Thousands of free stories. Support your favorites when you're ready.
Showing stories tagged with #urban-landscape Clear filter
#beginningline #nightdwellers. The moon lit up the cobbles on a starless pitch black night. A million sleeping hedgehogs with not a single spine in sight.
#acrostic. (N)ot enough that I could say. (O)n one piece of paper or Opuss page. (T)o sum up just how much I love. (T)he city where my heart grew up. (I)'ve walked the streets, crossed every bridge.
The Badlands are measured by. Standing on a roundabout. Closing your eyes, breathing deeply. Counting backwards in time. Every misery brought to life. Each injustice seen with light.
I search in the lambent lights of the city, the flames of the reticent; secret, living. Awake in their vague yet vibrant visions, cast from the lustre of their beginning.
drip. drop. the rain lightly hits the grey worn out pavement. drip. drop. i look up at the sky and find rain clouds. a light, smokey, grey color that seems to mean no harm.
Aku suka pohon apalagi pohon-pohon yang berjejer di sepanjang jalan Aku merasa senang ketika melihatnya dari mobil ataupun kendaraan apapun yang berjalan Pohon bagiku adalah sebuah harapan Ya,...
I pushed the last of the branches away from my face, advancing out onto the ridge, Bloody hell. It'd been a while since I'd seen a view like this.
The island's morning colours. Are green and gold and red. Each a little signal. Saying go back home to bed. White obscures my sight. I gently make my way. Blinded by the headlight.
He was standing there. Waiting for the green man. The green man arrived. But his stride just never began. People pointed but he never did notice. His stare fixed straight down at the road.
I'm on the 10th floor. I can see all. Of Florida and more. A sprawling vista in the light. The brightest neon show at night. Taxi bikes hustle. Amid the bustle. Politeness, 'You're Welcome'.
So many pathways leading back in time also a place of many told and untold crimes The monument three hundred and eleven steps to the top a spot where in 1666 the great fire of London started in a...
Hard hat is on my head. The thrill is making me red. Two huge wrecking balls ready to rock. Ready for damage and willing to shock. Gonna bring them walls tumbling down.
He looked out across the city. Darkness crept in like black blood dripping down to earth. Buildings lit up. Lights flashing and blinking.
[Words that lack structure, errant thoughts from my head.]. Soft breeze, blazing sun. A distant horizon, buildings merging into one.
Trees of olives, pomegranate and lemon line the streets. No clouds in the sky. The cicadas constant beat. Market selling wares of linen, vegetables and fruit. The noise of local barter.
Wind blows in my face, Rain cascades at a fast pace. Cold winds chill me to the bone, Sitting on a bench, all alone. A Drunkard sings his inaudible song, Smelling of urine and a horrible pong.
Fields of concrete stretch before me, The fast hum of herded traffic making their own animal noises, Sounding both rough and grisly. Farms of humans breeding Both pedigree and mongrels share a pen.
I was about 8 when Dad first took me there. Him on his old battered Raleigh, me following on my first real bike.
In the bleak mid-July, the sounds of Bristol Harbour collaborate to a seagull symphony, excited by this year's Harbour Festival and the prospect of prize pickings, the highlight of their greedy...
The dark shapes dance across the pavement as they shift and bend around the warm glow of the street lamps.
What I see in front of me. Bank of wild flowers, a busy bee. A gently twisting tidal bore. And loads of fag ends on the floor. Trees that give their precious shade. Some worker ants out on parade.
I was part of a line once. Deliberate, straight, and happy. Fluorescent orange on dark grey. Stretching forever. But no more. Alas, I am now alone. There is no longer any line. There is only me....
These creases in my skin Beginning from shoulder Down to a hand Weathered in places Knuckled and scarred tell a tale of twenty-five Years spent on this earth The bands of flesh Wrapped tight...
Give away this easy love, none of it comes back, Falling from the steeple; watch the stained glass windows crack. This place is one hell of a landfill, Feels like we're trapped in an anthill.