Two Page Stories Selection

Maybe one day. Maybe tonight. I tell myself maybe it’ll happen. Whatever I think it is that should happen. I’m so unsure of what should happen, so relieved of the duty to make a decision that Destiny itself doesn’t know what to offer me. Destiny asks for

Wheeee I fly through the rig through the crowd made of wigs. Fly through judged by the right wig, by the left wig, no wig. I proclaim to be rid of the rig where the court sits. Wheeee I keep running, armed to cause harm. I’m about to hit

I wish for what I cannot have for what one day we can share the coins the rage the empathy that only comes with age. I wish I had that now I wish at least I had you to join me in my wishing if only you existed. I wish

It’s not ideal to have your eyes become a leaking shower. It’s not ideal to have your face refurbished into the ugly crier. It’s not ideal to share your life in pretense with the one who went on the offense. It’s the slivers of when it’

Broken breath as the excuse bleak and burrowed by the bad air. Allergens, fires, cars, smoke pollution of lungs finds its way into the brain. Scattered in from far away washed in on the worst day could have rained, but instead a fire came. It ain’t a volcano melting

Not once. Twice, thrice she turns to see in slab slap in the middle of his chin spelled urchin. She knows she’s weak to the ink embroidered in the skin of men who care not for her but for whom they wear down in time before they find the

Osaka, May 2023 I’m just boxes filled with humans concreted by their hand. I know I’m not pretty to look at from a distance, I ask you to come closer. Get to know my nooks and crannies, talk to me just before the closing hour which comes naturally whenever we

She feared to break the tender nature he covered under his skin, in his art, his poetry and actions of pure loving emotions. She could not take on the responsibility to rid the world of what she felt was magic, what made her interested in life. Her injection creating rejection,

Please remember the joy of your first times. As we age there’s less opportunities to live through new first times and I ask “is the excitement gone because of it?” I was on a date with a fresh 29-old woman, who raved and took hard drugs for the very

He finds himself rushing through the same street that a year ago he appreciated for each moment. Now the journey turned into a route, removing the joy and bringing confusion over the moment to moment, the life of the street, and the dominance of the few over others. During the

It’s not what you have thought, not what you have hoped for. You hope for more, for it to be the next thing. But that’s not her plan, she’s got her own schedule, of healing, from the broken heart, that will never come. Not for her it won’t. You

With a broken heart I have walked up the ten thousand gate mountain. What do I feel at the peak? Legs.

The rain departs with attention of the deceased soldier. Dead, tired, shrunk down in ego in victory that rested today. For five days she fought, prepared through hurdles, obligations to duty to her family, to her estate. In tears, sweat, covered in dirt and blood in lieu of her humanity

I’ve always thought what would come would be a past time of my accomplishments that traversed the memories estranged by past vigor. Trigger passed down in one movement like an opera with too loud of a sonata screaming at full lungs petrifying the escaping thoughts. The shadowed darkness prolonged