Magic, But Is Used And Created By Subscribing To One Of Many MagicOS.

Walking home

I was walking on the train tracks alone. While rainy, foggy darkness was surrounding me, I can barely see thanks to my phone. walking next to a ditch stream, knee-deep.

My only witness was a cute little bird. Jumping, flying, chirping, and crying While I'm under my umbrella made of blue. Against the fabric, the water burred

Walking through a deserted rural zone In the distance, I could see the next station light. My trousers are being moisturized, and my head is dry from the storm. But I had to be careful not to jam my shoes on the track.

The night is cold. My hands are shaking. No reflections; I can't see my breath. There is no option but to keep walking. Each step on the quebracho Railroad ties gets me closer to my bed.

Suddenly, a cold breeze sent shivers down my spine. Something was coming, but the little bird told me not to look back. I shall be fine as long as I keep moving forward. It was the entity that was roaming around.

-"Hello young boy", the suave voice said. A sharp pain on my shoulder almost made me faint. But the bird told me not to look back. That's how it gets you, you shall never be seen alive.

-"It's rude to not answer in kind." I could feel a strong grip behind my neck. I acted as if I didn't care; I carried on with my long steps. But the presence was persistent enough to be contemplated.

-"If you don't talk to me, you'll regret it now!" The bird could not speak up, for it was pulled back fast. The last thing the birdie could tell was not to look back. Now we were alone—it and I.

I tried to run to the next station light. It was in vain; I was far away. And the creature was clawing my legs. -"It's over, young one; you shall be a nice dessert."

Ears on the wet ground I couldn't help it, but I laughed aloud. Its claws lifted my face. -"What's so funny, or did you just lose your head?"

With a quick kick, I made it stumble to the tracks. -"The train is almost here, you ghastly clown," and then I got up. The wretched-looking thing did not understand. But the train took all its remains to the moon and out.

Emerging from the dark fog The silent metal snake carried out its route. From that night forward, I did not travel alone. Because I can see it's wicked grin when I keep my eyes close.

While the rain pours

empty, wet street We were under a robust tree. An umbrella made of leaves

Silver-gray sky Waiting for the storm to pass by It was in vain, but we had to try.

Being close to each other We start to share our warm Our lips are now in touch.

The storm may stop But ours has just begun. Time will tell if everything has a point.

Another depressing rant

Anything can happen under the cheery sun.

Someone lost a balloon.

Others their life

But most certainly, their smiles

A lot occurs under the clear blue sky.

Injustice, robbery, and arson

Someone jumped after losing his mind.

There are lots of posters asking for a missing son.

On this nice, warm day

Families are forced to move away.

Genocide, war, and famine are all around the world.

But there's always more show.

While birds are chirping and kids are laughing.

The intelligent missiles are flying

In some other place, an earthquake has begun.

Right now, lots of animals are prey of the commercial hunt.

There is so much work to do.

So much pain and indiference

What's the point? Is there any difference?

Then the madman is the one who lives alone.

Writing dialog 2:

Two friends were drinking ice tea on top of a bridge, overlooking a dead road.

-"So... how was your week?" Asked Suzzane, mixing some sugar in the cold infusion.

-"Nothing out of the ordinary; I went to a cemetery," said John, sitting on the bridge's guardrail.

-"Thank god you didn't do anything weird! what happened? was someone you knew?"

-"No, the professor recommends that I see some scultures for my anatomy assignment," answered John nonchalantly, serving himself another glass of tea.

-"Let me get this right," said Suzzane, with a contagious smile. "When someone says sculture, do you think of cemeteries?"

She had a quirk when talking about something funny; she would move her hands as if they were a tennis fan, moving his head from one opposite side of the field to the other in mere seconds.

-"No, it wasn't my first pick; museums aren't cheap, you know." John almost choked on his tea. He was about to ask Suzzane about her week when suddenly heaven became real and in technicolor, a great roar could be heard from miles, John almost lost his balance from the guardrail, the silvery light became lighting shooting upwards, breaking that afternoon's peace in the valley, shaking bones, breaking glasses, and damaging eardrums. The rocket, the last wonderful thing humanity created, was now in high orbit, leaving a white, fluffy cloud where it once flew.

They were rigid, looking upwards, not in glee as Suzzane's little brother, but with disdain. The first rockets were a great talking point among the people of the valley, some sort of privilege and pride they share and show like a medal to the region, "They are close to the stars!!" Would said journalists but now it's more like a nuisance. The Mac's and Roudy's were the first families to leave, followed by the Carlson's and the Evans. Soon the grand majority of the town was a collection of empty spaces, lost in time while the future was roaring and flying no more than 6 miles from them.

Suzzane broke the silence.

-"The old tongues said that winter and fall were below 68 degrees, and that the rockets brought longer days and shorter nights." Said Suzzane contemplating the amber liquid flowing from the broken glass.

-"I went to the cemetery because it's quiet, no packs of people, no flashes, no laughs. I mean, what kind of museum puts on display bright colors and chalkboards? Cemeteries have that hidden effect on us; it's no place to be joking; it's solemn. A radiography of time, where different art styles and movements solidified for eternity, did you know that the real Gioconda was burned for her smile? Cemeteries have this aura of the past, the unbearable past, where all the bad, decadent, and violent were normalized, a place where museums go to die, where memories are set in stone, crimes and regrets are visible for you to be horrified or wonder, not only did I finish my sketches, I came with horrible conclusions."

But before John could elaborate, another wonder of humanity rose free from gravity. A deafening chorus made by millon dammed souls.

In order for something to prosper, other things or someone must be wretched.

-"I'm sorry about your father. I know things seem bleak, but he will get a job really soon." Said Suzzane, enveloping the broken glass in newspaper.

-"Thanks, it was a long week." John sighted, jumped from the guardrail to Suzzane, helped her put the glasses in the basket, and they started to descend the bridge.

-"My little brother is obsessed with space; he wants to be an astronaut when he grows up."

-"Good for him, I guess; at least he doesn't need to commute that much from here."

And they walked together, alone, in the middle of the dead road to their homes.

False Diamond

The golden edge was intact.

Every piece was left behind.

A far cry and a lost vow.

It's up; no more jolly facade.

Now I walk alone among the displays.

Hiding from the dull gray dismay.

Dry eyes are hunting me down.

My only witness is a crow.

Stomach open, red liquid flowing with rage.

The sound is dimming. An angel touched my hair.

No more sight, heart beating fast,

A last breath, no more thoughts...

Ah, those nights regret

A new aperture appeared in my room. Somewhere to scream and fall head-on. I recall my sweet mistress, Eleanore. So fair, kind, and full of love.

Bitter endings and full remorse Memories with her just took their course. Like celluloid melting under summer light Secret kisses in plain sight

But those cold days are just gone. Her pulse, smell, and soul No more cuddles, no more love. A shame that a bunch of pain pills did the job.

I just want to burn time until there's no more time for me to burn.

When it rains

I write when it rains. As if all my pains are washing away. When such a dark miracle shakes the window panes,

Only the taste of his blood makes sense. It allows me to be back in reality, past the tense darkness. While his feeble body lays comfortably on my bed.

Or something like that alone, I would pen aloof. While listening, the rain drops fall from the roof. I wonder if the clouds can see me now; surely they will send proof.

My face is blank, and thousands My inner voice is morphing into the same I shift my body, not my shame.

If only I could be relaxed, free of judgment. While water drips from the firmament Thinking of how to avoid my permanent fate

The only leak I have is predictably in my heart. stepping on puddles of my own hope, crying aloud. I have no option but to follow my own white cloud.

The modern prometheus is a story about a neglected child trying to make sense of life while being outcasted by everyone, meanwhile the father is living its best life.