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Vadim Kagan
Bio
I believe that each day is a blessing, every story is amazing and all poems should rhyme!
Instagram: @wines_and_rhymes
Facebook: www.facebook.com/vadimkagan
Stories (159/0)
Sourdough
The muse has fled, the lights are red, you're swinging by a thread from baking bread to barking mad and back to baking bread. Will higher highs bring lower lows, will needles turn to barbs? What's in the carbs one never knows, except of course the carbs. Your eyes are red, your nose is brown and to escape the pain you let it rise, then punch it down and let it rise again. Oh, damn this never ending beat, this ringing in the ears: preheat, preheat, preheat, preheat and wipe away the tears. No matter what and how you tweak, the end is still the same: the crumb is weak, the crust is meek, the whole shebang is lame. Where east meets west, there west meets east - forget the south and north, it is the quest for better yeast (and better life, of course.) Be ready to repeat until and then avoid unless; your rusty will is iron, still - so keep at it. God bless.
By Vadim Kaganabout a year ago in Poets
Midnight
You finally obey the voices and very carefully wake up, trying to breathe slowly and deeply. The bedroom is filled with live golden light, shifting, and stirring as if a dozen candles are nodding to some imperceptible breeze. There is a woman sitting at the foot of the bed, nude, her back very straight, arms extended, and it takes you a long second to realize that this is your wife – her hair seems longer and of slightly wrong color, and she is quietly chanting: “Aum ing quorro, aum ing quorro…” The light seems to grow dense around her as she speaks, only to roll back to the walls leaving her silhouette shimmering with afterglow. “Aum ing quorro!” - she keeps insisting, familiar steel appearing in her voice - “Aum ing quorro!” Still, the waves of light come and go, throwing the shadows up and down the curtains. “What do the neighbors see?” - you wonder fleetingly, and then the woman brings her hands together, palms facing up. “Aum ing quorro!” - the voice is so low now that you feel it resonate inside your chest. The light coalesces again, but this time it forms a glowing sphere in her hands, and then she brings it against her chest and for a moment you can see the rib cage through the gold radiance of her skin, and then the light fades and you hear her soft satisfied laugh in the darkness. You hear the usual crawling under the blanket rustle and then it is quiet, with only a faint sound of a truck engine far away. And then you realize two things: you have never opened your eyes, and you can see the stars through the roof.
By Vadim Kaganabout a year ago in Fiction