in life. In...

Presumably, precious cold is biting the skin off of the Earth. Theirs, too. Even the faintest trace of wind is strong on those rosehips that pierce the hand. Holding it out and looking at it punctured from place to place, pain that says: 'No, this time is going to be different.' As one wolf spider, a doting mother, carries its weight They feel a tinge of regret. Threefold blossoms - tenfold more t...

If you want to know if somebody was loved growing up, ask them about their hair. She can't speak for little boys, but she assumes for them it would be how many pairs of hands they were ready to exchange. One for their mothers' wombs - the feathers of their intrauterine life - cool now, heated then. Another for their mothers' spine, around the waist and up, like ivy up the walls of long-held wishes...

Inside a giant grape, A safer world pulled out a cascade of lace, gentle blues, heavy reds concrete telephone poles on top of paper-cut telephones huddled together A lightning-rod, distant holes, the white skin of winking and crying lights bobbing distant 'there's more over here' the lights of home, elegant but two-dimensional and thick-skinned perfectly obvious, faded pockmarks on the cheeks of h...

New A seed, a bud, a leaf, a blossom - the tiniest possible carries strong (still) the heart of the Earth The feeble beating sounds of what is yet to come Not long ago forgotten in the rooted belief that what is once dead is dead. While you're watering the perspective of one leaf, another plant has lost it to the frost because in your recklessness, you've entirely moved past what death could bring...

Could this cooking day be just a bad hair day, one telling you to stay out of the kitchen? Listening to a story about burnt food and then getting into the kitchen with the confident air that this is no way going to happen to you today, not today, since you'll be extra cautious and won't leave the kitchen until the food is off the stovetop, would be enough to set you out for the cooking process. I'...

The Future Perks of Being Old and Cranky A nonsensical story for which you'll have to use all senses, including the mind (admitting the mind is one of the senses). The heart has a seat at another table looking closely while coming to its senses. Co-authored with one of my best friends, whose sweet name is Adina: here's to you! In the final hours of a perfectly fine timeline, no one would have expe...

I I've got my eyes from you... As you're lacking full vision now, I would give you mine if I could force it out of me, if I could truly give it up for you, if I didn't alter the 'yes'. II After the rain, the river rhythmically pumps soul into the city: Has crept inside its mouth hissing [from the tangled roots], skirting around, growing occasionally downstream, lurking at the borders, drifting ups...

My Home is not a House The Utopia in Dystopia (The) promises we make to our children Are the ones we ve already broken to ourselves By and by You ll get used to it. You ll scream it and fist it that you won t Chase time override decisions swearing blind that the sweat of the days when they wake up under the bite of the nights will gauge life the thick on the ground And end up Shovelling the bones...

The Liaison Words 'The' is the Missing Word Old and young, white hairs grow wrinkles on the skin of the animal. Under my eyes-hallowed caves. Raw face time, locked state, and memories are seriously forgetting the past. I choose to wonder at the one. Change? A rogue promise hides breaking, sealed up a sleeve, stopped to become another; a pencil's mark pulls the heart of this sheet of paper, scrapin...

The lump in the concrete...only just Hollowing its cave-like mouth, in deep-hanging crevices Grass on, and under it, scattered dandelions, whose severed heads are a song to their scaffold-stems lying like sacrificed soldiers on the battlefield. Moving on to the sight of the second and third squadron of white-haired, giraffe-necked brothers-in-arms that stand at the lions' gate in an inter-galactic...

Rising Moon, Falling Moon Wrapped up in her full-roundness, a non-existent curtain of night clouds draped over, right at the sunset point, where the human eye meets the horizon (after removing the rest of the sky, in an out of sight, out of mind approach), a full-grown new moon, well-behaved, as one could tell by her decision to glare and silvery shine on the dreams and desires of the ignoran...

Fishing A walk down the memory and imaginary lanes I don't know anything about deep or 'shallow' sea fishing and don't think I ever will (firsthand, I mean) unless the mountain in me takes a plunge into one sea. I've recently read about low-tide fishing with its tarred twine, fish traps, fishing nets, outcrops, bladder vraic (most probably, more commonly known as bladderwrack, vraic being seaweed...

If Bluebirds Existed... Credits for the idea to the Korean movie When the Weather is Fine http://asianwiki.com/When_the_Weather_is_Fine If Bluebirds existed, they would be the sunset with a golden halo in between dark blue wings, a stratified sunset launching thoughts as rockets; they would have the shape of cloud castles, up an imaginary mountain, on top of our realities, the real mount, that of...