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Jacob Kolasch
29 followers -
I Am a Creative Writer.
I Am a Creative Writer.

29 followers
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Jacob's posts

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Pretend maple seeds are helicopters— missile fingers blast them from the sky and watch them spiral, almost graceful, until they land, noiseless. The seeds can be the people. Passengers to capped mountains, with ice picks and cleats, they aim to brave…

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When she dances it’s nothing special. Her hair willows, weeping as she dips, feet arching. Praying hands knife to heaven. The prayer is unheard. It’s a dance she performs everyday— and no one sees. No one sees her bending back, muscles taut, steel cables…

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Imagine a life that isn’t. Isn’t yours and isn’t mine. If you and I never meet, and never meeting meet different selves. The fusion of lives intersecting lead to a different discourse, intercourse. Of course life would be different. You and I would never…

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I go about cutting, but it does not hurt me. It’s my way of speaking up. Squeeze the scissors gently. The paper whispers against the blades. Shadows dart around on the blank page— a tiny sparrow and a bobbing head, an old tree dropping its leaves. The…

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Sleeping, must you lie that way? Stiff and sweating? The living trope. It’s rather unnerving. Are you supposed to resemble the body’s starched suit? You swish like a striding business man’s slacks, like the sheets of a hospital. You’ve become even more…

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This is the end now. Three-fourths of an ounce has left you— or is it you? Escaping a carbon prison. He is here to guide you. To explain your existence— or lack of one now. There isn’t enough evidence to say for sure. Postmortem isn’t really the place to…

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She sits on the couch, legs crossed and skirt taut against her thighs. Her head leans into the cushions, hair pillowing like an auburn mane. An overturned frame shares the seat with her, hiding its face in the brown microfiber upholstery. Like it’s…

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When I drink my Kahlua Mudslide through a straw— it’s iced— I saw her sit down. She didn’t have a coffee, an espresso, or a mochatini. She had her eyes. So young, surrounded by a mask carved from leather, baked in sun and dusk. I keep my eyes on the…

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If you’ve been reading any of my blog posts, something has become quite apparent. I am all over the place. I seem to contradict myself in every other post. Earlier, I wrote about owning being a writer. Most recently, I wrote about how I disliked being…

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He stands alone on the corner. Shaggy brown hair hangs and tangles with the tatters of his clothes. The colors have left him, so he blends with the fog that has its fingers wrapped in everything. I barely see him, a ghost in front of a window. But our…
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