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Letter to Hitler

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By Luna Erica I The clock was broken. This morning, Ellie looked at it and it was 8:15, and now it was still 8:15. She thought it was funny, pretending that everything could stand still. Mummy always said that time was very important: that they should always watch the time, just in case – something. Just in case. Maybe just in case time was broken, like now. It made Ellie very excited. She made a game out of imagining anything that happened until the clock was fixed wasn’t real.   II Mummy did not seem to find it all that
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Creative

another

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by Clarissa Kwee  Outside Dragon Boat House, she stared at her phone screen. The text glowed but didn’t register, like there was a disconnect between ‘white guy in the blue shirt sitting at the table by the window, looks like young Homebrand Johnny Depp’ and her brain.   ‘Should I leave before he swings?’ she typed back, ensuring the keyboard-clicking sounds were as brash as she could possibly make them. But in case that was too harsh, she backspaced and replaced it with, ‘going in now.’  Her week had already been spiralling downwards, and tonight didn’t denote any point of inertia. On Tuesday, her manager had gently reprimanded her report formatting, as if there was a wrong way to adjust margins on a word document. Wednesday, she’d left
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CreativePoetry

The Archaeologist’s Confession

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by Michael Walton    Did those feet in ancient lands  walk upon these desert sands?   Did their chariots of fire  stain the sand with holy ire?    Did those souls in rusted chain  pray for everlasting rain?  Does this desert, gold and vast  know its own forlorn past?    The stories this sand could tell  if it could raise but a knell.  What truths we might glean  of the things that have been.    But alas! These endless grains  bury gods beneath their plains.  The desert now, so long divine,  swallows everything in time.   
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