Recently, Twitter announced its fiction festival where people from all around the world create their own short stories in 140 characters or less and tweet them. All they had to do was add the hashtag #TwitterFiction so that writers from everywhere can read and explore the infinity of their stories.
I danced in the festival; I wrote.
They had only shared thirteen glances, one every month. Their thirteenth was on their birthday. The day of their Universe.
The stars are born to embrace her eyes. The gods plant her soul in ancient lands of flowers and amnesia. No one remembers.
The cries of child, of mother, of man lost in the lands of the dead. They travel around the sun in perfect carelessness.
The toothpaste oozed desperately onto my skin, longing for the calcium flesh of teeth. An unforgettable French kiss.
Red lipstick smeared on the white pillow sleeping below the bed. She had married the perfect cotton.
When the train blew up and the bachelor died screaming her name, that’s when she woke up from her coma. She laughs.
They followed lions in the forest of love. A butterfly takes its last leap into their nets, dying forever. Genocide.
The taste of their freshly baked love immortal. The music of their passionate symphony infinitely alive. They breathe.
Pressing ‘delete’ wasn’t enough. His memory like cancer reaps her neurons. His words carved on her spine. Keyboards fail.
“Shoot the bastard,” she shouts. My hands, paralyzed, humiliate me. I no longer hold a gun. I only imagine her shouts; my shots.
We survive on one thing. Meat, desire, and power. Three phases of a single moon.
A drunkard met the Grim Reaper hoping to dissuade him from taking his wife. The Reaper shared a drink, kissed his wife.
Bare legs. Naked eyes. Hollow hearts. Bleeding noses. They dream of becoming; damned to the human body. They pray in shards.
“If I die tonight, burn my body,” she said. “I will set fire to myself and hug you,” she replied. They lived aflame.
They painted themselves in red and danced in the street. They were called love and strawberries. They were fire nebulae.
It is an outrage. They killed three girls every night, shaving their red hair and braiding it; beautiful. It is absolution.
They promised to stop lying in the morning. The sun rose. They rose. They surrendered to their voices. It was true love.
Up, they are. Eyes and flesh. Screaming for freedom. Fantasy escapes in fear of their imagination. Gods of life, they are.