I Feel Trapped

Though the walls that are closing on me are made of air, I feel like I'm trapped in an iron vault. I am weaker than air and I can't get out.

All my life I was thinking about the great breakthrough. Setting free. But actually getting to this point can be a very disappointing experience, in which you need to prove yourself by materializing your dreams.

Unfortunately, the omnipotence of my dreams is not following through in the real world. The enthusiasm I was practicing when my plans were nothing but a sweet dream is vaporizing in these walls of air, when it is time to fuel myself on that motivation and carry on.

Sometimes it is the weightlessness of air that traps you. It is the vacuum and not the material that holds you back. It is the nothingness that emerges out of the endless possibilities that paralyzes you.

Trapped inside walls of air I am calling for help.


--Time's up--

In My Neighborhood

In my neighborhood there are butterflies in all the colors of the rainbow. In my neighborhood there are birds singing Mozart. In my neighborhood there is a lake with crystal clear water and a huge tree who offers shadow and rest for the tired people who come to drink the lake's fresh water.

In my neighborhood there are carpets upon carpets of soft and bright green grass which are fondly stroking the bare legs of the children who walk and run and dance on them.

In my neighborhood the rain falls only at night and the sun is softly warming us during the day, with a light friendly southern breeze.

In my neighborhood everyone gets a fresh bread roll and a tall glass of sweet lemonade each morning and a cup of hot cocoa each night.

In my neighborhood the stars are shining at night like a trail of fairy dust in the sky high, high above.

In my neighborhood every single detail is perfect, because my neighborhood doesn't exist but in my mind. My neighborhood is a place for me to run away from the cruelty of the world. It is a place of comfort and relaxation which is situated deep inside my brain.

In my neighborhood there are all the things absent from my world.


--Time's up--

Is this love?

What is love anyway? I am not sure I can tell, as I have been struggling with that notion forever. I always thought love is coming my way, just to discover there had been another detour on its way.

"This time is going to be different", I thought to myself, "This time it's real".

My heart was bitting faster. My breath speedier. I could only think about my love, my dear love and couldn't concentrate in anything else.

At that time, I wasn't free to follow my love. I had another one in my life. I couldn't bare the thought of leaving something valid for the unknown. The unsought. I was too engaged in life for taking risks and following a new path towards my love. I was too afraid to do that. Too afraid of changes. Too afraid of claiming the fulfillment of my secret desires and deepest wishes.

At the end I did that. I left my job and followed my dream, my love - my own business. Only than I started questioning myself again - Is it real love or just a fling ???


--Time's up--

Femme Fatale

Ever since I have heard this phrase as a little girl, I was always yearning to be one but somehow never managed to play that role.

I was trying to put on make-up, wear high heels and figure hugging dresses but I wasn't a real femme fatale. I could have looked like one, on a first glance, but I couldn't act like one.

I couldn't be as nonchalant, relaxed and relentless as a femme fatale. I could have never acted like I deserve what I wanted and owned the world. I was shy and self conscious and most of all - I was so afraid of failing that I never tried.

Everything I did came easily to me, because I kept a safe distance from anything that was more challenging.

This is how I have learned that a femme fatale isn't just a beautiful woman who makes guys fall to her feet, but rather a strong woman who isn't afraid of failing. Femme fatale is a woman who can control her feelings and her acts and is so strong on the inside, that it reflects outside and shines through.

The femme fatale's beauty does come from the inside !


--Time's up--

Tell It Like It Is

Maureen always liked people to tell her things like they are. She never appreciated the embellishment of hard truths.

She was an harsh executive, flying the corporate ladder like a meteor - non stop promotions ever since she had graduated business school. She knew her job well and she was notorious for giving investors only one and only number - the first and last offer. A take it or leave it approach.

The pains started at a business trip in Shanghai. She was tired and dizzy and she felt sharp pains penetrating her bones and cutting through her muscles. As an over worked woman she knew how to handle pains and how to go on and work regardless of being sick. These pains wouldn't stop her. She told herself it must be all the stress and the long hours that had made her feel bad and she didn't feel it was necessary to go to the doctor.

The pains started worsening and the fatigue had made getting out of bed almost impossible. However, she did not go to a doctor until she had collapsed at the office during a conference meeting.

The doctor could easily find the lump under her left breast and all she was asking was to tell it like it is.


--time's up--

Choreographed

Lately I've been feeling like a marionette, tied and handled by a big hand thats is held above my head. I don't choose my path nor do I choose my pace. I have no idea where am I going to or what is the motivation for my next step.

I go to the office each morning. Sit behind my desk. Go to lunch. Go back to the office. Go home. Go to sleep.

Feelings are totally absent from my life. Both feelings of happiness and feelings of despair. My heart is as blanc as an untouched canvas. Along the feelings also the colors of my world are beginning to fade away, turning in my head into a bland mixture of grays. Scents and tastes tag along the hollowed path of dullness.

I have no dreams and no desires. I have no secret wishes and I am starting to loose my essential needs as well.

I am living my life as a marionette. Getting controlled by the mundane routine rather than controlling it myself. I am choreographed by life itself.

--Time's up--

Fishbowl

I am a very introverted child, or so my teacher said to my parents. I am not sure what introverted means. I thought it is really bad and I was afraid to get punished. So I looked it up in the dictionary and I'm still not sure whether it's good or bad.

I don't have many friends. My favorite activity is looking at the ceiling. Sometimes I see colors in there and figures floating around and they comfort me. I try to reach for them and I stretch my hands and try to grab them, but my parents don't understand why I am doing this. They don't see the figures on the wall as I do, so they keep telling me to keep my hands quiet.

When they do that, I feel numb so I try to pinch my fingers really hard and flap my hands so I can feel them. But my parents don't like that either.

Other children also can't see the figures on the wall as I do, so that's why I have nothing to talk to them about and my parents get worried because I don't speak much.

Bob and John are my only friend. They understand me. They are silent as I am and they keep on moving their fins and tale as I keep moving my fingers. Bob and John are the only ones that can understand me in the whole wide world. Swimming in their fishbowl and kept to themselves - just like me.


--Time's up--

Framed

Vicky's parents were the people framed inside the pictures in the study. Vicky was born an orphan. On her birthday both her parents were killed in a horrible car accident and only she was salvaged by the doctors at the general hospital.

Her parents were rich philanthropists who were well rooted in the social elite of the big city. Money was always there for them, in abundance, and they were able to worry about subjects such the global warming and the white whales.

Vicky's aunt, her late mother's sister, couldn't stand the easiness in which money came into her sister's hands and moreover, she couldn't bare the way her sister spends her money on anything but her own sister. So many times she had asked for a loan to start her own business and time after time she was dismissed by Vicky's mother and turned back empty handed and ashamed.

The double accident had almost made her happy.

As the lawyer of Vicky's parents had no idea about the tension among the sisters, he was willing to approve the adoption and by that her aunt kept her tight hand over the family's wealth. She was more than happy to raise Vicky as the ultimate revenge against her sister. Raise her in the big and luxurious house in a state of neglect and near starvation.

Vicky had no one to turn to. Her parents to her were nothing but a couple of framed pictures, hung in the study.


--Time's up--

Barrel of Laughs

Christine didn't know what to expect when she first volunteered to join the aid team in Sudan. She had read a lot about the situation there in the internet but nothing she had read could really prepare her to the horrors she was about to see, first hand.

The sun was burning over the volunteers' heads and the mosquitoes had declared a war against their pale skin, which was bright and shiny with sweat. Christine was a bit dehydrated and she had developed a fever.

The fatigue of her body was nothing compared to what was going on in her soul. She was heart broken. In the week she spent there she had already seen 3 year-old boys whose hands and ear lobes had been amputated by the rebels. Small girls who'd been raped violently. Infants whose rib cages were sticking to their backs and their big wide eyes were showing such sorrow, even an old person should not have come across in his life.

Christine could not understand how people can get to such levels of evil that they would not spare the kids, but rather target them with their diabolic acts.

She had almost lost hope, but then she saw this amazing vision. Scattered along the way was an abandoned rocket launcher. Inside its barrel there was a small child laughing gingerly. This abandoned weapon of mass destruction had literally become a barrel of laughs. A process that only kids can render.


--Tine's up--

The Flute

On a Monday in an unknown month at an unknown year, the leaders of the free world had decided to start a war against each other. It had only lasted a couple of days, in which nuclear missiles were dropping from the sky like rain in November.

Everything had happened so suddenly and life on earth had ceased so abruptly.

Few were the survivors. Trying desperately to find food, but most of the world's food supply had been nullified by the fire and the acidic rain that followed. Humanity was nonexistent and the only rule was to survive. The hunger had made the survivors deranged and they started eating each other.

What was left from the world was in complete silence which was dotted by sporadic screams.

One day the silence had been cut with a magical sound. Charm and beauty had been long gone but this sound was both beautiful and charming. In the midst of horror a small child was standing, holding a piece of hollow wood, which was carved by a rusted metal, and whistling wonderful melodies through it.

Among the living dead there was a young boy playing music of hope and dreams on the flute.


--Time's up--

Dear Diary

Dear diary,

It has been long since my last entry. Life happens, you know. Nothing special but the mundane routine that is life.

Today is going to be different, though. Today I am going to show the world what I'm made of. No more laughing behind my back. No more whispering around me when happy hour arrives. No more pointing fingers at me. No more forgotten birthdays. No more ignoring. No more !!

Today I am going to teach them a lesson they won't forget. Especially to that Lorry bitch who thinks she's better than me. I've had it with her condescending attitude. I'll show her who's better. She is going to get on her knees and beg for her pitiful life. I am not going to spare her. But I am going to let her beg and I will enjoy it.

Today I took the shotgun out of the attic and I am going to go to the office and show them what Jerry Smith is made out of. things are going to be different today, dear diary.

Today is the day.


--Time's up--

Snowflakes

Kerry knew she had to come back home when the first snowflakes came down. They were so soft and fragile that they melted as soon as they fell down, but still they were able to signal two hurtful truths: first, that a year had passed; and second, that it was Christmas again - a lonely Christmas away from her family.

Kerry could not bare it anymore. She could not bare another season without her family. Another holiday alone without the loud laughs of her nieces and nephews. Another day without the familiar taste of her father's eggnog. She had to come back home.

A year before, she left home filled with anticipation and excitement. The Pomerantz Museum had invited her to be a collector and a contributor and she couldn't resist the offer. She had been waiting for this opportunity ever since she graduated from college as an art and history major.

Working at the museum and enjoying the great social life inherent to her job description had been wonderful, but she could never get herself totally engaged. She could never really enjoy the cocktail parties to the fullest as she always felt this lump in her throat and the burst of tears pushing her eyeballs. This unrelieved sadness of being there all alone. She had to come back home.


--Time's up--

Habits

Roger was a creature of habits.

Each morning he woke up at dawn with the first rays of sun. He came out of bed - right foot first and then the left. He wore his right sock and right sleeve of pants and then his right shoe, followed by the left sock, the left sleeve of his pants and his left shoe. Shirt and sweater were worn the same way - right then left. He started shaving his right side, than moving to the left and ate a toast from right to left. He was washing his right hand - twice, and then moved to the left.

Each morning this ritual was repeated again and again. Every thing he did was right first and then left.

In times of absent mindedness, when a left move had preceded a right one, he would flip out. Covered in sweat and shaking he would punch his right hand and kick his right foot, until he could feel them well enough so such a slip won't happen again.

Roger was a friendly guy with a funny smile - first his right half of his mouth curled then his left. People at his small neighborhood were fond of his peculiar walking and his odd ways. It was the incident with beautiful Jenny that had changed the way things were.

This awful summer morning. When the sun was shining and the birds were twittering and Jenny was found dead in the park - her throat cut from right to left ...


--Time's up--

Compromise

Julie had led a worry free life. She was a career woman. Sitting comfortably with her power suit at the corner office. She had made good money and had been proud of her accomplishments - both professionally and financially. She used to buy her loved ones thoughtful presents and pamper herself as well. Money, for her, had been a mean for being happy and she had a lot of it.

She had an entire team of helpers - a personal trainer, a hair dresser, a cook and a cleaner. She had all she ever wanted but a happy husband.

Her husband was trying to lead his business off but had always failed. He was a foreigner and he could not speak the language, nor could he understand the culture and the way business are made there. He was miserable and it showed.

Their once flourishing romance was getting wilted.

One day her husband decided that he had had it. He was leaving. He told her that she could join him if she wanted but he was leaving one way or the other. He would go back to his hometown and start over.

Julie was furious at first but decided to make this compromise for the love of her life. Only a few months along the way, in the new country and without the team of helpers, she understood that before it was the money she was compromising for. She was compromising her life.


--Time's up--

It Was A Learning Experience

I could see the big wide fist coming from above. I saw that with the corner of my eye. My father's masculine and thick arm all stretched out, accelerating towards my cheek. I closed my eyes and stretched my muscles in order to soften the blow of his fist. I had my methods ... The blow was still overwhelming and had knocked me down to the floor, blood streaming from my nose.

"That should be learning experience for you, Billy boy" My father shouted "I hope it is the last time I find your toys scattered all around on the floor. I almost broke my leg slipping on one of your cars. Now go to your room".

I had had many learning experiences like that. I had gone to sleep without dinner more times than I care to remember. I had been hit in any possible place and with a variety of tools. I was forced to shove my face into the ground and stay like that for long periods of times. What can I say, I have been a bad boy.

The worse learning experiences I had had were when dad came back from the pub. His clothes were reeking of beer and stained with blood and vomit. I felt ashamed because it had made me hate my father though I knew these were merely learning experiences.


--Time's up--

>>This time it is important for me to stress out that this is 100% FICTION. The inspiration came from many books and articles I've read and movies I've seen. Both my parents are great persons and I love them dearly. My parents - like me - do not drink. Not even social drinking !!!

Clarity

Lizzy is sitting on the stone floor. Her knees are bent and she is holding her ankles tightly and shaking. Sweat is running down her temples and join with her salty tears at the apple of her cheeks.

Noises keep appearing in her head and she tries to shut them off. She is shaking her head feverishly but it doesn't help so she starts bumping her head into the brick wall. She bangs it repeatedly in a constant rhythm. The place where her forehead clashes with the wall starts to swell and change colors - from pale, almost white to rosy, to crimson red, to blue, to deep purple.

Lizzy thinks the pain can make the noises go away so she ignores it and go on slamming her head against the wall, stronger and stronger. "Why don't the noises go away, I just want a minute of clarity", she shouts silently.


--Time's up--

Concrete

Joanna was walking on the asphalt pavement, wondering around the concrete skyscrapers of the big city. She was struggling breathing the smoggy air but at the same time fascinated by all the lights and the variety of food and bottled water you could find everywhere.

The feeling of the pavement pushing through her soles was new to her, as less than a week ago she was still running barefoot in a village in southern India. The air was fresh and the blades of grass had been stroking her feet softly and lovingly when she was walking on them.

Less than a week ago she was still single, still in the hands of her loving family but now she is in a foreign country, sharing her bed with a foreign man she had just married.

The concrete buildings were daunting and she felt suffocated by them, yearning for the softness of the fresh blades of grass.

--Time's up--

Rain

Big drops of rain are falling down. Drenching my soul, diving dipper than the bones and drilling inside me as they fall. The sky is gray and thunders are roaring. The chill is getting unbearable but I have nowhere to hide.

I start running and running, faster and faster trying to increase my heartbeat and get myself warmed up this way but I am just getting colder and colder.

I cry, big salty tears are running on my gaunt cheeks mixing with the raindrops. I can't stop crying.

I have no idea how will I ever get over it. How will I ever be alive again, now that he is gone. Now that he is enjoying the angles in his eternal and final rest. How will I be able to pick up the pieces of my life and make it whole again. I won't. I cannot.

I remember how we used to go outside in the rain and try to catch the drops with our mouths, like toddlers. We would stand with our mouths open for a long time and than burst into a hearty laugh and kiss. Let the whole world know about our love.

I try to open my mouth and catch some drops of rain, imagining they are sent to me by him but then I realize that it is only raining in my mind and for the rest of the world the sun is shining today.


--Time's up--

These Boots Are Meant For Walking

Paul had nothing to put his name on but a ragged shirt and a used pair of jeans. His shoes had more holes than fabric in them and he could barely stay warm in the frosty weather of the mountains with his buttonless wool coat.

What mostly got to him was not the cold and not the hurtful blisters which were formed on his feet. He had learned to live with these. What really bothered him was the looks on people's faces. The look of pity and disgust. The looks were more difficult than the hunger and there were times he thought the hunger would consume him.

One day, on his way back from the quarry, he had stumbled upon a pair of brand new boots. Just standing on his path, exactly at the point where the daffodils grow and the butterflies fly and the birds sing for him every day and paint the way with colorful colors of hope.

The boots were exactly his size and were made out of the softest leather he had ever touched in his life. Softer than the silky fur of the rabbit who warms him at night.

Paul had put on the boots and walked happily home.

At the foot of the mountain, next to the stream, stood a beautiful woman with wings coming out of her spine. She smiled and thought to herself: "These boots are meant for walking - by angles".


--Time's up--

The Key

As a kid I was hooked on "Once upon a time" stories. Every princess, king or hobbit had caught my attention and had me sink into their world for hours and hours at a time. I would take an fairytale book and dive right in.

One day I was reading one of these books while moving my arm aimlessly along the wall above my bed. I was stroking the wall as if I was touching the flowers of the imaginary world of the book I was reading. Suddenly I felt a small bump in the wall. I had laid the book down and looked carefully at the bump in the wall.

I then took a screwdriver from my dad's office and started chipping the lime off while trying to excavate what was inside the wall. Trying to find out what had formed a bump in the wall just above my bed. About two inches down the window and twenty inches left to my pillow.

As the lime came down I could already notice a shiny spark coming out of the wall and that got me digging in even more forcefully. Until I had found, shoved inside a secret hole in the wall, a golden key with a folded paper on which a map was drawn.

I had found the key to dreamworld.


—Time's up—

Drink Up

Mary was holding the glass firmly in her hands. The grip was so hard it felt like the glass is planted in the thin air of her one room apartment.

She had opened the windows to accentuate the view they were offering - a view to the bleak brick wall of the apartment building next door. The paint was chipping from the walls and roaches were roaming everywhere.

All her life she had dreamed about the moment she would leave her parent's farm and move into the big city. She was never like them. She was never a simple peasant. She was a sophisticated artist and couldn't bare the rural leaving anymore. The move had broken her parents' hearts, but they were supportive. They had no money to give her but the one way ticket to the big city and a big warm hug.

Mary could not have admitted to their faces that she had failed. She couldn't go back to the farm. She could not stand it.

So she took the glass and drank up.

—Time's up—

First Step

On my first birthday I had made my first step. By than I was already talking fluently and had made my parents very proud of their small but genius daughter.

The overzealous atmosphere had made me continue striving to achieve more than is expected of my age.

By the age of five I was already reading and writing by myself and at six I had started learning a second language. My father was teaching me Algebra and Geometry before I had even set foot in school.

As I was already reading by myself in kindergarten, I started reading long - 500-1000 word - epics in elementary school. In junior high I had decided to read only in a foreign language and by the age of 14 I was already in the process of studying a couple more languages.

However, as I kept growing up the shelf, by which I was being measured, kept raising and I needed to exert myself more and more.

At a certain point I had had enough of this never ending chase, leading nowhere, and realized that although making my first step as a toddler might be very exciting, keeping myself stable and balancing myself at 27 - going on 28 - is quite mundane.


—Time's Up—