Weekend Writing Warriors – Plain Is Pain

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Weekend Writing Warriors is an amazing platform where every Saturday on Sunday you can share with others 8 to 10 sentences of your work. It is a great opportunity to reach new readers. And, of course, I hope that you will find this excerpt interesting.

This weekend, I am entering with 10 sentences from Plain Is Pain. It is a short story and an essay I am writing about growing up in a plain. It’s sometimes difficult to explain it to people, so I tried to let written thoughts speak about it. Once completed, I will post the story on my blog. It is primarily a blog for writing, but I tend to post any form that might inspire me. Enjoy staying here.

If melancholy was a place, it would be a plain. It is long and wide. The vastness, where blue from the sky melts into green from the fields in one, thin line of the horizon is overwhelming, consuming.

Everything appears distant. If you spend enough time in it, a wasteland will start spreading on the inside, pushing out all pleasant sensations to occupy more space for itself. It will become a shirt for you to wear everywhere you go. You will not notice it at first, but the invisible cloth will pressure you and you will wonder why you want to cry when a cheerful song plays and why your dreams are always strange or frightening, but never happy.

If you take a road cutting through the plain your feet will hurt. You will feel pointlessly free, as all around would strike you as endless. The plain is loneliness hiding in the croplands, the grass, and the soil.

Impressions 78

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Memory can often be an enemy of the worst kind. It decides to send its letters of past when one least expects it. Bad memories sometimes seem much more eager to appear than the good ones. Familiar, dear faces emerge, only to remind of the void left by their absence. The realization that it is only a memory shatters those moments in pieces of bitterness. Yearning for those times to return becomes obsessively excruciating. The presence is suddenly irrelevant. The future is not something to be welcomed anymore, it turns into a boat slowly sailing away from those happier places the mind has kept. And it makes you angry, sad, and disappointed. All the words that could be said if only one more chance was given. They are now nothing more than unspoken thoughts and regrets.

The Blue

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Blue is infinity above. It is limitless freedom, it belongs to everyone and surrounds all that was, all that is, and all that will be.

Impressions 77

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There is that rule about meeting someone and realizing whether you like them or not in just three seconds. In my case, my attitude towards someone new in three seconds is basically just, I haven’t found reasons to avoid you. Yet.

Colours

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Every story in Colours will have a specific colour as a theme, along with the impressions and sentiments it provokes. Along with thoughts on each part of the spectrum, these writings will also include photos inspired by many magnificent properties of light. This is a writing practice for the purpose of merging different senses with concepts. The idea is to achieve simultaneous response from both the mind and the body, as the former stems from the latter, and the latter completes the former.

The Green

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This green is what makes dreams soft. The grass, the leaves in crowns of trees, the vines that bind, all are green and shimmering as crystals in the wind. Green is the colour of everything being alright and at ease. It is nature’s smile, silence after noise, rest and return after a long time away from that happiest place.

Weekend Writing Warriors – A Story of Another

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This time for Weekend Writing Warriors, which is a great opportunity for writers to present their work in excerpts between 8 and 10 sentences long every weekend, I decided to test the genre that I have always admired, but I never actually realized it fully in my stories. So, I started writing a Gothic short story that is also based on some of tales told in my family and the mythology of where I come from.

Sometime after the dusk, the long, slow, summer kind, streets were suddenly empty and evening moths started dancing around the light from lampposts. All moths would stick to the glow calling to them every night. This light they strove to was intoxicating, but its source was not the sun or the moon. It was an illusion of warmth. It was a false beacon. One she-moth was especially enchanted by these particles and waves shining through the air. When and how the fascination began, she could not remember. After each transformation she knew even less about herself, but every time she felt the hunger was stronger. The she-moth distanced herself from the group and flew to a different beam that drew her, one that was dimmer but more inviting.

These 9 sentences are the beginning of the story. A Story of Another is a working title, so it may change. Also, in a way, I always wanted to write this kind of story and I will give my best to make it good.

Long Afternoons

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Sometimes, all that is needed for a long afternoon to slowly seep away through the pores of a purple sunset is a candy such as this. Town fair wonders are apparently the relief for all worries and noises of the world.