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Weekly Contest #86
‘The dusk breeze is carrying the scent of orange jasmines. I can sense the first sign of Spring in soft whispers of the lime green leaves,’ she said aloud in a manner that appeared to be a declaration rather than a statement. Not knowing how exactly the flowers smelt, he decided the air must smell the way she it. It was a Cool, crisp, cinnamon-y breeze, which were drying the droplets of sweat off his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly warm dusk but he had been out all day, absorbing the sun’s blazing enthusiasm and copious amount of cigarett...
Weekly Contest #54
Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium. — T. S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night. Nostalgia is a sad man’s morphine; for he holds on to it during perspiring summer nights and bone rattling winters with Time the wonder drug resetting almost every back ache, heartbreak and willful mistakes. It is rather amusing how memories play out differently as at times, one person forgets and another remembers the same things, d...
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