The Invisible Writer
Bio
"Poetry is what happens when nothing else can"
Charles Bukowski
Stories (113/0)
3 a.m.
3 am, the hour of my haunting. Blue digital numbers mock me from the smart clock on the nightstand sitting beside her side of the bed. Images of her soft, pouty lips when she told me I don't care if I'm breaking your heart, replay on repeat in my mind. The pain of seeing her leaving another man's bed in my nightmares cloud my vision with a late-night, early-morning horror show.
By The Invisible Writer22 days ago in Fiction
A crazy rant about a different kind of trip.
What's my best trip? Is it what I'm supposed to believe the best trip is? What they’ve told me the best trip is. An afternoon at the lake, a road trip across America with the family stuffed in the car, a journey to discover myself. Backpacking across Europe, polaroid pictures of smiling faces. Because that's what we're supposed to believe the best trips are, right? But, what if I told you that was wrong? That, that was all wrong. Because those are nice, but those are not the best trips; those are vacations.
By The Invisible Writerabout a month ago in Wander
60 Seconds
Sixty seconds is all it takes to make a minute, all it takes to change a life. They say just before you die, your life flashes before your eyes, and a timeline of images takes you autobiographically through your life. I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve never come close enough to death to find out. I do know images of a life you haven’t lived yet can flash before your eyes. It's happened to me more times than I can count. But each time it's happened so far, I’ve been able to push the visions of a life I shouldn’t live away.
By The Invisible Writer2 months ago in Fiction
Return of the Chosen
An army of yellow lights held atop torches approached the woods at the edge of the valley of Landor. Whispers passed in the wind as forest trees woke from the slumber that had carried them through decades of peace. Redwoods and Oaks spoke in the ancient language of the Druids, warning of the threat approaching in the distance from beyond the blankets of grass that stretched across the Flat Plains to the Dark Lands. Drum beats thundered through the air in songs of war. Legions of Ogres, followed by legions of Orcs, covered the earth for miles. In a quarter day's march, the first of their lines would arrive at the forest's edge.
By The Invisible Writer3 months ago in Fiction
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