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#spilled prose

He loves her.

He does.

When the summer sun lights up her honey gold skin and her eyes speak the grandeur of thousand stars, he’s with her. But when the sky starts to rain, and the wind that blows her hair chants elegies as she weeps, he’s not by her side. So she sinks in despair. Revel in her own pool of tears.

He loves her.

Yes, he does.

But only when the ocean is calm and her dandelion soul dances under the clear blue sky.

-her dandelion soul,

-katie, 4th of April 2020

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Ghost of a Stranger

Late nights surrounded by

Grey skies

Your presence drips

Languidly on the pages

Of my books

Feeling soft breathe

From your lips

Parting onto mine

The smell of your skin

Lingers, longing

Staining the countours

Of my hips

Your hands with their

Veins, risen at their seams

I am sure you are touching me

Or is it only in my dreams

The melodic sweetness

Rise and fall

Of your voice

Catches me off guard

Weakens my knees

I am flying once more

My lips in longing for you


I don’t want to let you go

This sweet memory of sin

Your ghost in everything

And I always let it in

Can I play pretend a little longer

Or will it be forever

Until life has had its way with me

And your ghost has become

A stranger


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Was it love? I only desired his presence. It was an unknown need I couldn’t understand.

I was walking a sunless road, begging for a ray of sunshine. It was the kind of thirst water couldn’t quench, only his touch and words.

I don’t remember the feelings or if there was happiness, at some point? Ever? I was stubbornly obsessed.

Unreasonably on the verge of total despair and insanity.

A. M.

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Where do I start?

I’ve only been gone six months from this house yet I don’t remember what I did when I last lived here.

I don’t recall how I survived 18 years of life under this roof.

Harvest moon opened my eyes.

Not the ones on my face, the ones in my heart, where that little girl lies.

She’s been hiding there for years, terrified of peering round the corner lest she gets in trouble.

Now I can see her, I can reach out my hand and feel her.

Those little feet and that small smile that never reach far enough to find true happiness.

I’ve found it for you, love.

I found the freedom and the independence and the healing that small heart needed all along.

So now we can walk this quiet house together this late at night without fear of being found and lashed with harsh words and idle minds.

Where do I start?

I don’t even know how I got here.

And neither do I.

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- is anyone listening? -

get inside

shut the door

turn the lock and throw away the key

this is quarantine

don’t come out

not before the world is safe and there’s no more fee

a charge of existing

a penalty for breathing

your breath is a murderer

there’s over 2,000 kills in your state

are you listening?

or are you dying?

are you the grim reaper?

or poor Jason Hargrove?

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Nights are changing

the stars refuse to shine 

the way they did 

in the reflection of your eyes

when our hearts were racing

With the already dewy ground

we barely talked 

I know that I cried

and for a while our heartbeats 

were the only audible sound

There is no rhyme or reason

no number photos

that capture the laughter

that we were able to share 

as the stars danced through seasons

our hearts were so close

but never quite touching

our souls were the only 

source of light a fire

flames rising from beneath clothes


More here:


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Every person in this world, whether they breathe or no longer, trace their lineage back to the village of Ā. The village still stands, deep in the lap of a typically unventured forest.

The villagers of Ā don’t count their days. For them, a day is not something to admire, to cherish, or even to notice. Work drives their time under the sun. Instead, the villages of Ā count their sunsets.


the daily disappearance of the sun below the horizon

Between the squawking gulls and the groaning timber of the boats, you can hear the voices of the villagers preparing to greet and bid goodbye to the sunset. I sat with them, and with the shimmering lens of my camera, I captured their faces. Each picture felt like a lift, lowering me into the depths of the past.

That’s how I conceive the past: it’s below us. You dig for it, you brush the dust away, you dig some more, you define the edges, and you uncover the structures, the pottery, the fossils, the bones. But the villagers of Ā saw the past differently.

To them, the past was about chasing the sunset.

“The night isn’t kind out of its own heart,” the old historian told me. She wore blue, green, and faded yellow feathers in her hair. The beads around her neck had been passed down for generations. “The night is cruel, but fair. It won’t scorch you, but it also won’t protect you. It won’t protect the beasts, either. It’s not kind, but it’s fair.”

The villagers of Ā believe that the earliest humans spread out across the sea, chasing the sunset. Adamant that they had suffered the tyranny of night for too long, they put out their boats and they rowed into the sea. Be it placid, be it violent, they sailed until they reached land. But the sun set.

Some of the colonists stayed in the new land. They were tired, and they’d given up against the night.

But there were those who still carried with them the spirit of the sun. They pointed their spears further West, and they moved on. They sailed, they walked, they climbed mountains, they learned to ride horses and camels and elephants, they learned to make carts and affix them to oxen. They made chariots and carriages, and grand ships so large that you needed an army to service them.

And yet, hundreds and hundreds of years later, the cycle played out as it had originally. The tired ones stayed. The adventurous continued.

The nations of the world each birthed their own customs. They painted flags, and they spoke differently from each other. They spread out all over the world, chasing not the sunset, but wealth, and fame, and land, and whatever else could be had.

But the ones who still chased the sunset: they never settled. They travelled as far as they could carry themselves (and as far as they could be carried).

(ˈeɪljən , ˈeɪlɪən )

any being or thing foreign to the environment in which it now exists

The sunset-chasers sat down. Between the squawking gulls and the groaning timber of the boats, they prepared to camp. Their memories of Ā were vague now, perhaps even apocryphal. However, they knew that it had no doubt been a village just like the one they were in now.

While they readied for another day to sail tomorrow, they accepted the food and the drink of the locals. They danced, and they intoxicated themselves until they could forget their mission, and decided to stay.

As for the others, the ones who chose to go on, the ones who claimed descent from the first, original, true sunset of Ā: this was but another alien sunset to be counted and chased.


Today’s story doubles as an entry to @flashfictionfridayofficial! The prompt is Alien Sunsets. Check it out here!

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