20. april 2017 at 17:43 | Gréti | The longer than short ones
Wherever I turn, a silent smiling corpse grins, piercing me with hollow holes eyes have left behind, and things of unspeakable shapes crouch silently on bigger rocks leaking from the steep cliff. No more do the corpses say than wind whispers in their ears and escapes their wide open jaws as whistle. No more do they think of than the worms filling in their skulls. No more will they ever speak of sorrow… relaxed in unison, spread on the rocks and sand like marmalade on bread. And the figures high up in the dusky air sway their feeble bodies, creaking.
Low tide had uncovered their graves, it´s gentle fingers sweeping the sand away with perfect precision. It is not the first time this sea had feasted on memories. Half-digested by it, their faces faded paint on a wall, their skin mere remnant of colour; they rise from the dead, now ready to move on. I wait for them to vanish.
But the beasts above wait, too. Something is missing, they know. They smell the blood, a shard, a remain weeps in my clenched fist. A pink bubble sobs down below my feet to which the creatures descend. About bloody time.
20th March 2017
22. march 2017 at 17:57 | Gréti | The short ones
Floors. Wooden floors and wooden doors and wooden chairs and wooden halls, wooden marbles in the corners. Don´t go near them.
Scattered children of little black holes. If they come around... If they come, don´t greet them.
Little by little the air gets thicker.
I still wonder.
What might be their purpose?
Just look. Look at her. Look. The marble. A scooped out eye, lonely observator in the light of the day and in the vivid shadows of night, widely opened. Look. It looks, too. It is looking. Looking at me. Looking at you. Observing. Watching. Closer.
22. march 2017 at 17:44 | Gréti | The short ones
She tried to run.
She tried to escape.
She tried to get away.
All her life she spent trying.
Tiny little vixen splashed the forest red, a forever wet line of paint shivering amongst the brown bark and silver coins of shattered hourglass. The wind raced in her fur, whirled it curly and bubbly, until her leather bitten by brisk breeze benumbed, until icicles hung from her upper jaw clinging-clanging as her legs hurried her forward.
22. march 2017 at 17:39 | Gréti
alias families of related stories
22. march 2017 at 16:57 | Gréti
THE LONGER THAN LONGER THAN SHORT ONES
alias 300 words of almost giving a damn
22. march 2017 at 16:55 | Gréti
THE SHORT SHORT ONES
alias 100 words zygotes
22. march 2017 at 16:54 | Gréti
THE LONGER THAN SHORT ONES
alias 200 words fetuses
22. march 2017 at 16:50 | Gréti
THE LONG ONES
alias everything carefully planned
22. march 2017 at 16:47 | Gréti
THE SHORT ONES
alias the bank of random stuff
Slovak: It takes only one movement to fade...
Túlavá mačka - 1. časť
Túlavá mačka - 2. časť
22. march 2017 at 14:42 | Gréti
After a long time I am coming back. I have decided to reclaim this little piece of space I have created for myself and my thoughts; Nylamme´s little world I have left behind.
It took me two years (I do agree I´m slow) to realize I need somewhere to share my ideas with the world and someone to tell my stories - even though I doubt anyone will ever read any of this. What matters, in this very moment, is that what I have to tell won´t rot in the darkest corners of my documents, abandoned and shriveled from the lack of sunlight.
To be a good mother of my countless children, I need a house for them. And what better place to accomodate them than the blog I used to love so much, where surrounded by a lovely community of bloggers memories and friendships were born? This feels like home :333
Since I currently live in England, english is the language I will use.
So, hey, back and glad :333
Please, make yourself at home. Grab a cookie and your favourite mug of your favourite tea. The adventure begins.