standing majestic
it chides and beckons the scale
of human contact
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More stories from Carl Anthony and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Little Black Book
The sun had long left the storefront window as a soft breeze wafted through the open flower shop door. She stretched one final time before completing the last minute wedding order. She went over her Saturday checklist, noting delivery would be early. Turning off the lights, she laid her coat and purse over her arm, closed the door. As she walked the short distance to the bus stop to take her ritual Friday night trip to her mother’s house. Noticing the lamp over the bus stop was out caused her no fear in this neighborhoo, and her familiarity with the schedule knew the bus would arrive shortly.
By Carl Anthony5 years ago in Humans
Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Jane7 days ago in Humans
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