EmmaSloane

Emma

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The formless station by oviedomedina, literature

Literature

The formless station

With one single step out of the train there is no direction anymore there never was any- no structure, there was no architecture successfully threading the instances of the biography, successfully leading this afternoon successfully leading this career this life towards -sigh- anything There is no direction inside this station and the dawning is cold like the air escaping the closing doors and the somersaulting commuters ditching the fee Smart ones: them and the smug academic flaunting his million publications flaunting his indexed life such a professorial life straight out of graduation in one flawless impulse of his train where all the maps are clear and twelve years after he can boast his scholarly chin bearded in foreign climates and cozy colleges cozily sailing away his success Such is his station, their station, all their stations, in this forsaken life! All the millions, all the toils all the calls were correctly placed and correctly given and it was a smooth transit no

maybe... maybe not by alapip, literature

on calling home, vietnam 2017 by successwithhonor, literature

Literature

on calling home, vietnam 2017

we walk to the market, watch the barefoot children, the winding snake of tuk tuks disappearing into noise. we look to the internet to express our fascination with these newfound novelties.i tell my facebook friends about which strange meats taste like chicken about the meaning of time on the long edge of horizon and the vietnamese word for thank you.they laugh, tell me that i am brave, that the world is small and the people in it infinite, everlasting, some trope of belonging.

Civilian by Poetrymann, literature

Literature

Civilian

Dressed like a civilian, he only comes to maim (No one is watching the house tonight) Tin cans line the porch rail as if they had all the time in the world to flee, just waiting for a shot to fracture the silence.The air is a blister. It swells his feet and hands, his heavy jowls dragging down the walls. The rocker waits for him, guessing his mood and the weight of his heart as he sprawls into the wood and shifts his face.Testimony Clockwork A last glance at the door and the windows staring back at the yard. He can feel the sleight of hand, the slow turn of the screwand knows the fire has gone out.

American Crocodile by jimfleming, literature

Literature

American Crocodile

I’d heard about the crocodile in the salt ponds I walk the road nearby every evening and thought I might see it eventually The American Crocodile is a rarity, but if left unmolested will live for seventy years The local paper mindlessly reported the sighting and the tourists came Gaijin in red rented Mustang convertibles They would stop me on my walk and ask, “Yo, you seen that Alligator?” I said, “No and it’s a Crocodile and I doubt it wants to see you.” Not the friendliest local, me I was worried it might have been rubbed out – killed for its skin or its skull Or the human perversion, killed for “fun” Like a miracle, I saw her one ev...