The treacherous word he said to her stayed with her until the moment she met someone else. Not someone who was a lover or beautiful or even interesting, but someone that also knew what it was to be a complete failure.

She pleaded to them with a smile and they…

The style of this story belongs to the masses, it spreads in uncomfortable ways and inevitably comes back to me, the writer, who will lavish in its sticky essence, and place it, after the afterglow, in a mirror where I can watch it and reflect upon it. It will duplicate…

The last breath, not as imagined, but as feared, and then, one after another, everyone who I had ever met and loved and cherished come inside and watch me. Some are smiling, some are crying, some twist their faces in a mix of grief and happiness, while others stroke my…

Two kids meet, one eyeless from a life tormented, his little eye watching everything scared and distant, and another legless, slowly climbing towards irrelevance, though she doesn’t it yet. They both walk and wheeled up a road to a house on top of a hill. …

You are my friend, caged in some shiny violet eyes, dressed in the depressed, understated colors, from red to black, from the crimson blood to the cloudy night. I know how wrong it is to wish of you and long to kiss you, of holding you tight and feeling you…

I met her in a very large day, a beautiful woman with a big brain, and long hair, and very pretty eyes, all enchanted in her sullen thoughts, sunken cheeks, a poet’s daughter, an opera singer’s granddaughter, and she was also rich, popular, but not quite like other girls. Meanwhile…

Ever since she turned twenty-two, she thought that she was being followed by some sort of sadistic, overwrought, perverted author who enjoyed putting her in short stories. The tortures were endless: she would be forced to eat liters and liters of banana juice, she was forced to enter grocery stores…

The night started like any other, from the waking up, to the restless feeling of being sexy and uptight. He saw himself, not in the mirror, but silhouetted through the window in his own wall and saw the shape of his arms, the slithering movements, the glistening, throbbing neck, and…

There’s been a murder! Of the senses, and like the oil in the drenched towel, like the murmuring glass that screams shattered, like the castle that’s been burned to the ground six times and rebuilt for a seventh time in the seventh day under the guise of the seventh star…

Eric S. V. B.

I like to write for some reason so I’m doing it here. I’ll try write something every day, and hopefully, get better at it.

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