fabiochiu/medium-articles huggingface dataset:
I jumped off a 17 story building
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Prose, Daredevil, Bungee Jumping, Experience, Poetry

I jumped off a 17 story building

My Bungee Jumping trip in AJ Hackett Sentosa, Singapore.

Those upfront soars to touch the softness of a cloud

leaving behind reverberated shrieks and dangling ropes

jump to chase their own plunging shadows.

There's something in their heart

easily put into words:

Insanity.

Oh, it's my turn?

I smiled at the Go Pro lodged onto my wrists

lips carefully covering the magnitude 10 earthquake caused by teeth.

I shuffled forward

to be greeted by a questionable scenery —

two very intimidating men with tattooed arms and

exhales that can quench the thirsts of vodkaholics.

Whoever said everything looks better from above

definitely didn't need to jump down.

My hands are left numb without their warm clasps of mine

and the calm words of consolation

that they so well hide under erratic palpitations.

My perspiration alone could create its own magnolia cloud,

told to look far into the horizons

but my eyes distance from where the sky touches the sea

instead, stare down

at all that's minimized.

In the expanse of soft sand and a pit of ice warm water for a pool

dots of blackheads also known as humans

shuffle around like ants in a sizzling pan

whipping out phones to blind me with flashes of the latest Fruit phone.

In the very last moments of my flawed life decision

I arrest my eyes on 2 familiar faces

Mom and Dad waving at me.

They’ve already jumped

leaving only me and my wits

left on the checklist of the Grim Reaper’s quota.

Gripping my whitened toes on the edge of the platform

I look far with them squinted eyes of Tom Cruise

and spit words that parents heavily frown upon.

Hey, at least they cant hear the Fs from up here

I don't know what got into me

either my supportive parents

or a girl below grinning with thumbs up.

After about a century of the phrase “ let me catch my breath”

I jumped.

( the girl would probably leave now after hearing my screams 8 octaves higher than my mother’s)

And as the minimized images soon magnified

I found myself

headfirst into a pool

before being bounced back up

the droplets of water still dripping

from distorted hair and a flustered countenance.

I jumped.

I actually jumped!

And as fear eluded me to be replaced by accomplishment

and the shower of rousing applause

the words on the signboard suddenly resonated in my blood-rushed head

why stay on the edge when you can jump off?
The fawn and the sun
By: Cam Ly Vu
Tags: Fear, Existentialism, Fiction, Prose, Short Story

The fawn does not understand the proximity of life and death. It is free from the burden of consciousness. The first snow falls on its glittering snout, dying quietly in its warmth. Like an infant-sun the fawn radiates, dewdrops are the little lives it would soon swallow in a primitive hunger.

“Eat or be eaten,” we say, as the mist gnaws on our bone. We walk towards the unknown, embracing the stars along the way. Beyond the gaze of the universe, our future grows from a sparkle into a fire.
ArtyLin 尿道小姐
By: Chin-Yi Lin
Tags: Prose, 台中, Marriage, 婚姻, 職場

Learn more. Medium is an open platform where 170 million readers come to find insightful and dynamic thinking. Here, expert and undiscovered voices alike dive into the heart of any topic and bring new ideas to the surface. Learn more

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Beyond The Stop Sign
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Prose, Poetry, Imagine, Poetic Prose, Horror

Beyond The Stop Sign

Photo by Timur Kozmenko on Unsplash

Supported by the footway, an alone effulgent cherry is rooted into the earth, much like a garrison guarding the gates of dilapidation. The rusting of bronze remains evident from the sight of defective flakes swirling onto the tar with the breeze. In the very threatening capitalizations of the term CAUTION, immediately becomes far less fearful in the tarpaulin of piss and dirt.

The gates are sealed within the brick walls, and my once galloping freedom horse has yet again been obstructed by inventive constraints. Forcefully pull the gates open, hands suddenly seized by an opposing velocity, distraught mind immediately pierced by the intermittent clamor. Past the half agape gates, a domain never before envisaged lies at the end of the road.

Be wary as you approach the doors with bells savaged at. Trepidation is soon to be reposed by serpentine grass creeping up ankles. Bang on the wooden door till you see the silhouettes disposing of illusive echoes. In the corner of your eye, ignore the figmental disfigurements.

Wait for the rustling of the window panes before you’re soon to be dragged past the ripped curtains, before being relinquished into a threshold of differing realities. Squelch through the cacophonous silence so deafening, hear only the creaking sounds of the closing gates that lie beyond the stop sign. The bedlam concludes, but in short-lived relief, you are engulfed by your own thoughts.

Your footsteps are patched over by dead leaves.
What beautiful prose on such a complex issue.
By: Drina Fried
Tags: Prose

What beautiful prose on such a complex issue. Congratulations Christie, on such a fine “article”. Drina
Buddhism Day by Day: Creation is Quite Different From Mere Ideas
By: Adam, Diabetic Cyborg
Tags: Prose, Happiness, Prose Poem, Poetry On Medium, Puppies

“Creation is quite different from mere ideas. Even ideas require fundamental and extensive speculative accumulation. It goes without saying that creation in learning demands an incomparably greater fundamental ability. The task of creation is like a lofty mountain whose summit is formed only when there exist vast slopes and a solid foundation. Likewise, the fruitful work of creation can only be attained when it is based on the extensive knowledge of learning and profound speculation.”

Credit Daisaku Ikeda for the quote.
The Wall
Tags: Prose, Writing, Poetry, Poems And Stories, Heartbreak

It’s an age-old story.

Nobody knows where it started. Who told it first? Was it truth or fiction?

Or was it the start of everything? Was it just history being retold over and over?

Not once, not twice, not thrice. Too many times.

Two people are put in two different rooms.

So close, but too far to touch. A barrier stands between them. No letter, no manual, no guide on how to get rid of it.

This wall between them is clear as water, and thin as paper. But the two individuals can’t get through.

It should be easy. It is easy. So easy to look, to appreciate, to smile at the other. With voices crisp and clear as crystals and bells when speaking.

So pleasant to the eyes and ears. So pleasant to behold. Like soft winds that brush your skin on a bright, sunny spring morning.

A bond is formed this way. Despite the paper-thin barrier, they find ways.

They notice habits. They get used to the others’ reactions. They try their best to understand the other a little better.

There is always a way. We always find a way. Nothing is impossible.

It’s simple. So simple.

We just have to go back to the start. At the very beginning, where a simple look of acknowledgment brings comfort during the harshest storms. Where eyes and ears follow your every movement and word, as if you were going to fade away in a minute.

Words so soft they could be clouds. These little things that unfurl our threads and intertwine it with the other, forming a knot that symbolizes the connection we have formed.

All of this done without touching. Without feeling the other’s skin. Not knowing the feeling of their warmth. Intimacies are more than touch, after all. Touch is not always a requirement.

That’s not to say there haven’t been attempts to break through the wall. To get rid of the damn barrier keeping them from each other. Who put them in these rooms? What kind of sadist does this?

Both will try to rip it, to smash it, to burn it. But, for some reason, it doesn’t budge. The wall remains unchanged. Immovable like the world’s oldest willow tree. More stubborn than Earth herself.

But it certainly doesn’t hurt to try…right?

This story may be generations-old. It may have been told since the beginning of time. People may have changed parts of it to suit their situation, to make it more interesting. But one thing remains unaltered.

It only has two endings.

This has never changed. Not even after centuries of being retold and reconstructed.
Flesh Ceremonial
By: Vandana Premchand
Tags: Poem, Prose, Prose Poem, Writing, Poetry

Flesh Ceremonial

by V. Premchand







Cotton-soft language past lips pretend-barnacled, the annunciations are ovate like hare’s-tail grass. A myth is abandoned. The bard’s mouth is a woman, and the woman is a moon. I turn dark and dwell on exodus. There is caution and there is none. I proceed, praisedamning a sun, forking fingers at things that scavenge for pearls in the ribcage. It only hardens me obscene, and, in spearhead fashion, I wish to run towards the ringing of a ghost-telephone. When the pelts are quickly caught between teeth, I pull my mewling thought-cubs away from past life bones. In motherreprimand I relearn the art of preen and insist on this oily colour of alone. All of me as broken ancestral doll parts, slowly reassembling erect and basilic beside a fault line elegy, I will become a whistle for the ghost of a black dog, an index finger eager to push against the vertebrae of the wind. Will it settle for drum beat? Or does it prefer calfskin? And what of my other I, my other body laid naked for banquet in the black nave? For her I will invite wasps.
If I Were To Have a Black Baby Girl
By: Aysia C.
Tags: Race, Prose, Equality, BlackLivesMatter, Black Women

If I Were To Have a Black Baby Girl

Photo by Dlanor S on Unsplash

A piece of prose:

She would be like a flower that I could watch bloom. I would give her the right soil, the right foundation, and just enough water for her to make her own energy, words of wisdom for her to use her best judgement for.

I would tell her everything I wish I could’ve told myself.

I would tell her about what I’ve learned.

I would tell her that her skin is a gift, but not her only gift.

I would tell her that there would be people that would love her just because of her skin and people who would hate her for it.

Both groups, I would tell her to avoid.

I would tell her that skin folk doesn’t mean kinfolk.

The ones with her skin tone may not feel the same way about it as she will.

I would tell her that appreciation and fetishization are not the same thing.

I would tell her that she doesn’t have to settle.

I would tell her it is not her job to fix her partner and that Black love does not equate to struggle love no matter how many movies are made about it.

I would tell her standing out in a crowd is an easy way to get noticed and to use it to her advantage.

“Your skin will leave an impression, accent that with your personality.”

I would tell her not to feel obligated to fit in.

The standards weren’t set to accommodate her in the first place.

Instead, I would tell her to make her own mold.

To be Black and a woman may seem to mean being cursed with two evils.

I would tell her that that isn’t true.

I would tell her that the sun was on her side, that she should use each day to her advantage.

I would tell her that the sun loved her so much that it kissed her and ensures she shines whenever she goes outside.

If I were to have a Black baby girl, I would tell her she is beautiful — all of her. She is beautiful. She is life. She is beautiful.
Sonder
By: Beth Frances
Tags: Life, Prose, Love, Mental Health, Short Story

She watches as they walk by. A couple, their laughs are intertwined with matching loose smiles. The type of smile that comes with ease. A smile with teeth and worry lines forgotten.

She watches through the windows as she drives, families curled up on couches, local news drowning on in the background.

On the streets the debate between a father and his daughter. She smiles as she watches. This girl must be the eldest daughter, there is a certain energy that comes with the job.

She smiles at the old man holding the door to the coffee house, and tells him to have a great day. She put a smile on his face that day.

There is something eerily claiming when you realize that everyone is living their own lives. They have friends, sisters, brothers, childhood bullies, bosses, therapists.

Every person lives a life that is just as entangled as yours are. But sometimes people become so entangled in their own lives they forget that there is a world full of people just living.

So she watches, and for a fleeting moment she is a part of their lives, and then it’s gone.

And She doesn’t know it yet, but she is not alone. Her tendencies to seek out life in others when hers isn’t working out the way she dreamt.

Our lives are constructed of moments, with family and friends, and complete strangers. We are much more interconnected than we’ll ever realize.
you.
By: Kim Kimberlin
Tags: Prose, Messy Essays, Poetry

Will I romanticize now like I romanticize then?

Will I forget the sleepless nights like I forget how you were embarrassed by me?

Are we fading, are we dying, are we tired from all the crying?

Remember car drives, remember high nights, remember sleeping by the crescent moonlight?

Did we stop dreaming because we followed scripts, completed scripts? No one ever tells you what happens after happy endings.

But yet we’re human, we’re only human, failing humans, you’re still my human.

I’m scared that time is slipping, my skin is itching. Are we scrolling through unhealthy patterns?

Or am I romanticizing — the past plays cruel reminders — or am I dreaming and simply forgetting?

I’ll stay beside you, watch the waves roll, fall asleep to our hearts beating.
Touched
By: Jacqueline A
Tags: Blue Insights, Relationships, Prose, Self, Self Discovery

Learn more. Medium is an open platform where 170 million readers come to find insightful and dynamic thinking. Here, expert and undiscovered voices alike dive into the heart of any topic and bring new ideas to the surface. Learn more

Make Medium yours. Follow the writers, publications, and topics that matter to you, and you’ll see them on your homepage and in your inbox. Explore
A letter. When you passed May before last it felt…
By: Augusta Will
Tags: Prose, Poetry, Death, Creative Writing, Meditation

Dear Gabe,

When you passed May before last it felt like a turning point. Despite your presumable perfection of body, mind, and spirit, you died, and not in a tragic car accident, but from cancer, the lamest of all deaths. So the logic goes that despite our impeccable eating habits and compulsive exercise, we were mortal as well. It threw us off, myself and the other Central Park girls. No amount of kale and emotional repression would save us.

Now those realties loom a little closer, flashes from behind the veil in the form of an orange sky or blue mask.

Here’s a poem I wrote for you. Actually, I wrote it for me, but I hope you like it.

Into the belly

The chest

And release

Begin to think the mantra

The mantra is “om”

Actually

The mantra will announce itself to you

Sometimes it’s just a scream

In your head

Let your bike rip

Down the big hill

Did you screw the front tire on right?

Whatever

You’ll be fine

The sun will rise tomorrow

It did every day for the past week

Seven in a row

Strip down

The logic

The feelings

What do you really

Know

Actually

You don’t get to know

I hope you’re well, it seems like people miss you.

Best,

Caroline
Cosmos. We look to the cosmos to understand our…
By: Augusta Will
Tags: Prose, Creative Writing, Space

We look to the cosmos to understand our souls. It’s funny how easy it is to make the labels fit. Virgo — supposedly I’m reliable, detail-oriented, down-to-earth. Well, I wouldn’t described myself as detail-oriented… or maybe I would? Who knows.

I don’t need to look to the night sky to understand my body. My body, mystical as it is, can be seen clearly here from earth. I have muscular legs. I have long, spindly fingers. On my face, I have dark brown eyes and a slightly crooked nose and usually some pimples. These are not matters of contemplation, they are what they are. My body is a lit up part of the observable universe. It’s clear as daylight, seeable as a near star through a telescope.

If my body is a star then my soul is a black hole. Images may capture my external world as I warp it into me, but the truth of me escapes from sight as my layers collapse further into themselves. The deeper you go, the denser it gets. The bottom, the center, remains a mystery, too deep and dense to even be fathomed. Perhaps there is a wormhole, a portal to another dimension, another plane of existence.
Buddhism Day by Day: Relationship Problems are Opportunities to Grow & Mature
By: Adam, Diabetic Cyborg
Tags: Prose, Prose Poem, Poetry, Puppies, Poems And Stories

“Relationship problems are opportunities to grow and mature. Such problems can be character building if you don’t let them defeat you. That’s why it’s important not to isolate yourself. No one can exist apart from others. Remaining aloof from others cultivates selfishness, which accomplishes nothing.”

Credit Daisaku Ikeda for the quote.
my mind is a tidal wave.
By: Kim Kimberlin
Tags: Prose, Messy Essays, Poetry

my mind is a tidal wave.

my heart a volcano.

they say i’m not my feelings as if feelings are only feelings.

i remember ocean cliffs of stillness,

where the wind was too cold

but the sun was always beating.

do i run away to the mountains where trees wrap you in quietness?

or do i let myself float in the water until i’m too far to be reached?

either way i wonder if i am meant to be here where everyone seems so busy.

at least in new york i could sit on the subway and be lonely, perfectly lonely.

i was never scared of loneliness because then i was forced to my own friend.

maybe it was becoming my own friend that i began to have grace for myself.

and yet here i am still questioning and cursing paralysis for overtaking me.

they told me to not be a tidal wave.

they told me not to be a volcano.

as if you can stop a wave from beating or the pressure underneath of the earth’s crust from flowing.
Recycled
By: Augusta Will
Tags: Prose, Creative Writing, Cardboard Boxes

In this life, I am packaging for a sex toy. The packaging is discrete, I could be anything.

In this life, I travel from Akron to Phoenix. I help build out the sun belt. I carry a night light and baby blankets. The kids will outgrow them soon, but for now, I am crucial.

In this life, I carry hundreds and hundreds of blue masks. I do not know if I am headed to the hospital, or to the doomsday prepper. We are not in control of our destinies.

In this life, I am a shrine. I was a box for running shoes, then she started putting trinkets in me. A wristband from the first time she ran in the big meet, a handful of souvenirs from dried up sprouts of relationships, leftover items like lanyards from partygoers who failed to collect their belongings. She is a bit of a hoarder, everything is sentimental.

In my next life, I will be a tissue box, ideally no scent, no lotion. You can cry with me.
Cinnamon Churros
By: Lexus Ndiwe
Tags: Christmas, Prose, Competition, Short Story, Creative Writing

Cinnamon Churros

Photo Credit: Pixabay for Pexels.

The fairy lights coiled around the arch, illuminating Hyde Park in a dazzling display. The words ‘Winter Wonderland’, bold and large, are plastered on top of the arch’s peak. The area, lit up like the Las Vegas Strip on fire, would have been an eyesore, if not for this sentimental time of year. As the masses of people bundled in thick coats, scarfs and gloves are pushed nearer to the entrance, couples cuddle closer together for warmth. They put on their own displays. Quick kisses, hands in their partners back pockets and private whispers only they hear, can be seen.

I wonder what it is like to be in love. I am not talking about the puppy kind, or infatuation. Or even the needy, just fill me up brand. But the one that the couples around me seem to possess. That sticky, lasting stuff. Surrounded, it is clear that the only spectacle here is me. Worse than being single, I have come here alone. So much for cuffing season.

It is too late to turn back now, even if I wanted to. Besides, I should not be here too long. I only came for the cinnamon churros. You might be wondering who goes to a fair solely for the food? Well I guess I am just that kind of woman.

A family of three are just ahead of me, the parents’ little boy eyeing the whirling light-up toy of another child exiting the park, via the opposite line.

“Mummy, can I get one of those too,” the little boy asks.

His parents look towards where he is pointing.

“We will have a look once we’re inside, okay?” the mother replies.

“Okay!”
the dread that kills procrastination
By: Franco Amati
Tags: Life, Prose, Procrastination, Poetry, Scuzzbucket

Photo by Ava Sol on Unsplash

There’s always going to be something you don’t wanna do.

Annoying crap.

Bureaucratic hoops.

Getting on the telephone.

Taxes.

Nonsense.

Appointments to Doctor Bullshit.

Boxes to check off a to-do list written by the mistress of annoyingness.

Put it off, baby.

Do it tomorrow!

We got fun stuff to do today.

Who wants to be responsible?

When you can just watch Netflix in your underwear for five hours.

And then masturbate.

And then eat chocolate.

And then cuddle up with your cat under a blanket

with a warm cup of coffee within reach.

You can blissfully savor the monotony of being alive.

Sail off down a stream of lovely dreams

until the monster creeps back in.

Until it finds its way to you

through insidious channels of unconsciousness

and BAM!

You wake up in a cold sweat,

heart palpitating,

stomach turning,

like, if you don’t do something an adult would do IMMEDIATELY

you’ll die.

That’s the stuff…

See, that’s the thing you needed.

The dread that kills procrastination.

Where would we be without it?
Homecoming
By: Beth Nintzel
Tags: Prose, Personal Development, Short Read, Home, Personal Growth

I have spent a lifetime attempting to escape myself.

I’ve tried to outrun my trauma,

I’ve tried to never be “in” my diseased body,

I’ve even tried to kill myself.

I’ve tried projecting my insecurities onto others and after 30-some years I’ve finally decided to come home.

I’ve finally laid myself to rest inside of this sack of flesh and bone. No longer wishing, or needing, to escape the chamber of horrors that I wake up to every morning — this tomb that is my body.

I may not be perfect, I may be flawed beyond repair in some areas, but I am proud to showcase who I’m becoming as I continue to work towards a more stable structure. One I can come home to.
Kita Adalah Apa yang Dibentuk Realita
By: A. W. Poetri
Tags: Prosa, Sastra Indonesia, Prose, Prose Poem, Sajak

in The Bazaar of the Bizarre
The Right Hand
Tags: Prose, Literary Work, Privacy, Writing

02–2020

I imagine myself in a wide room of white and grey, the trending minimalistic style nowadays. There is a queen size mattress with dark mahogany wood for the bed board — no ornament as it is just that plain solid structure, strong enough to handle my tremor at night.

Across the bed, a lonesome table of clear acrylic. A single little pot of flower is its most eye-catching companion. The petals are yellow and the stalk is green — the color of happiness and life.

It is like the the hue of sunshine that barges into the room through the large French windows and the light touches the carpeted floor. The pebble black color carpet catches and saves the warmth.

And I am over there, laying down with only my head reaching out for where the light touches. My left hand feels the bliss and the right one is working under. I could say that it is as warm — as delicate for it could go away when the moment passes.

And I hate it when the sun goes away. I try to do anything to make it last even if I would end up feeling numb on my neck, back, and arms. Even if my wrist twists a little and my fingers try too hard brushing every inch, kissing the heat. All because I believe it would make me happy. I need those endorphins and a pinch of adrenaline.

When I crawl and reveal myself to the sun at 3:30 in the afternoon, I let it decide whether I blush because of the temperature or the blood rushing to my cheeks in my summon. The whole human body parts are connected — I spoil myself elsewhere, but my short breaths and frowns could tell my secret away. A secret, a wonder, only my right hand could explain exceeding expectations.

Fifteen minutes pass and I don’t want to close the curtain. I let more gold enter the room and light up my exhausted form that is now leaning onto the ottoman leg. I pull the blanket off my bed and cover up my riddle. I need more to wrap me tight as the room is too empty.

The big wardrobe in the corner doesn’t help filling up the remaining spaces. The bookshelf filled with romance, adventure, mystery, thriller, and complicated knowledge only works on rainy days. On sunny days, I like to do things — anything, literally — but it’s also nice to lay weakly like that to take my time slowly.

Let it consume me.

Give me ideas that speaks louder than the echo of my room.

Maybe with my own cracking voice —

and my own doing is to blame.
The Invisible Man
By: Molly Reimers
Tags: Young People, Prose, Fantasy, Short Story, Short Fiction

The Invisible Man

The invisible man presses his hand on the glass sliding door then removes it, leaving behind the faintest of smudges. That is how I know he’s there, back again from his wanderings. I don’t know where he goes, and I do not wish to know.

Tonight, however, I am roused from my bed by a gentle tap on the door. The invisible man. “Back so soon?” I ask, for he often stays out all night. The door creaks open as if on it’s own, then the man tugs insistently on my hand, as if to tell me something, or beckon me. He wants me to join him.

“Oh no,” I reply, “I have a busy day tomorrow.” He leaves, but later that night he comes again, rapping once more on the door. He comes in uninvited and tugs more insistently, but I refuse for the second time. When the clock strikes three am, he comes for the last time. For the last time, I refuse.

This morning I wake up and go to the sliding glass door, as is my habit, to let the invisible man in. Although I wait all morning, he doesn’t come.
Importance of Smart Goals in life, along with my goals
By: Dure Maknoon Razia
Tags: Just Start, Amaacademy, Prose, Goals In Life, Smart Goals

Smart goal and its importance:

The word “Smart” is an acronym. Collectively this word is; Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Realistic & Timely. A sense of direction is achieved by it and helps us to organize and reach our goals at a specific time. By Setting SMART Goals one can clarify one’s ideas and focus on efforts.

What are Smart Goals?

My Goals in life:

My goal is to become a good professor and professional blogger. As in my family background in teaching and I also love to teach and transfer my knowledge to others and also e-learning is known gradually motivated so, that's why I want to transfer my knowledge, my thoughts to my fellows. my student.

To achieve all these goals, I need to have a good command of my knowledge in my degree that I persuading, need to do internships, I need to develop confidence, boost communication skills and writing skills.

How the smart method help me achieving my goals?

I planned to do an internship in the summer vacation of the year 2021. I am also giving time to my study so, that maintain my CGPA. I have also started writing blogs at different sites and also opened my own website. To my communication skills and boosting my confidence, I joined AMAL ACADEMY.

#just start

Among lots of things that I learned from Amal, one of them is the technique JUST START. In this technique, I learned that, plan the work that is needed to be done along with time duration and then starts.

Let’s start

so, my task this week is active participation in the group activity arranged by Amal.

Thank you, Amal! supporting me and realizing that how smart methods help me to achieve my goals.
Buddhism Day by Day: Live With a Dancing Sprit; Every Living Thing’s Dancing
By: Adam, Diabetic Cyborg
Tags: Poems On Medium, Prose, Prose Poem, Poetry, Puppies

“Live with a dancing sprit. The stars in the heavens are dancing through space, the earth never ceases to spin. All life is dancing: the trees with the wind, the waves in the sea, the birds, the fish, all are performing their own dance of life. Every living thing is dancing, and you must keep dancing too, for the rest of your life.”

Credit Daisaku Ikeda for the quote.
Buddhism Day by Day: There is no Self-Improvement Without Effort
By: Adam, Diabetic Cyborg
Tags: Prose, Prose Poem, Poetry On Medium, Buddhism, Puppies

“There is no self-improvement without effort. Without taking action, happiness will never come, no matter how long you wait. A life without peaks and valleys is a fairy tale. Reality is strict, because it is a win-or-lose struggle. This is the way it is for human beings. Therefore, you should not allow yourselves to be battered about by reality but rather willingly rise to its challenges and use them as opportunities to train and strengthen yourselves.”

Credit Daisaku Ikeda for the quote.
Belief in Tomorrow
By: Roderick Conwi
Tags: Life, Prose, Life Lessons, Poetry On Medium, Poetry

Belief in Tomorrow

Photo by Marina Castilho on Unsplash

I believe in a lot of things,

but right now,

I believe in better.

I believe

that tomorrow can be better

than what my eyes saw today.

I believe in

a infinitely brighter

and more meaningful future.

I believe that

the past is full of reminders

of hard fought lessons I learned,

and of who I need to be today.

I believe that the present

is our place to make things better

than what they were the day before.

It’s coming…

Wait and see…

We will make it happen!
Oil On Water by Helon Habila Book Review — Samuel Saintmark
By: The Luminaries Bookclub
Tags: Prose, Oil On Water, Helon Habila, The Luminaries Book Club

Oil On Water by Helon review by The Luminaries Bookclub

Oil on water revisits the chilling tale of the uprising of the evolution, activities and missions of the Niger-Delta militants in Nigeria. After their farmlands and rivers have been extensively damaged as a result of oil spillage from drilling, and the subsequent lack of clean-up of their environment, the Niger Delta implodes. In order to fight this perceived sin of injustice and dehumanization against their people, a faction of the Niger Delta youths resort to bombing oil rigs and kidnapping workers from the oil companies.

Helon Habila gives an insight into this period by telling the story of the kidnapping of the wife of a British oil Engineer — Isabel Floode. Zaq and Rufus, both journalists, find themselves in the murky waters of Port Harcourt on a journey to the kidnappers’ den to confirm if the white woman is alive before the ransom is paid. They are plunged into an adventure as their seemingly easy quest turns dangerous.

Helon Habila is a master storyteller. The way he effortlessly portrays the Niger Delta struggle in this story of a kidnapping case, encompassing the perspective of the Niger delta people, the kidnapping victims, the soldiers and even the journalists.

Helon Habila stood on the fringes, a silent observer and gave a glimpse into the life and perspective of all involved, without seeming to take sides.

A point worthy of note was how he kept flawlessly switching from the present to the past and back again, creating perfect backstories for each character without losing the reader.

From the vivid and entrancing way the author painted the Niger delta, one would think he was on these waters during that period and we are seeing directly through his eyes.

I recommend this book to everyone.
Hi, we’re all here for the failure party
By: Franco Amati
Tags: Prose, Poetry, Friends, Scuzzbucket, Failure

Photo by Fabrizio Conti on Unsplash

What’s with certain friends only showing interest when it all goes wrong?

They hear you just had a breakup

or you just lost your job

or you’re about to get evicted

or whatever…

Where’s all the texts when everything’s going just meh…?

Where’s all the attention before you start spiraling out of control?

I guess when things seem okay on the surface, no one bothers.

It’s only when shit hits the fan that all these people start crawling out of the woodwork.

They’re like the rubberneckers of social tragedy.

They just show up at your door, like, hey — we’re here for the failure party. Oh, were we supposed to bring something?

Uh, haven’t seen you in years and now you wanna know what’s goin’ on?

You were awfully quiet when my side of the fence looked better than yours…

Were you just waiting patiently for your chance to play the patronizing comrade?

Oh, I hear you:

You can do better, man

They didn’t pay you enough anyway, man

Know your worth, man

You’ll find something better, man

BETTER?

Listen — unless you’re here to hand deliver me something better, then go home.

You’re too late.

Unless you will take it upon yourself to fucking carry me in your own arms to the summit of Mount Doom, well, then you can walk your ass right back to The Shire with all the other drunk hobbits who I don’t talk to anymore.

Because I got some real shit to deal with here, and talking to you is only making me feel worse.
This Time
By: Roderick Conwi
Tags: Christmas, Prose, Poetry On Medium, Poetry, Holidays

This Time

Photo by Chad Madden on Unsplash

These times are usually a joyful time of year.

A season of spending time with loved ones,

and usually full of cheer.

These times are typically for friends and family,

but this time,

for safety and sanity,

it has to be different.

This time,

we may be apart,

but don’t forget that

we are not necessarily alone.
There are two sides of me. I discovered them in quarantine back in March 2020.
By: G. M. Michele
Tags: Prose, Quarantine, Self, Life Lessons, Inspiration

There are two sides of me.

Photo by author

I discovered them in quarantine back in March 2020.

The first side is the one who basked in the green growth of the jungle that surrounded the house we were quarantined in. We were in Minca, Colombia and everything in my visual field was a giant leafy plant. The green was a comfort until the rain came and the jungle lashed back.

Then came the blue side. The one who is child-like and sad. But she can’t, of course, BE sad lest she cause everyone else trouble. So she sits quietly waiting for the optimism to fade, for there to be a weakness in the force. For the sunlight to fade into shades of blue-grey and expose the under-belly.

Two halves of my whole — split during the troubled times when nothing made sense, not even the ground I stood on.
Buddhism Day By Day: Victory in Youth Leads to Victory in Life
By: Adam, Diabetic Cyborg
Tags: Prose, Prose Poem, Poetry In Form, Buddhism, Puppies

“To challenge yourselves to your heart’s content in your youth so that you are left with no regrets later, to grow, to make dynamic strides forward — this is the noblest way to live. Victory in youth leads to victory in life.”

Credit Daisaku Ikeda for the quote.
Tackle Uncertainty
By: Tom Cocco
Tags: Prose, Poetry Writing, Poetry On Medium, Poetry In Form, Poetry

Tackle uncertainty

And make friends with those you don’t know

To learn the nature of the world outside

To learn, and so, to grow

Fight the doubt inside your mind

Fight it hard, and let it age

Burn the wicked pit inside

Inside your stomach, in your cave

Keep your back held straight despite

The endless burning of the fire

Take the time you need to think

But hold your thinking so you’ll smile

And let whatever images

That burn within your skull

Fall prey to sight of present day.

And let whatever words

that leave your mouth

depart

and so their memory will fade

For if the past becomes your present

And the future leads today

You’ll stay within a house of solitude

You’ll live within

a cave

of pain.

But if you let the shining sun

Sting upon your back

And sit without a blanket

On the wetted fields of grass

Soon the wind will get you there

Wherever you are going

Yes, some push,

Some twists and turns

But still,

that’s really something!
On leaving:
By: Seth Honda
Tags: Prose, Running Away, Solitude, Poetry

On leaving:

This pandemic, college, and quite a few other things have had me feeling kinda flighty recently, I hope some of you can relate! Seth Honda Follow Dec 15, 2020 · 1 min read

Photo by Deva Gawkar on Unsplash

I’ve been thinking

About running away.

I’ve been thinking

About walking for a long time

In no particular direction.

I would like to,

But I am much too afraid,

So I will dream about it instead.

And I do,

I close my eyes

And find myself in the middle of a forest,

I find myself surrounded by trees

That disappear into the clouds,

And I walk for a long time

In no particular direction,

But here it is lonely,

I realize.

Here the trees tower over

Me in a way that makes

Me feel very small.

Very alone.
VAGUE DAYS (a short story) 2
By: Feranmi Asegbeloyin
Tags: Prose, Mystery, Short Story, Short Fiction, Nigerian Writing

"Who wouldn't want us to be together? I asked him in a calm but stern tone as he drove towards my apartment from the cinemas on that chilly night.

"A lot of people beautiful, the haters, the stalkers, we have them all around us, keeping them away from our hearts is what matters”. Williams said as he swerved and parked the car in front of my apartment.

"Should I keep this away from my heart too? I said handing him the messy letter. This time around, the look on his face changed as his eyebrows sloped downwards in a not joking expression, it was only for a moment, a preparation to double up himself to burst into a loud harsh cackle of laughter.

"Babe c'mon, don't tell me you are all worked up because of this, someone is messing with you and it is getting to you. It is going to be just us against them all and as long as you listen to me, we will always stand tall”. He said pulling me close to drape me in a warm swaddle of his chest, a warm embrace which made my frail body seem safe as all my pain went away. If only I could stay in his arms forever, safe from the world's harmful people, one could only hope. A warm reassuring kiss made my night as I waved him bye.

I tried to stay calm as I turned and tossed but just couldn't find the right position. A lingering haze of sleep sat somewhere around me but not within my reach.

" Someone is messing with me, at this point, I can only pray and hope things will work out fine, I said as my mind dragged me into the oblivion of sleep.

" If any of you has any reason why these two should not be joined, speak now or forever hold your peace”. The priest said with his eyes searching the crowd.

The silence was comfortable, it lingered in the air, thick and then it stretched thinner and thinner like a balloon blown big, and when the temptation to rupture it was too great to resist; a hand was raised.
My Anxiety is an Ocean
By: Mary, Pepper
Tags: Anxiety, Prose, Metaphor, Mental Health, Personal Essay

Photo by Zack Minor on Unsplash

My anxiety is an ocean.

There is high tide, and there is low tide.

When the tide is low, the ocean is still churning. It is still full of fears and expectations and nerve endings and pain, but it is further from the surface. I can walk along more of the beach without getting sucked in.

When the tide is high, the ocean is harder to ignore. It is an ever-present body that reminds me of those same worries and wounds as it laps at my ankles and begs me to step further in, just for a minute. Only a minute.

When the tide is low, I am better able to stand. I am more capable of standing up straight, looking out at the endless horizon and feeling both small and big at once. When the tide is low, I am not fearless, but I seem to have just a little more courage.

When the tide is high, I can’t simply walk past. I have to watch. I observe its comings and goings, its rips and pulls and eddies. At times, the tide comes in so quickly that I trick myself into bravery. I let myself believe I can keep my courage as I step into the water, just for a minute. Only a minute.

Too easily, that minute becomes an hour, becomes a day, becomes a week of swirling, consuming, maddening wet that seeps so far into my skin, I forget what my once-discovered bravery ever felt like.

Getting back out again is sometimes a fight and sometimes a rescue mission. There are days I swim like hell, and there are days some kind soul in a boat rows out to find me drifting.

I live the drifting days praying I can swim, begging not to need rescuing. It happens anyway, and I think it always will. I’m grateful for the boat, yet I curse its necessity.

When the tsunami comes, that is my panic attack.

It’s not her fault. She doesn’t know the destruction she wrecks on my peace. She doesn’t understand the carefully constructed courage I’ve found. She doesn’t see her own power over my minuscule, human form.

The tsunami will come with or without my humble, frail permission. She won’t wait until I’ve reached higher ground. She cares nothing for my home, my family, my routine, my life. She comes anyway, only seeking to let the ocean make itself more known.

What she cannot know is that I am incapable of ever forgetting the ocean. The tide is low, the tide is high, the tide comes quick, the tide keeps away awhile. But never can I detach myself from the depths. I am painfully, harmfully, achingly aware of its vastness, its uncertainty, its unkowns. I know its many monsters hide far from my view, unculled and uncalled for.

And no matter how far inland I travel, there is the memory of my ocean, teasing at the edges of my being with its streams and rivers. Reminding me of its size and its weight. Reminding me of its influence. One can drown in under three inches of water, you know.
The Opposite of Magnetism
By: Franco Amati
Tags: Psychology, Prose, Poetry, Scuzzbucket, Humanity

Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

Is it repulsion?

I think that’s the right word…

Revulsion — see, that’s a little strong.

It’s just that so few people draw me in.

I find most people uncompelling — that’s a word, right? Not compelling?

Anyway — it’s not often that I feel this opposite of magnetism.

Most people are fine — they’re whatever. They exist. We have to deal with it.

But when I do feel bothered by a person — and I mean really bothered —

I can’t always explain why.

It’s not a simple introvert / extravert thing.

Some humans just make me uncomfortable.

Like, it’s as if they’re trying to crawl up into the back of your head behind your eye sockets without asking for permission.

Even when they’ve averted their gaze, it’s like they’re still staring at you. Staring into you.

I try to get far away — keep my distance, but I get the sense they can tell that’s what I’m doing.

And the sheer fact that you want to get away

makes them so desperately want to slither under your skin even more.

No.

Ew — just stay away, please.

As humans, I think we should have the right to not be moved by someone. We should be okay with this feeling. We shouldn’t be forced to like everyone, all the time, in every situation. It’s unrealistic.

Allow yourself to feel repulsed.

There’s a reason.

Even if you can’t put words to it, there’s a reason.
Bealtaine Festival
By: James G Brennan
Tags: Storymaker, Prose, James G Brennan, Poetry, May Day

La Bealtaine, Mayday, spring times answer to the famous Samhain festival,

Halloween as it is better known today.

Derived from the name of the sun god Belenus, “bright fire,” in old Irish. Riding the sun in his horse-drawn chariot across the sky

a handsome, talented fella as you can well imagine, a healer with knowledge in medicine music and poetry, the Celtic answer to Appollo some say.

Goodbye darkness welcoming the light, La Bealtaine festival,

on the last day of April, halfway between spring equinox and summer solstice.

The Bealtaine central fire lit at the Hill of Uisneach Co. West Meath

passed from townland to townland where druids lit seasons fires performing “great incantations.”

Protecting people and crops, keeping witches and fairies at bay while cattle were driven between two bonfires, purified before going out to pasture once more.

Ointment protecting youthful men’s feet while walking over kindled coals,

a secret well kept; omission’s from the poet’s pen.

A winner! Blackened cake owner finds courage for sacrifice, no choice really as he is pushed into the fire before a rescue, the honour now to jump over flames three times, oh what a lucky young man!

Morning on the first of May. A traditional rise at dawn to collect flowers from the mountain ash, together with Rowan tree sprigs to hang on outside doors and windows, this was sure to ward off evil spirits.

On this day, usual generous hospitality turned down as anything taken from the home may be used in wicked spells against owners or their guests.

After morning’s walk around the land repairing fences and boundary marker’s, ‘tis time to celebrate the day with feasting, dancing and drinking!

La Bealtaine tradition carried on right through to today; anything for a piss up!
Lying Down
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Blue Insights, Poem, Prose, Image, Poetry

A Poem

Photo by Jp Valery on Unsplash

I love it

when my limbs relax

under the softness of the mattress

to see the blades of the ceiling fan

smother into a compound of ivory

till the white blinds me

and I find rivulets of tears

soaking the mattress tugged over my lifeless corpse

Silence is truly deafening

and what seems tranquil to others

may not be for me

as I cower over the thought

of listening to my own palpitations

beating in rhythm to

the soft jazz

you’re dancing to with someone else.

Maybe I'm letting my train of thoughts

unwind to wrap me in

a serpentine rope;

strangle me by the throat

till my cheeks turn purple

But besides the pills of melatonin

lies a pair of pillows

untouched —

somehow my bed seems

more spacious today.
Look at The Boat on The River
By: Tom Cocco
Tags: Poem, Prose, Poetry Writing, Poetry On Medium, Poetry

Look at The Boat on The River

Look at the boat on the river. The river cruise boat. It goes there and comes back, each time, each time.

Reliable, sure, determined, dedicated. This boat doesn’t stop. It picks up the passengers; it ensures their return.

The deckhands tie the knots. The captain clutches tight to the wheel. Even if the rain falls, still, the boat goes on.
Dragged under
By: Daniel A. Teo
Tags: Prose, Sacred Feminine, Poetry, Prompt, The Wave

THE WAVE: PROMPT

A Poem

Photo by Michael Weidner on Unsplash

When the tides become too choppy

for your boat to set sail

why make it an excuse

not a reason to go on?

With the anchor already letting go of the ground

why let yourself sink below even on land,

when instead you can use the ripples

to make you move forward.

When the rain clouds blanket the sun in stygian

your boat trembles like the waves smashing into it

maybe you think that's it for you

but as your boat advances towards the rock

suddenly the torch in your soul set aflame

Grab the steering wheel

and yank what seemed unyielding before

to your will

obstacles don't control you; they never did.

You control them.

Who said fear was an emotion?

It is nothing but a state of mind.

So as your bow

approaches the rock

take a deep breath

and in clarity

catch the wave with your bare hands

and use the shimmering hope in the horizons far beyond

as your makeshift gauge.

In hindsight

realize what made you conquer

your internal monsters

was not you catching the waves

but because

you kept going on.