fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
Dry Skin? 6 Reasons Why
By: Haley Hooper
Tags: Skincare, Skin Care Tips, Wellness, Wellbeing

We all want glowing, hydrated, bouncy, youthful skin! However that sheet face mask you bought off Amazon is probably not helping you. Here are six ways to avoid drying out your skin and what to do instead:

1) Your Daily Cleanser is Too Harsh

Exfoliation is great, to an extent. Your daily face wash should be gentle and made from natural products, keeping chemicals (ex: alcohol) limited to none. Most face washes on the market strip your skin of its natural oils and the skin will be unable to rehydrate.

2) Showering with Scorching Water

Hot showers feel amazing, but aren’t so great for your hair and skin. The overly hot water will dehydrate the skin, irritating it, as well as damage your hair. Try room temperature next time?

3) Forgetting to Prime Your Skin

Makeup!! Yay, but could seep into your pores, causing problems, like dry skin. Either a primer or a good face lotion (or both) will lock in the skin’s moisture and create a smooth base as well as a barrier.

4) Sheet Masks Don’t Help

Masks in general are a great thing. An avocado mask maybe even a gel mask, but sheet masks don’t do anything. The hydrating serums on them are diluted and evaporate before they’re able to be absorbed by the skin.

​5) Ignoring the Weather

​Whether it’s freezing cold or hot and humid, the weather affects the skin. In winter months, indoor heat will dry out the air as well as the skin: invest in a humidifier and a heavy moisturizer. Don’t forget SPF!!! It should be worn year round.

6) The Inside Matters Too

Eating water rich foods and drinking enough water will hydrate the body from the inside out. A balanced diet and staying hydrated will benefit your mind, body, and skin.
WHAT ARE THE BENEFITS OF GOING ON A DIGITAL DETOX RETREAT?
Tags: Work Life Balance, Digital Detox, Mindfulness, Wellness, Wellbeing

WHAT ARE THE BENEFITS OF GOING ON A DIGITAL DETOX RETREAT?

I must admit that in today’s tech-powered world, it can sometimes seem impossible to escape technology.

If you take time and think about it you'll see that many of us experience a sensory overload and there's an urgent need to unplug from the digital universe and have an electronic detox. This is where #UNPLUG- taking a digital break and going to a tech-free retreat comes in.

An electronic detox at a tech-free retreat is especially beneficial to the likes of busy professionals, who can find it especially difficult to get away from electronics. The likes of smartphones, email and social media means that we are contactable at any time of the day or night.

E-mails on our phones and now the Hybrid system of working from Home has made it harder for us to switch off, which affects our mental health and causes unnecessary stress and worry

#UNPLUG, A Digital Detox Retreat by Toxic Work Spaces gives you the opportunity to go on an electronic detox and revitalise your mind and body.

Here are just a few benefits why you should sign up for #UNPLUG where use of electronic devices is heavily limited or banned entirely.

I guarantee you that you'll sleep better during the entire Retreat as you'll not have a phone by your side before you retire to bed.

Technology and devices have been known to trigger depression. Psychologists have linked heavy Internet consumption to depression. Checking into your Facebook, Instagram and Twitter accounts and seeing other people posting about their seemingly perfect lives can have extremely detrimental effects on your mental health.

You learn to connect with yourself, nature and those around you when you disconnect. There's nothing I enjoy in all retreats than people present and human interaction without devices distracting us.

FOMO no longer is an issue.

We are living in times where there's the urge to constantly update where we are and doing online but #UNPLUG helps you de-stress and you no longer feel the compulsion to constantly check your digital platforms or update what you are currently doing.
Burnout
Tags: Burnout, Articles, Pandemic, Mental Health, Wellbeing

Pandemic burnout and challenges adjusting to the ‘new normal’ has been real. If you’re feeling it, you’re not alone. Quite a few people are sharing their stories.

Here’s something from Tara Haelle that’s making its way through social media. The relatable point for me, is where Tara talks about being a person who thrives in high pressure/stress environments, but knowing it wouldn’t last and that she would eventually crash. Tara shared some great insight on things she did to bounce back.

“But even knowing I would eventually crash, I didn’t appreciate how hard the crash would be, or how long it would last, or how hard it would be to try to get back up over and over again, or what getting up even looked like.”

She REALLY gets it. Feel free to read the article when you have a spare moment:

Your ‘Surge Capacity’ Is Depleted — It’s Why You Feel Awful.

Here’s how to pull yourself out of despair and live your life.

Our Brains Struggle to Process This Much Stress | Elemental (medium.com)
what exactly is the entourage effect?
By: Cbd Handbook
Tags: Health, Cannabis, Wellness, Cannabis Industry, Wellbeing

The entourage effect is a widely known term, but you may have absolutely no idea what it means. Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you. So, the entourage effect happens as a result of plant chemicals being combined (as they naturally occur in the plant). The chemicals work together to produce a therapeutic effect greater than the sum of its parts. The entourage effect is also frequently referred to as “whole-plant medicine” or “whole-plant synergy,” and it rests on the premise that cannabis products with many diverse compounds can deliver health benefits that isolated cannabinoids and compounds on their own cannot.

A common misconception is that we see this entourage effect just in cannabis, but this is not the case as it can be seen in all plant medicines. Fun fact, this is the way that traditional Chinese medicine (TCM) herbs work too! Therefore, it is hard to turn them into single-ingredient drugs, which has been tried time and time again in China without success. With this being said, cannabis, as a single plant, really does stand out even from other herbal medicines.

CBD (learn more about this in our other articles) on its own, is a good natural anti-seizure chemical and is the main ingredient of the pharmaceutical drug Epidiolex, licensed for treating some forms of childhood epilepsy. Approximately half the kids who are given Epidiolex have around a 50% reduction in their seizures. However, some children stop responding to it, or it just doesn’t work very well for them. Yet when they are given a high-CBD full-extract cannabis oil with small amounts of THC and THCA, (other cannabinoids found in the cannabis plant) their response improves again — the combination works better than the CBD on its own.

Most of the research into the entourage effect has focused on the interactions between THC and CBD, and most specifically, on how the latter might affect the former. Products that are pure THC and CBD seem less effective than whole cannabis, suggesting that there is/are, indeed, other chemicals involved. A growing number of researchers now believe CBD and THC produce superior results in a more natural form, either together, or in a combination with other chemical compounds that are found in cannabis plants like minor cannabinoids, terpenes, and flavonoids. When these compounds are combined, they are often referred to as full-spectrum products. It’s like a big party!!

Research into cannabinoid-terpene synergy has been relatively scant until recently. However, seeing how every cannabis strain has at least a slightly different composition of terpenes and cannabinoids, the entourage effect might explain why particular strains display distinct effects. More research will reveal all the answers.
Grandpa, Do You Still Know Me?
By: Emily Peterson
Tags: Relationships, Prose, Love, Life Lessons, Family

“Have you got a notebook?”

Isn’t that what you said to me?

With our blurry memories, how could either of us remember what you said ten years ago?

But do you know that sometimes, when I’m staring at a chalkboard or doing calculus, I remember?

Do you know I remember from that day everything but our words, and that it’s as though I’m a child again and the walls are yellow?

Weren’t the walls yellow?

Does your memory seem brighter than reality too?

Isn’t it a beautiful memory, the one where I’m leaning my elbows on the honey-colored dining table, the sunlight peeking over my shoulder, and where you’re teaching me how to draw the cross-section of an airplane wing, with its curves and its flaps and the invisible arrows where the air goes?

The years, where did they go?

Where did your mind go?

When — exactly when — did you forget the principles of aerodynamics?

Did you forget?

Do you know I always remember you as a genius, and still think you are one today?

Do you remember teaching me those lessons, or do you simply know that you’ve already decided I’m a genius too?

Do you think it’s better to remember someone, or to know them?

Have you not yet forgotten my visit last month, when I spoke to you in your native tongue?

Is that why you think I’m a childhood friend, or sometimes that we’re back home in Bergen?

When you look out the window and say, “Yes, Mama. We have it good in Norway,” does that mean you know we’re connected in some way?

Why is it that you — having forgotten my name, my face, nearly everything — are the one who understands me best?

How about last week, for example?

How about when I, swallowing up sobs between words and phrases, asked if you knew Jesus as your Lord and Savior?

How is it that you, confused yet not the least bit confused, settled into your smile and said “yes, absolutely”?

Is that conversation one of the few you don’t entirely forget?

If you can’t recognize my photo on the corkboard, yet today you recognize me as a church person — think I’m an old spiritual sister from forty years ago — doesn’t that mean you still know me?

I am a church person, aren’t I?
For the “Quick to Giver” …. Sometimes I feel as if I was purposed…
By: Jaimsss P.
Tags: Prose, Prose Poem, Writing, Poetry, Freewrite

Sometimes I feel as if I was purposed to be half full.

I‘m sure that I always have been, and I used to be okay with that.

I’ve never been fully filled, experiencing complete contentment, without worry. There have always been pieces missing.

Whenever I’ve felt those pieces connecting, someone always comes. Not to steal the pieces, but I recognize their need for them and give them willingly. Give me willingly. As long as the other half is intact, I’ll be okay.

“You’re so selfless,” they say.

“The world needs more of you,” everyone always tells me.

“I know that whenever I can’t hold myself up, I can always lean on you…”

But what about the days when you’re too heavy? When I’m staggering and don’t quite have the strength within me to become yours?

Will there ever be someone? Someone just for me; who’s purposed to fill me when the emptiness I feel is so impairing because I’ve given the most vital parts of me to all of you.

Someone that I can deem selfless.

Some I’ll need more of.

Someone I can lean on while everyone else is resting on me.
White Space
Tags: Prose, Loneliness, Poetry

If I stood out in the snow alone, and you offered me your coat, I would still be cold. Perhaps even more so, I would freeze to death. There is no fence around my person, no gate to unlock, or door to break down. And yet I remain inaccessible.

I wish you saw straight into my being, and not the redness of my cheeks or the goosebumps on my skin because perhaps you would see it is a long embrace I need, and not an expensive fur-lined coat. You would see I had stood in the snow all of my life, and never felt a chill until others passed me, for then I would be reminded of the warmth that I lacked.

I have gotten used to my position, but with all of this passing by I can no longer ignore what I have always ceased to have. The passerby play and jump in the snow with their knit mittens, and soft fleece hats, and big downy jackets, but it is none of those things I desire. I desire the way the little boys and girls hold hands as they run, fluffy snow kicking from beneath their feet. I desire the light touch given to the child from his mother, to push him down the hill and provoke his laughter. I desire the Eskimo kisses between naive couples as they stand under the mistletoe tree.

I wish you had asked me what I needed, because you would have seen I am not cold because of the white expression of the weather, but that my cold originates from within.
Denouement
By: Sofia Isabel Kavlin
Tags: Poem, Free Verse, Prose, Haiku, Ode

Empty footsteps echo on empty halls,

The denouement that slips further and further away,

With each scribbled word on the dot dot dot…

Waiting for you to write me into existence.
Backstory
By: Paula Light
Tags: Prose, Self, Autobiography, Identity, Poetry

Backstory

Image credit to johnhain | pixabay

I am from the Big Apple, take a bite, glitter lights, lemon ice, museums, zoos, art and news, Coney Island hot dogs, Jones Beach sandy sweets, sharp shells stab soft carpetfeet.

I am from the place where you pull the blinds, someone’s looking, where you smell your neighbor’s curry cooking, he makes you sweet tea with cardamom, next day Jamaican barbecue mon, the Filipinos have one record, sugar sugar aw honey honey, your father brings home Saturday pastries from the German bakery, “schwartzwalder kirschetorte,” it sounds funny, say it again, and the Japanese girl doesn’t know your words but can show you how to fold paper squares into gentle birds.

I am from the thorny Jersey berry bushes, blackpurple bursts against tanned sunfingers, slipping stones in backyard creek, crick, algae slick, willow fronds sweep redwood table pirate ship, hopscotch sidewalks toss a chip, Sunday French toast sausage brunch, leaves turning orangecrunch, rubber masks hiding smiles fake, the quickmelt of perfect crystal snowflakes.

I am from big city and small town, remain unclaimed, cheer for no team, believe in no crown, blood flows only down, I look out to starless airless zerodark, time past seems tissuethin, walk back in, an afternoon of bubble toys, uncaring joy, turquoise dresses rhinestone sunlight, just once, golden flash, one more pass, because I am from a yard of girls with summerdrip popsicles, before the apple, before the crash.

I am from disconnect and strife, feudglue of life, mashed crookedly together, a puzzle I failed to see until I broke apart, alone, jagged on my own, and now I know why people stay, bicker low and graceless, get physical red angry splash wine in faces because they can’t bear the abyss, yes, I missed, I get it all now, too late.
Dancing With A Crab
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Food, Prose, Poetry, Prompt, Asia

Poetry prompt response: #supportlocalrestaurants

Dancing With A Crab

The Chili Crab — a gastronomic fantasy

It is listed at number 35 on the World’s 50 most delicious foods list compiled by CNN Go in 2011.

The idea of eating the once alive

reptilian vile looking

MUD CRAB

haunts me in my shadows

and lurks me mentally

like my neighbor’s creepy hound.

But after a much-heated argument

and tear causing persuasion

a friend of mine finally convinced me

to try out the one and only

“supposed gastronomic fantasy” —

The Chili Crab.

In my perspiration soaked dinner chair

I was very much anticipating

a very awful dinner

accompanied by the sirens of Poison Control

and an allocated ward in the ICU.

I was so sure of my nauseating thoughts

that I could already conjure the vomit in my mouth

prepared to leave my lips as soon as the crab was set on the table.

And there it was

that orange Lil fella

placed onto the table

set at 1.2kg, excluding the massive porcelain plate, it came with.

As soon as the waiter walked away,

I could see the twinkle in my friend’s eye

haha, madman.

He indulged savourly in the Crab

as though it was his last meal on this crab-eating planet.

“Try it out, cmon. YOLO right”

Sure then.

I placed the gigantic pincer in my mouth

and made my teeth around the shell

to land on soft, tender meat.

At first, I wasn't sure whether I was

tasting the chili sauce

or my friend’s drool coating,

but it definitely tasted sweet

which rules out the latter, I think.

Anyways.

It was probably one of the best life decisions

amongst my other horrible life decisions.

Because the moment I rested my tongue on the fragment of shells,

the crab meat swirled around my tongue

with a hint of chili,

and a hint of pasty starch

together forming a bold flavor of the Mud Crab.

The meat dances on my tongue

and I was afraid of swallowing it

because I wanted to taste it longer.

But because of the tenderness of the crab,

after a swim in my saliva,

it stops dancing.

And in a ballerina motion,

it tiptoes to the back of my tongue

and sinks.

Describing the flavor of something out of this world

is very much impossible using words.

So if you ever find yourself in Singapore,

try out the Chili Crab,

It's a gift from the heavens.
Pull the trigger I am a fan of the trigger warning we need to re-sensitize.
By: Jua Na Hekima
Tags: PTSD, Writer, Prose, Bipolar, Thoughts And Feelings

Pull the trigger

I am a fan of the trigger warning

we need to re-sensitize.

evaluate why being raw is being soft and being soft is still inherently…

have you experienced a fleece blanket? why the fuck don’t we want to be warm, fuzzy and cozy.

i love being hardened. don’t get me wrong. i take pride in the asses I’ve beat because I don’t look like a force to be reckoned with. my greatest strength. my samson hair.

but…that’s not where progress and love lay. I love anger. it fuels my mania which I also happen to love.

it’s so strange. love is so volatile. I have always been above love. I had no plans for semen or a penis being part of the building of my family. I genuinely just saw myself emerging from a barn with 6 kids.

Where was I?

All some of us want to do is scream our deepest darkness into the light…and somehow that’s considered airing dirty laundry.

don’t tell me to be open so I can heal, only to close me shut and tell me I’m healing incorrectly. black women, we have been failed. won’t forget my african rehab nurse. walking with me and telling me africans don’t deal with “this”.

I can’t focus long enough to dive into everything.

Where was I?

Ah, yes.

DO NOT LIE TO ME AND EXPECT ME TO LIVE IN TRUTH.
//Zoom out//
By: Haadia Rasheed
Tags: Prose, Poetry On Medium, Writing, Words, Poetry

//Zoom out//

Distance eases pain.

It doesn't, really. But, the chaos looks like just a small spike if you're maintaining the right distance. The curves of ups and downs look like a straight line from afar. Like the specs of lights we see when we look over the town from afar.

I wonder how far away I am from these moments that feel just as small.

Like they linger somewhere between agony and ecstacy, like a soft touch of a feather that is barely felt.

I wonder how far away I get from these moments when I'm trying so hard to live in them. Like in my efforts of zooming into the moment, I keep zooming out instead.

-H.
My chest tightened a bit when I got to the end, the part about your friend knowing how to reach you.
By: K.C. Knouse
Tags: Prose, Scuzzbucket, Celebrity, Creative Non Fiction, Poetry

My chest tightened a bit when I got to the end, the part about your friend knowing how to reach you. That is the definition of love. You are blessed, Franco.
Nameless Friend
By: Elvy Rolle
Tags: Relationships, Prose, Friendship, Personal Development, Poetry

I’m by nature, an introvert.

You reached out first.

We started to become close, I thought.

Seemingly drawn together by kindred spirits.

We walked together — my favorite time, shared dreams, interests, goals, and concerns.

We spoke often of family, those special and dear to us.

We talked and encouraged each other on the phone.

I felt a bond forming;

One that would congeal with time and nurture.

We learned about each other’s past and present.

I mused, finally, someone I could relate to.
Tech is such a lure that it has become the default for our children in their choice of activities.
By: Janaka Stagnaro
Tags: Nature, Tea, Prose, Environment, Poetry

Spirit of Multnomah Falls, Janaka Stagnaro

Tech is such a lure that it has become the default for our children in their choice of activities. Boredom has been conquered and so Nature in her unassuming ways continues to recede. Thank you for your poem and the reminder. The picture you chose is one of my favorite places, hence the painting. Cheers
Merry Christmas.
By: 如末 Miss.Rumo
Tags: Prose, Rumoshuo, Weihnachten, Christmas

“It’s Christmas Eve.” Suddenly though I when I took out the keys and opened the door of my office.

The astronaut key ring wobbled, making tiny crispy noise with all the other keys — the keys for my bike and for my room of the apartment.

I bought this metal key ring when I visited the Science Museum in London. Actually, I bought “them.” A pair. They were the best souvenir I have gotten in London since they don’t have any significant logos or labels with obvious British icons.

They are souvenirs you won’t remember where it was from, but I could remember clearly that I gave the other astronaut key ring to LS on the next day of Valentine’s Day, as the first (and sadly the last) Valentine’s gift.

We met in Brussels. First, I hung my key ring on the zipper of my travel bag and kept telling him how cute the astronaut is. But secretly, I already put the other one in the little fancy box of chocolate which I had gotten from Paris a few days ago. The overly-exquisite box made the gift look like something else. Something serious. Like a ring.

I meant to cause his nervousness.

Later, LS opened the box of chocolate and put the astronaut along with the key for his car.
louder echoes in the snow
Tags: Poem, Prose, Lovers, Poetry, Creative Writing

sometimes i need to be turned around,

lost in the terminals of how deep

i’ll let myself go into these reveries,

recalled for the sake of recalling.

when all the boys I loved have grown

too big to stay inside their childhood homes,

where now they find their wives,

unsharp like the knives

that i used to persecute their wrongs.

look at how we’ve grown older, wiser, too,

from the “chase me downs” and all on cue-

taking shots in my honor,

one for each letter of the name i choose.

all those confidences thrown around in parking lots,

like the way we now toss our small talk

‘round melting ice cream cones

and the traffic lights’ impatience.

we frequent the closest funeral homes,

as they take turns taking our own.

we house small severed hearts

but we were much too smart

to lose another without removing the cobwebs in our cupboards,

even the most private of parts.

if i made a map of all the places we

broke each other,

every twist would lead between

one of two sheets.

directing us and directing me,

back to the roads behind my backyard,

winding,

in ways i kept to myself until i choose to remember,

a comfortable reminding.
She’s blue and He’s brown
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Nature, Prose, Love, Prose Poem, Poetry

I love the way his eyes dance with its iris

and pulls me back from the edge of the precipice I lean against

The brown in his eyes

breathe the same way as the hands of Earth

keeping me grounded

from soaring too high above the clouds

because I know in the depths of his eyes

if I ever plunged from heaven’s skies

his eyes would conjure a landslide

till it rumbles the soil

and embraces me in the fall

The brown in his eyes

makes sure that my feathers don't quicker uncontrollably

in the torrent of

the blue sky and the blue sea

His eyes

remain in only a sole hazel brown tint

like the soil embedded in the depths of the mud

where it established in its walls

tunnels of geologic formations —

a personalized enigma of soil, sand, and rock.

In his eyes, holds the fractions of earth congregated into one

endowed with minerals purposefully lodged in between earth

He keeps me on the ground

together with his soil-like gold mines

so that the meadows can fix the blemishes of my wing and tail

to stay with him before I sink back into the water and soar back into the sky.
Lonely.
By: Colleen Brace
Tags: Night Shift, Relationships, Prose, Poetry On Medium, Lonely

Lonely.

The people do the same

Day in and day out

Always consistent

Strayed from only occasionally

But not for all

With the moon I rise

With the sun I fall

And while the moon keeps me company

Lonely I still feel

The damp, dark air I breathe is not the same as the light, clean air in your lungs

The fluorescent lighting that covers me is not the same as the sunlight on your skin

While we see each other in passing, it doesn’t quell my thirst for connection

The stores aren’t open

The streets aren’t safe for walking

There’s no one to taste the food I make or read the passage I like from a book

No one to share laughs with during a sitcom

Only memories to share the next day

Our time dreaming is no longer shared, and while I used to think sleeping was a solo activity

Maybe I was wrong
Wrapped In Leaf
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Nature, Tea, Prose, Environment, Poetry

A Poem

Photo by Blake Richard Verdoorn on Unsplash

Shove your phone in the bottom drawer

lock it tight

and thump the keys

till they disfigure

so the drawer doesn't open again.

In the absence of technology

we finally have the decision to

break free from blue and

set foot in green.

We are finally able to escape

the clamor of notifications, texts, and calls

and instead, walk down the bridge of which connects the two hills

shimmering valiantly

in the glamour of the sun.

As you walk

let it all escape from your heart palpitations

and apricate in the healing of all your opened wounds

between resigned exhales and heavy sighs

Consume that of which consumed you before

and let that the ship once anchored onto your chest

sail at last.

Skip down the slope

similar to a bed under the mattress of autumn leaves and

let the grass slowly caress your ankles

till you slip and fall into the warm waters of the river below.

Let it all overwhelm you

till you can no longer feel any senses

but the fondles of the river ripples

as they rush violently down the heap of trees

but slow down approaching you

to swirl and make its way around your hips

till you can only feel the bump of befuddled fishes.

In the reinvigoration of

your relationship with the immersive green

your stomach softly hungers

for the taste of Gaia

that was so heavenly blossomed here.

Make your way up to the precipice,

till you can see the once vast forest

be diminished

into a small patch of green and brown.

In your hands, your palms cup a miniature claypot

in which endures the streams of river water

as you stir with a birch wood

an organic concoction

tinted with the flavour of herbs, roots, seeds, and leaves.

You let out a grin

your lips crack from smiling for the first time in forever

as Lavender and manuka honey

boils and lingers its way under your nose

and down to waft your skin and face.

Your legs remain dangling over the precipice

but in you holds no fear

because you know that as you take a sip of Nature’s own tea blend

you are wrapped in leaf

embraced in green.

Daniel A. Teo
A Dark & Insidious Taste
By: Matt Ray
Tags: Prose, Dark, Poetry, Travel, Asia

When I walked into the room

I knew that I would never know again

the peace and understanding

I’ve felt in times past

For I discovered

a dark presence, lurking

in the shadows and the corners

of the dank and musty room

That’s when it hit me

— the smell of rancor and filth.

Anguish filled my being

as it permeated my nostrils,

my clothes, my very soul

And I knew I would never be the same

Blankets and papers,

bits and bobs of string and knick-knacks

lay strewn around the room

in a random and haphazard fashion

Newspapers and books, old bottles of beer,

an upright grand piano stood stoically against the wall

keys, dusty with neglect, unplayed and untouched,

perhaps for years

A four-post bed was against the opposite wall

with gauze and linens draped down

from the bars connecting the posts

giving the light in the room an eerie, ethereal look

An overstuffed chair sat beside the bed

holding odds and ends and something

I couldn’t quite make out

As I approached the chair

the smell crescendoed like a symphony

Pungent, putrid smell, as if from the bowels of hell,

rose up as I walked towards it.

There, on an intricately painted plate

sat the reason for my disdain

The source of the smell and anguish

that filled the room and made me want to vomit

A green, football-sized pod

lay sliced open on its side

gutted like a fish, stench oozing from its shell

shimmering like heat on the highway’s horizon

Crouched and grunting, shirtless in the corner,

a decrepit man devoured a piece of the pod

as if it was his last meal, consumed by its consumption,

the fruit sliding as he slurped it,

while I looked in disgust at his mouthful of

the bright orange fruit

— Durian
Growth is an Uncomfortable Island
By: Steffi Teo
Tags: Poem, Self Help, Growth, Prose, Humanity

Image © Wes Grant/Unsplash

Growth is an uncomfortable island and

I wish to sail back to my soft, downy comfort zone.

I’m tired of looking for wisdom in scraped knees

and silver lining in abandoned dreams.

I’m weary of being plucked from a restful slumber

and told to soldier on with no end in sight.

The purpose of pain keeps falling into my lap,

but my fingers have gone numb untangling it.

I long, for so long,

for things to be easy,

For life to measure my height

and eventually find it right.

Really, I long, simply,

for someone to say:

There, there,

you’re finally here.
The Epitome of Vague
By: Jeff Langley
Tags: Prose, Humor, Scuzzbucket, Tragically Hip, Statistics

The Epitome of Vague

Photo by Eric Muhr on Unsplash

You know the only challenger to have any kind of success against the Irresistible Force and the Immovable Object is the Epitome of Vague. Our boy Gord sang about it often, raved and rambled on about it in concert — you know that Tragically Hip tune “Poets”. What I am trying to say here Karen, is you got to scatter those data points so far and wide that Pythagoras can’t even plot them, let alone find their correlation. Gotta spread that binomial distribution thin Karen, like butter on toast.

How long is a piece of string? Well that really depends now, doesn’t it? The questions to the answers in your mind have yet to be asked. You have a duty of care here Karen, to send those sniffer dogs to the far edges of the galaxy. You know where the Black Holes and Supernovas lay back in their Lazy-Boy recliners, sipping lagers and talking shit about us.

Meanwhile back on planet Earth, you and Brad are back in marriage counseling. His biggest complaint about you Karen, is that you are just too god damn cold and distant. Your biggest complaint about bad-Brad, he’s been banging his co-worker Linda for the past 18 months. Cold and distant? He’s so fucking lucky I haven’t shoved that 9-iron I got him last Christmas up his ass. Anyways, if it wasn’t for the kids I would have ended it when I first found out about Linda six months ago. Truthfully my biggest complaint about Brad is the amount oxygen he consumes while in my presence. He’s a fucking air-hog, waste of space, walking mid-life crisis looking for a place to happen. A fucking shell of his former self. A shell, I wish would just wash back out to sea to get shit on by seals, sea turtles and the like.

Photo courtesy of originalconcertposters.org

Well like they say, “The Winner takes all,” — but in the case of the Irresistible Force, the Immovable Object and the Epitome of Vague, it’s a 3-way gone tragically wrong and no safe word “Yelps!” gonna help ease this pain. It’s a game of Fuzzy Statistics, Snowball Sampling, Inverse Normal and Dignity Regression and unlike that night, at the Cobo Arena in Detroit, listening to the Rheostatics — we are all poorer for witnessing these Hunger Games play out.
Life at Home
By: Mimi Bordeaux
Tags: Prose, Love, Wordsmith Library, Life Lessons, Creative Writing

Here I sit one single silent source of rabid catch you on the subway station lights up on for the lonely bust out this cell must have grown out to a hole in the wall gripping surface area you live in a squalor that’s your life miserable darling I am forever silent source of rabid catch up..see you on the other side

Note: punctuation intended
Meetings on Earth
By: Shireen Pasha
Tags: Love, Threshold, Prose, Union, Poetry

I am sorry that I was so distant yesterday. Some days are heavy with grief.

I think I am scared that you are not real, so I run the other way.

On winter solstice, you were clear. You changed the room. Twin beds in a motel overlooking the beach, clean rectangle lines. You said you liked that room because the light was just right for healing. We lay in separate beds looking at one another. I remember feeling we are a thing.
Nonversations
By: Franco Amati
Tags: Prose, Poetry, Communication, Scuzzbucket, Society

Image by Mary Theresa McLean from Pixabay (edited, just a tad, by author)

Being the new person

Meeting someone’s family

Office parties (ugh)

Dinner with your girlfriend’s friends

who you don’t even like

The check-out lines

The check-in times

All the bullshit nonversations

we have to do

we must do

we must

we must

fill the air with our voices

because WE ARE HUMANS

and that is what we do

Hello, how are you?

Yes, madam, how do you do?

Like, literally, you…

literally, who?

Literally, literally, literally

has, literally, lost its meaning

Killed by nonversation

‘So I had this dream…’

‘Oh, that’s crazy!’

‘Cool story, bro.’

What happened to the telephone?

idk…I DON’T KNOW

‘Lol’

‘Haha’

‘No way!’

‘WTF’

Hey, Google, autofill my email please

Siri, autocomplete this text

Alexa, take a bite out of my ass

ZOOOOOOOM

Hold on, I gotta check with my five worst friends

about what to say to this guy I just met

on the internet

What…even…are we?

Language has been destroyed.

Or has it?

Nonversations…

are what…we…do
Without trying
By: Franco Amati
Tags: Life, Prose, Poetry, Scuzzbucket, Free Will

Photo by Somya Dinkar from Pexels

I want to know why

some of the best things come

without even trying

When the will is engaged

the spirit seems enraged

But when you let caution fly

magical things start to happen

You find yourself in unexpected places

with perfect partners

and fortuitous deviations

Without trying, life can grant you

unexpected wealth

in love and work and art and health

And yet we try

We always try

No one ever stops trying…

Well, some do, but they face their own kind of magic,

and the rest of us, we just get frustrated

and sometimes we give up, we loosen our grip

We stop caring

But that’s when we start daring

fate to do unto us

what it will for itself

Fate’s a bastard like that

Or maybe a bitch…

Either way, I want to know her secrets
Sad Violin
Tags: Fiction, Prose, Love, Love Songs, Lovestory

Photo by Lukasz Szmigiel on Unsplash

A sad violin plays far off in the distance. It creates an eerie mournful sound reverberating off the water in the little creek nearby.

A boy and his dog traipse through the woods in search of bugs to keep as pets. The sound of the far-off violin causes the boy to stop and listen. He is hopeful the sound is a wolf's howl, he has never seen a wolf but the ears of his German Shepherd flatten as the sound continues its soulful melody.

Dusk is beginning to fall and he knows he'd better get home to Ma. She'll tan his hide if he's home after nightfall.

But his curiosity starts to get the better of him and he continues to follow the sound.

The sound gets louder. The trees begin to thin. A clearing appears. An old man is sitting on a log playing a violin to the coming night.

The boy stands transfixed at the man. The dog is wary and ready to pounce if there is a threat.

The music stops, as the man realizes he is no longer alone.

He turns and barks harshly, "whachtu doing there, boy?!?" The boy stammers an apology "I-I'm sorry. I don't know sir, I heard the music and wanted to see where it was coming from. B-b-but I guess I should be going now." The boy begins to back away nervously, stumbling over his own feet.

The man stands threateningly for a minute and then his shoulders droop, "Aw-shoot. You're just a kid. I guess you're alright."

Relieved, the boy smiles nervously, "what were you doing, mister?"

The man begins to tense up again but then seems to remember his earlier statement. "I was playing a love song"

Confused, the boy says "a love song? It didn't sound like a love song. It sounded sad."

The man's shoulders drop as he exhales. "That's because it is sad, don't mean it ain't love though"

He sits on the log quickly as if there is a heavy weight on his shoulders.

The boy asked "who is it about?"

The old man replies "my wife. She was called up to heaven a few years ago. This is the only place I still feel her presence. I come here every night at dusk to play our song."
A Reverse Call from God
By: Lexus Ndiwe
Tags: Prose, Life Lessons, God, Creative Non Fiction, Near Death Experiences

It happened in autumn. Nightfall. I was on my way home from a run, and decided to take the winding road way home. Compared to the other options, there are no stairs, and it is relatively safer. Here, in this seaside town, sometimes I feel like they are skimping on pavements. Quickly, like a child moves their legs in double-dutch, I crossover. That day there was only me and the silent, black sky. I could barely make out the pavement when I made it to the other side. Had I fumbled for my phone, and switched on the flash light, maybe then I would have been alright. But I was scared to drop it.

My hands were frozen.

A few steps ahead of me were some fallen orange barricades, lying across the entire width of the pavement. I had seen similar ones during the day, and they all enclosed shallow holes in the dirt. So I thought nothing of it. I did not want to risk being hit by an unsuspecting car. I was wearing all black and my legs were exhausted. I mustered up the little strength that I had, and leaped over the barriers.

After landing on my tiptoes, I had a strong urge to look behind me. The feeling like in the movies- a person looks behind them after peaking into their haunted basement, only to find a spiritual entity lurking. I had cleared the barricades, but when I looked down, I noticed that there was something wrong. I was standing on the edge of a square, concrete hole. If I had distributed my weight just a little more evenly, I would still be swallowed by it! I choked my urge to scream or quiver, and quickly lunged forward.

The realisation about the situation had finally hit me.

Today was Friday the thirteenth, a lucky day for me. Now, there was no doubt about it. I have had near death experiences before, even ones where ‘my life flashed before my eyes’, but this incident in particular really made me appreciate life. I had been living life so dully that I made God reverse call me!
A God obedient to Death.
Tags: Life, Prose, Concise Poetry, Poetry, Spirituality

“The thrill I get when my face in yours I see; The Universe loves Itself through Its Twin. That’s why It multiplies” — MFA. I’m a writer. IG: @mfa.phnx #poetry
First, I was relieved to see that the photo credit did not say "by Author".
By: K.C. Knouse
Tags: Life, Prose, Poetry, Scuzzbucket, Death

First, I was relieved to see that the photo credit did not say "by Author".

What an imagination, Franco! A discarded mattress as the subject of a poem. Who knew there would be so much material, even jealousy.

Mattresses do not get any respect. That's true. It is rare to find one on which two people can sleep without one of them complaining it is too firm or too soft or it sags.

Where did that last line come from? It totally cracked me up.
The Beauty of Perseverance
By: Arundhati Thakur
Tags: Prose, Letter To My Future Self, Mountaineering, Poetry, Outdoors

Dear,

This to remind you of how you never stopped climbing. How you’d limp with every last iota of your scarce energy, and hold in tears till your bold brown eyes would turn claret red. You’d wake up every morning with a sore body and jump straight into the freezing lake, knowing well that it would sting like a thousand needles on your parched skin. But you’d embrace the pain of your strained muscles and failure with a smile.

No one understood you completely, but you never bothered to be comprehended anyways. You knew how the dead-end awaited its laughingstock every evening, and yet you never stopped climbing. You let it look at your pale face and sweaty body and tell you how it pitied your wasted efforts, and you still never stopped visiting. The arctic wind blowing down your neck would leave you cold as death, but you never feared the eternal rest.

Now that you’ve savoured the bitterness of failure and the sweet aftertaste of perennial pain, I wonder what the cosmos conspires to throw your way next. Your body would recover, albeit somewhat slowly, and impatience would soon make inroads into your knees.

So, this is to remind you of how you never stopped climbing to the mountain top just to watch the myriad stars in the night sky and feel a little closer to the moon. This is to remind you of the beauty of perseverance, and that a tired body never wins against a mind that craves euphoria and a heart that’s doomed to lose control.

Sending you strength,

The ‘you’ who doesn’t believe in giving up!
Itachi Uchiha
By: Goutham N A
Tags: Prose, Writing, Poetry, Legend, Anime

Itachi Uchiha-his name,

A beast none could tame.

A stare into his eyes, just once…

forever you will be his dunce.

Tragedy was his life,

Oh, no, So so trife.

His girl was killed,

his friend’s eye drilled.

Had to kill his own family,

and his clan too trivially.

Genius, once in a millennium,

his insights far from your medium.

His knowledge and understanding…

even Hokages felt astounding.

I saw his finger moving,

but saw not his whole planning.

There always is a reason,

that all his movements are in Unison.

I heard of no legend,

who so could plan to this end,

long even after his death,

his plans keep on surfeth.

A warrior par excellence,

perfection as his quintessence.

Like that old quote,

which I kept note:

‘A warrior in a garden,

seeking peace with heart ardent’

A true Shinobiu, a dark knight,

a Shaolin monk who dislikes fight;

Likes of whom I met none,

pardon my unskilled writings done.

I am just trying to proclaim,

Itachi his name, his ways so infame.

I am just a fan singing a song,

Itachi his name, his will so strong.
Caroline
Tags: Prose, Poem, Love, LGBTQ

I met a girl at a railway station,

she was sitting there alone.

I was on my way to my Christmas vacation

but god she seemed so lone.

I went to sit next to her and

asked her for her name.

She said her name was Caroline

and I'd never been the same.

Perhaps it’s the way her hair

swayed in the gentle breeze.

Or the way she smiled at me,

it filled me with such ease.

Or maybe it’s the way she talked

and the adventures that she shared.

The rough path she walked

and the pain that she had beared.

Our trains came and we departed,

we never saw each other again.

I boarded the train brokenhearted

and was drowning in the pain.

But I knew that I was happy,

to have met a girl like her.

To listen to her adventures

like a friend I love so dear.

Not all love stories

are about a girl and a guy.

Writers always glory

a story I’ll never buy.

Not all love stories

end in happily ever after.

For an instance, this ends in happy,

but not ever after.
Sonnets from the Badlands
By: Vandana Premchand
Tags: Prose, Surrealism, Writing, Poetry

Sonnets from the Badlands

by V. Premchand







When I am night, I ritualize silence. I prepare the howl, release it. It tapers in its redness. It asks for more sky. The peonies are witch-knotted, and my goatshair rosary is set alight. Arrogant clocks turn my slow-busy labial scales inside out. (One usually applauds me at low tide.) What cunning crowns the stag, that deuce with a plumy eye, a waning in the wave, my broken sciomancy charm. There is sequence here. There is fabric. The latter tears from my thighs. The former remains as a witness. I birth blue disciples and become a deity for circling crows. Their cries are whips, a staccato fool’s gold song, a murderous two-fold plea, fingers like sonnets from the Badlands, fingers and mouths saying, “Leave this unsharpened din. Eat the wound. Spurn the yield.” And so I hail a falcon terrible and pull his scowl towards the beastledge of my name, gilding my goddess-fat buttery, musking myself into half-honeyed hives, one slip of lavender and one club foot at a time.
A Funeral Reading for Difficult People
By: Kim Forrester
Tags: Eulogy, Prose, Funeral Service, Funerals, Poetry

This is the time that tradition says we must stand and sing your praises,

Share tales of achievements and weep at the fond memories.

But what good are these pleasantries and platitudes

When they are written for someone we didn’t know;

When they speak of a potential that was never fully realised.

Not in this lifetime.

A life worth speaking of is not always one of inspiration and success.

There is dignity in the struggle of being human.

There is unfathomable strength in rising to endure each day

When those days are not steeped in hope and promise

But in despair, loneliness, and pain.

And there is authentic beauty in a life

That is tangled, complicated and confronting.

So no, we will not patronise you

With artificial words of joy, laughter and connection.

We will not render you invisible

So that we may be socially acceptable and painfully pleasant.

Instead, we will stand here, in the space you allowed for us.

We will honour you for the man you were able to be.

We will dignify you and the life that you had the capacity to live.

And we will shed tears for the many ways you touched our lives

In raw, real, joyful, painful, and complicated ways.

Son, brother, uncle, cousin, friend.

Humanly vulnerable, and perfectly imperfect.

Life battered you, and bruised you, and beckoned you on,

And formed you into the man we must now farewell.

We ask you to pass peacefully to the heavens above.

And know that, through it all, you have been loved.