Daily prompt: Radiate

In your radiance I reflect and glow. Your emitted atmosphere, what you radiate is what allows me to radiate. Your influence embeds notions in my mind which allows me to think like I haven’t before. Your radiance is what sets my mind in motion. As does his radiance. Or hers. Thought is initiated in the mind through the radiance of others; the ideas of others start my train of thought, other’s original ideas transformed through my prejudices, opinions and my personality.

What you think of certain subjects you radiate through what you say, and I absorb and morph into ideas, thoughts and opinions of my own.

How others radiate onto you, and how you then transform it, you should radiate to others. A circle of radiation of one and absorption of the other is what makes discussions beautiful.

via Daily Prompt: Radiate


Surviving in modern times.

The concept of survival has gone through a metamorphosis in the last ages. Originally, to survive was to not die, to continue to live and prosper in health. It was the literal definition the verb ‘to survive’: To continue to live and exist. Now, survival has almost completely lost its original meaning.

In modern times, literal survival as seen from the point of the struggles of our ancient ancestors; struggles for food and shelter, survival is almost guaranteed. Existence is no longer a challenge. Through this safety of modern society, survival has taken on a new definition: To survive in society is to have a noticeable personality, to stand out of the crowd; survival is to be unique and different. Being an individual who stands out from the crowd is to survive in modern times. The ‘old’ survival had the same goal: To stand out from the rest and being that step ahead was to produce food or shelter; others then noticed you and praised you. Survival followed this praising of their skills and abilities as they were valuable to ancient society.

Modern survival is survival of identity, survival of personality and survival of character. Integrity, intelligence and creativity are our new tools of survival, and we should use them well.

via Daily Prompt: Survive

Catapulted through society.

via Daily Prompt: Catapult

Modern society is a fast-paced affair, changing and adapting constantly to previous changes and adaptations to those before. Us, mere consuming and non-influential humans are catapulted at a fast pace through the vast amount of information and objects that grab our interest the one second and are out of date the next.

We fly head first through a transforming world where we are constantly urged to adapt to the modern trends and norms. Being a person of integrity, only adapting to your own wishes, demands and needs is a quality few can truly boast about having, and is vital to the grand survival of the individual.

Step out of that catapult which is being prepared to launch you through the next wall of modern and new demands, and admire the place you are at now; keep the things in your current situation that resonate with you and go through the changes at your own pace, truly taking in the world around you.


via Daily Prompt: Adrift

I awoke adrift on an unfamiliar dingy raft beside that great island of confusion and madness. How I got there I don’t know, why I was there is a conundrum even greater to me. A place occupied by disarray and chaos of grandeur was the only thing that awaited me on that plane of insanity bereft of any interest. An overwhelming sense of solitariness came over me as I searched fruitlessly for anything my mind would recognise and would comfort my wrecked head. As I reached the place, pushed ever forward atop my raft guided by the endless waves of the great waters behind me, thoughts ran more and more at disarray. I came ever closer to that grotesque continent, yet it stayed ever out of reach.

I awoke adrift in my bed beside my own thoughts, seeing them from a point of view which was not a view of my own.

Becoming unmoored.

via Daily Prompt: Unmoored

Unmoor, verb: to loose (a vessel) from moorings or anchorage.

My head was no longer my own, my mind was wandering from place to place, from hither to thither, my thoughts were unmoored. After trying for days on end, I was able to unanchor my contemplation, I was able to let my mind go free. I could observe my thoughts, opinions and reasonings, I can let a train of thought carry on its own track and observe where it went, what turns it took and better myself by finding the inappropriate inclinations embedded in my mind, inclinations I could never observe before as they were part of me.

Becoming able to unmoor my thoughts was the best thing I have ever achieved, as I am now able to observe my unrestricted brain and conclude things about myself, and mankind, I was never able to witness before. It improved my self.


via Daily Prompt: Descend

I had been in that house for years, uncountable to me. As far as my memories go, I had lived there. I was raised there, and after my parents died, when I was just nearing adulthood, I inherited the house. It was paid off by my parents, and when they both were diagnosed with that sickness, the same one I carry now, they made the arrangements to leave the house as my property. When they passed, around 40 years ago, the house was pristine. It was very stylised, as my father liked. The front portal was filled with a great dark wooden door, the outsides walls made of dark grey stone, imported from some far away quarry in a foreign country, as it was not native to this region. The mansion was definitely old, but the documentation left some questions. No date of construction was named, nor the architect nor the original owner who commissioned the construction. In every correspondence about the town it was settled next to, the mansion was mentioned.

My parents were able to purchase the house for a small sum, as the interior was bereft of any decorations or furniture. The outside was decrepit and overgrown with a vast conglomeration of moss and algae. After years of renovation, in which I always tried my best to help, as much as my childish hands back then would allow me to, the grotesque building towered menacingly over the neighbouring town and forest once again, as it had when it was originally constructed atop that ghastly hillock.

Through my help with the renovation of the entire house, which was thoroughly appreciated by my parents and manifested itself in me helping in every room, I knew the entire house like the back of my hand. Or so I thought.

Two weeks before the demise of my parents, who died merely one day apart, by father entered the grand living room, where I was reading a book titled ‘trigonometry and the history thereof’ as I had just started studying mathematics at the nearby University in Kingsham. He had a ghastly look on his pale, lifeless face, which was usually painted with a glad smile and a healthy, reddish glow. ‘Come with me, I found something.’ he said to my mother in a hollow, timbreless voice. ‘I found… Something. ‘

My mother gestured to me to stay seated and said that I shouldn’t follow. They closed the door which leads to the main staircase and walked for a small distance. Suddenly their footsteps stopped, and some deep stumbling noises followed, like a heavy door dragging over a stone floor. I thought to myself that there are no doors there besides the front door, and the door leading to the kitchen, which both have ample clearance between themselves and the stone floor. What could be happening?

Much time passed, time that felt like a small eternity, and I got more and more disturbed by the lack of any other individuals in the mansion. As I decided to get up and investigate, my parents returned, both with that ghastly, empty stare and emotionless face. They sat down and never said any happy word ever again. Both quickly started setting up their testaments and heritages, and passed away two weeks after that day. Doctors were never able to find out what the cause of their expiration was, but found all organs, during an autopsy, corrupted by an unknown blackness; especially the lungs. Whatever it was, it passed through the air ready to have been inhaled by the poor victims.

Now after all these years, I am the same age my parents were when they passed, yet I am unmarried. And I will never be. One day I wanted to hang up the painting I obtained at a local auction organised by one of the various charities settled in Kingsham. I thought the wooden wall below the main staircase to be a good location for the painting, but God! How wrong I was.

As I put my hand on the old, dark wooden wall to hammer the steel nail into it, the wall gave way. A few inches it crept inwards, hinged at one of the wooden boards. The hinge was perfectly hidden, and the wall was always obstructed by a table topped with various curiosities obtained on my travels across the globe. Statues, tablets, photographs and other foreign knick-knacks littered the table which was now moved away to make the room I needed to mount the painting.

I pushed the wall further inwards, and it opened up to a dark entrance which led into a humid cellar. How did I not know this was here? I have seen the entire house, renovated all of it, and was familiar with it for years! I was dumbfounded, and curiosity took hold of me as I walked through the newly found portal. A cold dankness met me as I took the first steps into that room, and an uncomfortable feeling came over me, a tension I could not explain. I wanted to escape, to get out but the thought that I did not know the entire house enraged me, as I felt that I failed myself. Thus I kept going, now with an electric lamp in my hand.

The room was a small, low chamber lined with grey stone chunks of irregular form. Arches lined the sides and a small sacrificial altar decorated the centre of the chamber, an object which I recognised as such from another sacrificial altar I saw in one of my travels. The space was barely high enough to stand in comfortably. I walked up to one of the arches, which were all hidden in the dark, and started backwards from fear. What I found hidden in the archway’s shadow petrified me, as they were all short hallways leading to stone thrones on which corpses of men were seated, and the walls were lined with human bones and skulls! One of the arches was boarded up with planks that looked out of place. All walls had an even number of archways, except for the wall in which this archway was located. On either side was a cadaverous hallway. As I neared the planks, a soft, humid, warm breeze greeted me, and every nerve in my body told me to get out. But I didn’t. Oh, how I wish I had just turned around then, as I would have maybe survived that building.

I removed the boarding, and a dark, narrow staircase awaited me. The humid breeze had now turned into a strong flow of warm, humid air. For a reason unbeknownst to me, I decided to descend. The repeating, monotone visuals ahead of me combined with that awful airflow made the experience harrowing. After walking for what seemed like hours deeply into the hillock below, I found a small arched wooden door, littered with unknown symbols which inspired dread, and horror emanating from every crack in the old, dried out wood. I pulled on the large ring attached to the eldritch door, and it opened unwillingly as if a vacuum was pulling it back. The space that opened itself behind that horrific door was black as can be, not able to be lit by any source of light beside the very sun. The lamp I carried only illuminated some five yards in front of me, which made the area feel absolutely vast.

I walked over what seemed like a cobbled road, surrounded by a dirt like substance which was through and through moist, as I felt when I accidentally stepped off the stones. The path was lined by ritualistic altars and pillars rising endlessly towards the impossibly high ceiling, as if the whole place was a temple. As I kept walking, the road broadened and got more and more well-constructed, and more and more decorated with temple-like structures.

After having walked quite a distance, I approached a mound of what looked like dirt in the middle of a circular courtyard. I reached the mound and tried to have a look, but the substance when illuminated remained deeply black, refusing to accept the light radiated onto it to make its structure more apparent. The more I examined the substance, the more the smell overwhelmed me; I felt the corruption entering my lungs and veins, and spreading through my body. I walked back from the mound, only to see a bright spec in the colour that appeared to have come straight from oblivion. I reached to grab it, face covered with the collar of my wool sweater to keep out the penetrating air, and got hold of it. What I found was harrowing, and the visuals have never left me since. The object was heavy, and I had to pull it with all my weight to get it out of the repulsive pile, and the more it got itself out of the pile, the more it showed itself to be a body of a man; decaying and filled through and through with blackness. His face looked horrified and radiated panic and terror and he was clothed in ritual clothing. The remaining veins were like rubber, stiff and malleable; filled with the same corruption that surrounded it and was now in my body.

I finally recognised the clothing and the horrid symbols as ones I found on one of my travels. Once I went with a friend to a city somewhere in middle Europe, where we went to examine the architecture as it was unlike any other, yet very familiar to me; it was the same architecture as the house where I live. Together we accompanied a guided tour through an underground temple of an old died out cult, we followed the tour as the temple was considered dangerous to ones who were unknown to its labyrinthian internals. The guide explained to us that the cult that inhabited the entire city and temple worshipped no god, only a concept: The temple was a temple devoted to death. The dirt which was originally in the temple was mud which was merged with human remains, and it was believed that through the spells and incantations of the cultists, the dirt was highly toxic to those who were not part of the cult. The same deep black dirt I found in my very house. Only the mud in my house was toxic, the place still seemed active. The breeze through the place made clear that there was another entrance into this cursed place, this damned hillock; this deathly temple.

I am writing this, knowing I will die. I will suffer the same fate as my parents, and the other individuals that had the misfortune to cross that harrowing depth. I have commissioned for the house to be destroyed, to seal off that space from all of humanity. I had lived above an active temple, worshipped by cultists of death. May we never come across places similar and substances like those in that horrid depth.

If only I’d never made that harrowing descend.



via Daily Prompt: Qualm

They walked next to each other through the dimly lit street, lined by several shops and houses, as they often have. His eyes drifted from window to window, from shop to shop. Past signs, trees and other people. He looked at their shoes and clothes, hair and faces and all else. He looked at everything, except for her.

She could not place his expression, he seemed upset yet content. Usually, after all this time together, they held hands while walking through the streets, especially streets they were as familiar with as this street. Except for today. His hands were firmly embedded in the pockets of his overcoat, as they have been all day.

He seemed angry, angry at her. Whenever she asked what was wrong he answered concisely that nothing was wrong, and had a face as if even he did not want to admit his anger or frustration. The walk through that street usually took ten minutes and felt like that too, yet this time it felt endless for her.

As they got nearer to their one-bedroom studio her qualms grew and grew, ever more anxious and worried about his disposition today. The day at home grew slowly over into the evening, and neither seemed to end.

As they went to bed, she was as anxious as she’s ever been. Has he’s stopped loving me? she wondered more and more. As the city closed it’s bright eyes they laid down in the double bed they bought together many moons ago, and shut off the lights. She could not sleep, she was sweating from stress and could not relax in any sense of the word. He body was tense and her mind cluttered for what seemed like forever.

‘I’m sorry’ she heard softly at night. ‘I haven’t been feeling well today. I think I’ll call of work tomorrow, I think I’ve got the flu.’ he said, and kissed her gently on her warm forehead. He laid his head back down on his pillow and went back to sleep.

The contact of him relieved all her qualms and worries, and she felt at rest once again. All that bothered her mind was that she was wondering why she thought in extremes only; he hadn’t stopped loving her, he just wasn’t feeling well.




Author’s notes: This wasn’t my favourite story I ever wrote, but I wanted to try my hand at this type of story. Safe to say that this isn’t my cup of tea, but I still hope you like it!


A blanket. A soft comforting cover which shields you from all outside negativities and keeping you warm and cosy in you actual, literal, physical comfort zone. Every evening we close our day, which could have been lovely or filled with bad emotions and negative, heavy and horrible situations and feelings by, eventually, laying down in our beds and covering ourselves with our blanket.

Though, our own comforting blanket could be anything. It could be your physical blanket which comforts you at the end of your day and fills you with content and happiness.


Your blanket can be music. It can be reading or writing. It can be sports. But still, it can also be a blanket. Or something other physical like a piece of art. It can be your friends or your partner who comforts at the end of a heavy day and makes you feelĀ all right. For some their blankets are more negative or destructive. Some reach for alcohol or drugs to comfort themselves and close themselves out from the outside world, just like a blanket would.

What’s your blanket?

via Daily Prompt: Blanket

Harmony of one

via Daily Prompt: Harmony

All in harmony, peaceful living side by side. No conflict nor fights. No argumentations leading to long-lastingĀ  gripes and anger. A utopian society where all factors of life live in balance along each other.

Yet what we need to develop our personality and our traits and characteristics is a bit of disharmony and some entropy. Perfect harmony leads to blandness and boredom, yet chaos makes man appreciate harmony truly and more deeply.

Chaos with others makes harmony of one. Discussing and disagreements makes one’s opinions and thoughts more thought out and better grounded. Through having to form opinions because of necessity and self preservation, we understand ourselves better and we are more in harmony with ourselves.

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