I play with words; with their sound, their shape, their [dis]order. Words I am. I am words. In clouds and crowds. In leaps and bounds. And all around.

mlmm’s Sunday Writing Prompt: It’s All in the Title becomes It’s all in the micro-tale.

A Girl Called Gift

A Night Without Dreams

The Day the Stars Burned

Revenant

Sleep Deprivation

The Mulberry Bush

A Disquieting Haze

A Vision in Blue

The Man Who Talks to Walls

The Fairy Queen

In a disquieting haze, the man who talks to walls has a vision in blue. The fairy queen, revenant from his night without dreams, spurred by sleep deprivation, warns him of a girl called gift, hiding behind the mulberry bush about to create dawn of the day the stars burned.

 A girl called gift, after a night without dreams, stood under the incendiary sky on the day the stars burned. Revenant from sleep deprivation and pricked by the mulberry bush, she wandered in a disquieting haze, spying a vision in blue, the man who talks to walls escorting the fairy queen.

 On the day the stars burned, revenant from a night without dreams and sleep deprivation, the man who talks to walls, in a disquieting haze, met a vision in blue, a girl called gift and the fairy queen, by the mulberry bush.

It’s all in the title meets mlmm Wordle 185: love; dense; condemn; evening; inside; onism ( the frustration of being stuck in just one body, that inhabits only one place at a time, which is like standing in front of the departures screen at an airport, flickering over with strange place names like other people’s passwords, each representing one more thing you’ll never get to see before you die—and all because, as the arrow on the map helpfully points out, you are here.); hearten; contrivance; promise; mandala; flirtation

A girl called gift loved a night without dreams. Dense was the day the stars burned. Condemn the revenant on the evening of sleep depravation, inside the mulberry bush without comfort of the weasel.

Hearten to a disquieting haze before railroading a vision in blue. All a contrivance of the man who talks To walls mad made as a promise to the Fairy Queen, she of mandalas and flirtations.

Do you know how I love the denseness of your condemnations each evening as you enter my boudoir? Hearten as you railroad every contrivance in your pathetic efforts to make me promise upon the mandala of your ring, to not cease my flirtations? Your onism amuses me.

You are here. Yes, I know. I am hostage to my onism. Yet, I hearten to those dusk, dense evening promises of out-of-body contrivances. Walking, stalking between the railroad ties, gravel flirting with my ankles. Moon rising like a mandala; a silvery kiss, a loving promise of moving the arrow one step forward inside the maze which constitutes my mind.

image: fire star by plusonemace.deviantart.com

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