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Literature Text
“Who are you?”
“I am the answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“To everything.”
“Why are you here?”
“They killed me.”
“They killed the answer?”
“They killed me because of the key.”
“What key?”
“The key to the box that held the answer.”
“I thought you were the answer.”
“I am.”
“Then why did they kill you for a different answer?”
“Oh, we aren’t different. Same concept, same answer.”
“Why did the box have the same answer you did?”
“We’re the same answer.”
“Then why did they kill you if you held the same answer the box held?”
“They wanted the key.”
“But you two were the same answer.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell them the answer?”
“Because the answer was in the box.”
“Then why didn’t you give them the key?”
“Because the box wasn’t locked.”
“I am the answer.”
“The answer to what?”
“To everything.”
“Why are you here?”
“They killed me.”
“They killed the answer?”
“They killed me because of the key.”
“What key?”
“The key to the box that held the answer.”
“I thought you were the answer.”
“I am.”
“Then why did they kill you for a different answer?”
“Oh, we aren’t different. Same concept, same answer.”
“Why did the box have the same answer you did?”
“We’re the same answer.”
“Then why did they kill you if you held the same answer the box held?”
“They wanted the key.”
“But you two were the same answer.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell them the answer?”
“Because the answer was in the box.”
“Then why didn’t you give them the key?”
“Because the box wasn’t locked.”
Literature
you can lock yourself up but
because you see, darling, sometimes there is this thing called
loneliness.
and it crawls underneath your locked doors and past your closed windows.
and it climbs into your empty bed, and oh,
it waits.
because it knows that although you try to prolong it, the inevitable end is that
you will retire, slowlyquietlyunwillingly to the comfort of your not-so-empty-after-all
mass of pillows and sheets.
and once you're there, it's so much harder to escape than you first thought.
because at first it holds you softly, the way he did once, but then
you remember how it ended, and loneliness brings the tears that creep
down your cheeks, and i
Literature
never trust a writer
It's best to stay far away from us writers. We're double-agents, and can't be trusted.
You see, we just have this terrible privilege of not being able to tell the difference between reality and fiction. We sometimes forget that the emotions in our head might not run with as much passion as they really do, and then we get disappointed in things that make normal people happy. We're afraid to get close to people, and yet all we do is yearn for human contact. That's why we write about it, and that's why we lose touch on what it really feels like to be in a relationship.
Writers often find that we don't fully comprehend the world around us, and,
Literature
no one really knows
They gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow." He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes -
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100 Themes Challenge: 7. Heaven
prompt: dialogue
prompt: dialogue
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Truly wonderful! 