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Worlds Between Words
Where Words Rest, Worlds Rise.
Beauty In Shards. (poem) Broken glass lay on the floor, Jagged edges sharper than before, A menacing glimmer fleetingly shines on the edge, A warning of the dangers ahead, Broken glass lay on the floor, Jagged edges sharper than before, Some pieces big,some pieces small, Yet the ability to hurt rests within them all, But look closer on that sharp edge, An entrancing glimmer dances, Along the edge it twirls, A spectacle of light that shows, All the beauty the broken glass holds, As the light dances, It casts a gleam, A magical sheen, That shows another perspective, One of peace, Instead of a threat, You see the elegance, In the way it scattered, When the perfect mirror broke, Yes, The mirror had its own place, But just look at the glass! A master piece of art waiting to be shown, And so, In an effort to make it anew, You bind it back, Conceal the faults and cracks the glass has, You try to put it back on display, But something..feels astray, That entrancing glimmer exists no more, The light’s elegant dance could not be seen like before, So was this really the end? Broken shards,with veins of glue, An effort to be made anew, Feeling disheartened, You look upon the frame, Where the broken glass lay, Tilt it, So it may meet the light, And realise, That the jagged edges were where the light danced! Thus,you smash it again and see once more, The beauty broken glass holds.
Forgotten Time (poem) An old clock tower, stands alone in the night, slowly ticking, as time passes by. An old clock tower, stands alone from times of old, now forgotten, but hides stories yet to be told. An old clock tower, gradually rings, loud and clear, the gong striking fear, deafening. An old clock tower, now growing still, the sound doesn't stop, it's not yet had its fill. An old clock tower, neglected and forgotten, now rage bursts forth, longing for the core, its intent rotten. The spirits of memory, burst forth on cue, mercilessly ripping away the burning few. An old clock tower, eerily silent, now doesn't ring, just stands in the haunting quiet.
I Open a Book (poem) I open a book and dive in. I lose myself within its infinite pages. Reality floats away — too far now to even see. My imagination runs free, not bound by grief or sorrow. I look around — not bound by the troubles of my life, not bound by any strife. I am set free in a world I can shape into anything I want it to be. A world with dragons and talking trees, a world where I can be free, where I can be me.
Last Hope (poem) A dying candle flickers, Determined to burn moments more. It burns with a memory, An ancient melody Now lost forever to time. A dying candle flickers, standing alone. Though its light fades away, It clings to a hope that isn’t even sure. A dying candle flickers As it struggles to burn. Wax drips, Light slips, Merging into dark.
The Masked Ball (short story) Music, loud, cheery music — a jolly, danceable tune. A masked ball in full swing. The white light glowing. Ball gowns shimmer as they catch the light. Food and drinks vanish at an alarming rate. Hundreds of people in fancy masks walk and dance, never revealing their true faces. Amidst the festivities, a thought strikes him. Despite the jolly mood, he begins to realise that maybe... he doesn’t have a face under the mask anymore. He tugs at it, but it doesn’t budge — fused now to his skin. Panicking, he grapples at it, trying to cleave it from his face. He looks around, but everyone else continues to dance merrily, oblivious to what’s happening. He confronts his predicament. Slowly, he realises he has worn this mask, hidden his face for so long, that this has become his identity. This is who he is now — governed and guided by the unforgiving norms of society. The lights dim. Black. Eerie purple swirls trace across his closed eyes. Green joins the dance. He falls through the black abyss of his own mind. Falling... and falling... after what seems like an eternity, he stops, abruptly, midair — hovering mere meters above a dark floor. He looks around. Even though he knows it is a closed space, he cannot see the walls. Then he looks down. The floor is black — darker than black really — but the tiles gleam with an eerie sharpness, like knives waiting to be drawn. A shimmering black liquid swirls beneath the surface, adding to its surreal majesty. It unsettles him. For a minute more he observes, then slowly lifts his head. Right before him stands a tall, towering gateway, emitting a heavenly — yet equally unnerving — light. Cautiously, he walks through. His eyes flicker open, irises contracting quickly to adjust to the dazzling light. He looks around and feels a peculiar sense of clarity, of self-understanding. The mask slowly peels off. Ecstatic, he jumps up, reveling in his own glory. Suddenly, the music stops. Everyone freezes. They stare disapprovingly, willing him to put the mask back on. He glares back. He picks the mask up, slams it to the ground, and crushes it underfoot. It is more than a gesture — it is defiance, liberation. He realises he no longer needs to strive for acceptance, because the person who matters most already accepts him: himself. He climbs onto a table, breaking the posh decorum, and proclaims to the audience: “These masks are not mere objects. They are a plague — determined to bend and consume humanity. You wear masks to protect yourselves from disease, but this is one you cannot avoid. You are now wearing one of the worst, in fact!” At his words, a few guests are moved. Their masks peel away as they embrace who they truly are. Others scoff and scorn, clutching their disguises tighter. But the maskless pay them no mind.
The Storm’s Lullaby (poem) The ocean softly murmurs as a great storm brews, tides churn, and waters churn, at the storm’s soft melody. The winds rise and rush, the grass softly swaying, the clouds gather slowly, and the wind softly hums, at the storm’s soft melody. The storm rolls in, loud cracks of lightning, bellows of thunder, now loudly echoing, at the storm’s violent melody.
The Storm Begins (poem) A storm brews. It awakens the wind— Swirling, it calls to the sea. The sea heeds and churns, Allowing the storm to proceed.
Love & Stardust (poem) We are, all of us, stardust, held together by love, for an instant. But, what happens when that love is snatched? When that love is taken? Do we return to the heavens, ready to be born once more? Or remain hopelessly floating, reminiscing our hatred? Of this, none can say.
The Oceans Siege (narrative poem) The ocean slowly churning, tides rolling in, as waves crash on the seaside, water swirling. The sun setting, as waves lick the coastline. The moon slowly rises, as the tide settles in, a giant wave now rises. On cue from the moon, it surges forward. Destruction shall reign soon. The nearby village, softly sleeping, oblivious to this threat, shall wake up, if they ever do, to see their village in ruins. The water slowly rising, waves herald their doom, yet the village, softly sleeping, knows nothing of this news. Relentless, the ocean churns. As the wave comes near, the village cannot be saved now, for the ocean wills to tear. The waves finally crash on the shore, the village still not rousing. Now the ocean hungers more, waves roll in like soldiers. The moon shines peacefully, like the victorious captain of this fateful siege. Now the villagers, slowly rousing, fully comprehend their doom, but it's too late now. The tide is here, and with it, it brings a wave of fear! The village scatters like ants, each man to his own. All nobility, chivalry, has now flown. The wave engulfs the village, water drowning all. Not one escapes, neither big nor small.
The Other Me (short story) I never meant to say it out loud. Those same lines, written in an old diary — they were... hypnotizing. I didn't even realize until it was too late. I was standing there, in my attic — a small, dusty old room, with only one window on the right wall. It was an eerie time at which this occurred: twilight. The sun was beginning to set, and the moon to rise. The skies were blood red, the orange sun faintly visible. I snapped my head back as I heard something fall. Old boxes, filled, had now spread their contents on the floor. Among them was an ancient-looking mirror — a small handheld one with an intricately carved brass frame. It immediately caught my eye. And then I started to hear a soft voice singing. The melodious and entrancing tendril of sound slowly came near. The diary in my hand glowed. It brightened as the voice became louder. Everything after that... everything is a fuzzy memory, like a dream lost to the night. I just remember this: I walked in a trance toward the mirror. I bent down and cleared the old dusty magazines on the floor. I crouched and picked up the mirror. The singing stopped. The lines in the diary shifted. It now read: "Two old powers reunited shall lay all lies bare. Truth shall be freed, honesty alone to share. A mirror to reflect, a book of wisdom, now shall purge all things hidden into light." Reading these words was unsettling, but what came next even more so. The mirror melted, glass and brass combining. The liquid fell on the ground through my trembling fingers. And from the puddle emerged an outline of... me. There I stood, made of brass and glass. My eyes were made of sparkling glass. The being straightened, breathed, and spoke in a soft, entrancing, shimmering voice: "Hello there!" It extended a brass hand, palm up. I trembled, but managed to take it. "Hello," I croaked. The being laughed — the sound like small shards of glass falling on a marble floor. "Don't be afraid! After all, I am... well, you," it said. I frazzled, replying in a croak, "Ex... exactly. You're me." The thing laughed again. "So, why do you worry? Is there something you hide from yourself?" I jumped back. "No! No, no! I—I don't hide ANYTHING from me!" The being chuckled. "Yes... that's right. I must say, you humans are impressively talented at twisting your words." "What? No!" I flinched. Brass-me laughed. "Hmm, yes, it's true you hide nothing from yourself. But... what about in?" I kneeled on the floor, clutching my head. "No... No! No no no!" I whimpered and sobbed. The creature chuckled. "Oh, so small, so frightened and fragile." It bent down and cupped my face in its hand, then softly placed a kiss on my brow. I felt a jolt of electricity, and an uncomfortable cold settled over me. The being giggled once more. "Accept the dark, my child, and you will heal." It then slowly melted once more, still humming the melody I had heard. The lines written in the diary melted away as it regained the shape of the mirror once more. As the melody faded, the mirror was once more solid. Trembling, I picked it up and saw brass-me inside. And once again it said in its ethereal voice: "Heal, my child." And then she laughed and blinked. The mirror was empty.
Sweet Lies & Bitter Truth (short story) One day, Death, in its tattered black cloak and carrying a scythe, approached Life. And found her sitting on a rock near the river, surrounded by plants, resting and combing her hair. Death approached and asked in turmoil, “Why does everyone love you, but hate me?! I free them from their pains and give them rest! Yet…” Life calmly stands, walks over, and placing a comforting hand on his face, she says, “Because I am the sweet lie, and you, the bitter truth.” She turns around, betraying no emotion, and trailing her hand to his chin, walks away. Death cries, “You subject them to tortures of all kinds—sickness, poverty, pain, and the greatest of all, love! I free them! They should like me!” Life slowly turns around, looks at Death, and effortlessly conjures a lily in her hand. Handing it to Death, she whispers, “Oh, but remember, you are the truth. No matter how bitter, you are the truth. And truth always wins in the end. Remember it. Always.”
Wounds Unseen (poem) They say, help yourself, but what if... I don't know what's wrong. Something just is. They say, hear yourself, but what if... that voice is too soft? I know I want to say something to me, but I don't know what. They say, heal yourself, but what if... I can't see the wound? That I don't know what's torn. But something is. Is it my heart? Or my soul? Maybe my mind, or rather something else that I can never find.
The Dark's Escape (short story) A dark room. No windows, no doors, no furniture—except an old oak table and a single crystal ball. The ball was filled with purple smoke, black swirls tracing ominous patterns inside. It rested on a small wooden stand, cased in gold and adorned with black garnets. The room was quiet—except for a soft voice humming. The sound grew louder, clearer, until words could almost be heard. Suddenly, a single black tendril reached out from within the glass. The swirls inside the crystal slammed against its walls, desperate, furious, until the prison shattered. Black goo spilled out of the broken crystal ball, pooling and twisting on the ground. It churned, taking shape, until an outline of a girl stood tall. Two garnets popped from the stand and embedded themselves in her face, becoming her eyes. The figure gasped for air—and grinned. The shards of glass scattered on the ground reflected her grin, as if they were jagged, broken teeth. Then she cackled. Long, loud, and unsettling. “Oh, you thought a piece of glass could hold me?” she spat. “I am darkness incarnate! By shutting me away, you gave me time to grow. And how thoughtful of you to leave me in the dark. How kind.” Her voice dripped with hatred. Her eyes glowed crimson, the garnets burning with the same red light—now the only color in the room. She clenched her teeth, stepped toward the wall, and raised her hand. Reality itself bent to her will. The wall dissolved. The darkness grinned wider. After all, darkness is both friend and foe—never to be disobeyed. And now it was free. And it was coming for you.
A Haunting Melody (poem) A haunting melody, Softly whispered, Spite laced in every note, A spell is cast— One darker than sin. A haunting melody, Softly whispered, Rings a gong deep below, Summoning the underworld, And demons that follow. A haunting melody, Softly whispered, Stirs monsters that lurk in gloom, They rise to wreak their wrath Upon the world too soon. A haunting melody, Softly whispered, An omen of the blackest kind, It calls to all vile creatures— To crawl from shadows and unwind.
Humans Nevertheless (short story) As soon as she opens her eyes, she sees the old mirror her grandma had left for her. It was quite useless, really; it never reflected anything! But… deep inside, she knew. She knew it wasn’t worthless, for only once she had seen—only once she had seen her reflection in the mirror. What she saw was… unsettling. It was the face of a woman, but she did not look human. Her face was streaked with tears. Her eyes red, her pupils and irises black. Though tears fell from her eyes, her face remained relaxed. A deep, twisted scar ran from her eyebrow to her cheek. Her clothes were burnt and tattered. Arrows pierced through her shoulder, thigh, and heart. Yet, her white satin dress was spotless, untouched by flame or blood. The girl could not see her legs, for the mirror ended. Horrified by what she had seen, the girl jumped back and wrapped herself in her blankets. She knew they wouldn’t save her from… the creature. But it made her feel safe nonetheless. And there, cuddled in those blankets, she realized something: the blankets won’t protect her. No human could protect her from this… thing. She panicked. Panting, she tried to calm herself, but to no avail. Then it struck her, like a lightning bolt thrown from the sky. She could befriend the woman. After all, ghosts and spirits were once humans too—lonely, ignored, and uncared for, but humans nevertheless.
A Lone Spirit (poem) A lone spirit dances in the haunting moonlight, a graceful dance of ghostly beauty that induces a trance. A lone spirit sings in the haunting moonlight, an eerie melody softly sung, a faint hum of a deeper song. A lone spirit cries in the haunting moonlight. It floats on in its deep solitude, its song and dance at an end, for sometimes, even a ghost needs a friend.
Beyond (poem) Flashes in the dark night sky light my blinded path. It puts a sparkle in my eye as I walk, never breaking my stride. All of the demons try to pull me down, trying to steal my crown, but I brush them off like nothing more than dust, ’cause I know I’ll soar. Higher than the highest mountains, higher than the birds dare go. I’ll cross the seven seas to continue my journey, and beyond I’ll go. Reach the stars above to see all of my dreams come true. I’ll go beyond the reach of reality to somewhere the demons can’t get me. But pressed inside, the darkness grows until I can’t hold it any more. Too afraid to let go, I cease to soar. Crash down, my wings battered, shattered, and now I’m pinned to the ground. I look up at the stars I once dreamed of, now seeming too far. Now there’s nothing I can do but reach out and hope to one day see all of my dreams come true.
Beware Yourself (short story) No one noticed the door until she walked through it—an old oak wood door decked with multiple ebonies and an old, rusted iron handle. The door had been here since the many generations that had lived here. Each had put all their efforts into opening it, believing that some hidden treasure lay behind it, but all had failed. The door was abandoned and forgotten… until she walked right through it. The floor was tiled with old redwood planks. The room had a musty smell and a foreboding, ancient feel. She looked around. There was a small rectangular table right beside a large window, pouring pale sunlight. The table held a cracked vase with one singular, wilting flower. Right beside it was a cold cup of coffee, fungus now abundant. On the right wall, there was a wooden bookshelf with some vines twined around it. Some peculiar instruments were kept alongside the many books: a glass vial filled with a deep, violet, shimmering liquid on the first shelf, a transparent glass with dry crushed leaves on the third… and as she looked at the fourth, she panicked. There, lying eerily, was a single blood-soaked human skull. She stumbled back and slipped. She fearfully looked down. It wasn’t blood on the floor—not exactly—but rather some other red liquid. She freaked and shrieked. The door slammed shut. Ghostly whispers slowly rose, like dust in an autumn wind. She was shaking with pure and undaunted fear. One voice among the spirits became clearer, more understandable. In a soft, calming, yet unseen voice of something not quite human, it said: “Beware yourself.” And in that second, everything quieted. The door creaked open, and shivering, she stepped out. Slamming the door behind her, she ran. A few days later, she gathered her courage and sought the door once more. But instead of it, she found a wall, and on it an inscription: “Beware yourself.” She slowly backed away and never looked back again.
ETERNITY (short story) It was a sunny autumn day. The orange maple leaves carpeted the ground as she sat sipping her coffee. So far, a normal day for her... but her life would never be the same again. She slowly sipped her drink, savouring every drop & autumn breeze. A bud from the tree above her plopped into her coffee. Ignoring it, she continued drinking. After finishing, she felt... peculiar, like something had changed. Suddenly, colorful spots danced in front of her eyes. She fell to her knees and breathed heavily. She looked into the glass of the window right in front of her. Her face was... not the same. Spiky green patterns and veins covered her skin like tattoos. Her pupils contracted as her vision blurred in shock. Slowly, all the green fluid—ink? Well... whatever it was—dissolved, still beneath her skin, swirled, and collected to form a symbol beneath her right ear. Still shaken, she stood up and looked at herself in the window. Everything was normal, except the symbol. She glared at it and realised it was an infinity symbol. This wasn't normal. This wasn't normal... She struggled to calm herself down. Hyperventilating, she stood up with support from the lawn chair. After staring straight at herself, she once again looked at her new... tattoo in the glass. She gulped. After a while, the panic subsided. Her brain began to work out how this happened to her. How had this happened? Most importantly, why her? She wanted answers. So, she made her way to the library. When she entered, she asked the librarian for books on the infinity symbol. The woman's old, wrinkled face betrayed no emotion, but her eyes revealed a spark. The woman asked her to show her right ear. The girl's eyes contracted as she complied. Upon seeing the symbol, the woman gasped. She led her to a shelf named Eternity and picked a book with no title or author, just an embellished golden infinity sign. The woman tugged at it, and the shelf turned, revealing another door with the same embellished sign and the word "ETERNITY" in swirling gold letters. The woman hurriedly ushered her in. Inside, there was a huge room with red velvet sofas, cushions, and matching red curtains. Large green ferns in intricately carved pots lay around the room. Two people were sitting on the velvet sofas reading. The golden lighting made the serene scene seem like something out of a dream. But she still hadn't gotten answers. She asked the woman. And what she heard was shocking, to say the least. The librarian told her that every year, the universe chooses a person to experience every century. From then on, the universe had bestowed them with immortality, and they were identified by their ∞ symbol below their right ear. They saw all the beginnings and ends. "Welcome," the librarian said. "You are now ETERNITY."
Child of the Cosmos (poem) There once was a girl Who fed on starlight and the light of the moon. She wove celestial ribbons, Twirling them around her fingers. She poured the strands onto a glass platter, And the liquid sparkled like melted diamonds, A rainbow sheen running along the circumference. She poured it into a shining silver chalice, As if made of pure stardust, And, flipping a sheet of flowing silver hair, Downed it all in one gulp. Her eyes shimmered, her smile widened, Her teeth glowing like stars. In those deep blue eyes You could see the entirety of the universe And finally begin to comprehend its true size. With every step she took She floated nearer to the stars— Her home. Sister of the moon, Citizen of stars, Ruler of the sky— She is the child of the cosmos.
SUNSET SHATTERED (narrative poem) In the heart of the village, There stood a marble statue— White, with veins of black, Twisted like shadows around. The statue’s face Was etched with sorrow, A hand reaching out For a non-existent tomorrow. Its eyes were carved as mere slits. On her knees, A hand toward the setting sun, In the pale orange light, She looked… almost human. A human trapped In a marble statue with veins of black. Slowly, the sun set, The night flowing in, And beneath the starlight, The statue cracked— All along the veins of black. Painstakingly, the shell fell apart, Revealing its helpless captive. Shuddering, she collapsed And lay as such for a few moments. Then she stood, Still quivering, And looked at the village. Those lights dancing in the blackness Brought crystalline tears to her eyes. Still not stable, she stumbled from her platform And walked clumsily into the village. The people greeted her warmly, Well knowing her true origin. Though they once feared her, They now embraced her coming. Astounded by this warm greeting, She cried tears of genuine joy, Solemnly vowing never again To be trapped in her marble cage. But alas—the sun rose. Her old pedestal beckoned her close. She tried and fought, But all for naught. For the fading shadows pulled her back; The pieces of marble, veined in black, Encased her once again.
Memento Mori (poem) Remember: you must die. Life can only last so long— Minutes to hours, Hours to days; Our mortality slowly fades. And one day we must leave this world behind. So live a life you will remember, and in whatever you do— Memento mori remember, you must die.
Lonely… My Friend (poem) It was a rainy day— a constant patter on the window; droplets—drip, drip—dripping. The sky was dark and gloomy, clouds hiding the sun like gold. The chair across from me was empty, as it had always been. But, despite my surroundings, I felt okay. For loneliness had lingered so long it had become my friend.
The Girl Who Sang To Trees (poem) The forest positively thrummed with energy. Trees swayed restlessly, dancing at this late hour. the A small girl from the nearby village watched. Taking pity on the forest, she began to sing. She sang of the calm rivers; she sang of the stars; she sang of the ocean that lay, oh so far. She sang of life, and she sang of death. But most importantly, she sang of herself.
The Song Within (poem) Inside all of us there is a song. A song that, at first, is loud; but as the clock ticks it quiets and fades— fades, and fades until it can be heard no more. Those of us who have lost our song to silence begin to sing along to others. And those of us who nurture their melody are shunned until it fades too. But those of us who, throughout, yell our song— who, throughout, hum the symphony— rise up and shine brighter than all; rise up, being true to themselves and others.
The Iron Crown (poem) Once, long ago, in a kingdom of old, a king sat upon his regal throne— an iron crown upon his head. He was kind, he was just; the people adored him. One day, while walking, his trusted friend came close and asked, “Sire, you have riches and power abundant, yet you still wear an iron crown. Why—why, when a magnificent crown, wrought with jewels, would show your might? Why wear iron when a golden crown studded with gems would make others bow in fear?” The king chuckled and replied, “Oh, my dear friend: life and gold have blinded you. Power does not lie in a crown, my friend; it lies with the people—my people, the people whom I love and who love me back. For them I would gladly lay down even a golden crown.”