A pleasant flow Was diving into the Weddell Sea, Wandering among creatures of species

I woke up with a start. It seemed to me that I was drifting between the past and the future, interspersed with fleeting glances of the present. Through my blurry vision, I could see a ceiling fan droning on with its blades, as if it was trying to suck in all the air in this little room along with the smallest wind of life that was still left within me.

“Why do you write?” someone once asked me. “To leave my mark,” I shrugged, “Maybe to create something that will outlive me?” “Stop it. Writing won't ever make you money,” another quipped.

At that point a bike flew past me on the sidewalk, making me jump sideways and onto a puddle of mud. My shoes were drenched, and some of the goo had seeped in between my toes. The overpowering smell of the biker's cologne, mixed in with the familiar “city smell” of exhaust fumes, sweat, and crushed dreams, disoriented me.

Blink, my rosemary bird! Blink again and repeat it.

There are various stages in a successful tour that we all remember fondly. Even the inconveniences that may have been there are seen in a warmer light. However, there is one part associated with traveling that is hardly talked about and certainly is its most painful derivative. I'm talking about the post-travel melancholia.

While I was a toddler, I would admiringly flip through the pages of my fairy tales and picture books. Glass slippers would fit, dragons would get slain, sleeping princesses would wake up with a kiss, mermaids would fall in love with man, and genies would pop out of lamps and so on. Of course I couldn't read at that time. But I would look through the colourful illustrations in my books everyday in awe.

I was playing with my friends when some boys from the other side of the village came and started hitting us with bamboo sticks. They were hurling swear words and telling us repeatedly that we needed to get hell out of here.

Golden rays that shine bright Illuminate the stages of life.

The unbearable July sun was beating down on the pedestrians mercilessly. The fortunate ones were in their cars, the windows shut and the air conditioner blasting on full speed. At least the pedestrians were able to go towards their destination. The fortunate ones were sitting in stagnant traffic and the air surrounding them seemed to be vibrating from the heat given off by the cars. My immediate thought was of how these thoughtless people are causing

“Class, we are going to have a most aesthetic model among us today, and I want you all to focus on her. She will sit here and all of you shall befriend her before we proceed further.”

My mom and I share a special bond of nine months. I still remember the first time she saw me. The picture quality wasn't that great, nor was my pose. The ultrasound technician was probably trying to take candids but my mom didn't conceive no girl who don't slay.

Let me tell you the story of how I fell in love with the ocean. I stood there, on the glistening, silver sand and I let the wind flow through strands of my hair and beyond. I let it blow through decks and heaps of angst I've been holding on for ages, and I finally let lose.

My footsteps echo across the desolate chamber as I make my way to the small box in the corner. This unassuming device holds the only article of importance: a key, shaped like a vital organ. As I reach in, I hear the creak of the doorway behind me. Before my mind can process what is happening, my body is already in motion. Leaping to my left, I realise I haven't acted a moment too soon as something embeds with a dull thud into the wall, inches beside me. Turning around, I come face to face with my worst nightmare. Where others would greet his presence, I feel nothing but disdain. Even in mortal form, there is no mistaking the feathery appendages protruding from behind, or the quiver peering out beside his neck.

I can still recall my mother trying to wake me from my deep slumber a little before dawn. She restlessly told me to pack up what I need, and that she would explain everything in time. In our hurry, we only had time to take food and water with us. Almost immediately, we left the only home I had ever known and began walking towards a destination that was still unknown to me.

The sea's calmness would pull one in with its tentacles. The sea never runs out of tentacles, because of course, the sea is always thick with octopuses. It would be plain wrong if it ever did run out of them. One would find it hard to believe how calm the sea was. If you were a boat, you would find it rocking you back and forth, sometimes caressing as well, as if you were a baby cradle. An outrageous sea below the

“Take it or leave it. You won't get a better deal anywhere in the Sector-C,” grumbled the man behind the counter. His voice made even more indecipherable through his respiratory device. R-no knew the man was right. Not because the man was demanding a reasonable price compared to the others, but because he knew for certain no one else had the little ornament he had, tucked safely in his palm as he glared impatiently at R-no.

It had been nearly an hour. I have no idea how I ended up with this man alone at an ice cream shop. The five of us came here during our class break and somehow or some way, three of them left me with quite possibly the strangest boy I have ever talked to. He was staring at me with narrowed eyes like I was a fugitive from the law.

When Ms. Sherbet Clearwater moved into her new one-bedroom apartment in the city, she didn't exactly expect to find a rude teenage ghost in the closet. Nothing about this apartment stuck out as a red flag but now she is on the verge of a heart attack. She is looking at the ashen face of someone who probably once was a fifteen year old living person. She is regretting every decision that has led up to her moving in here.

I lay awake at the dead of the night,