Modernism Stories

"Who are we when we live through someone else?" A cyclical work of postmodern, surrealist fiction, shaped primarily by the influences of modernist writers such as Proust, Joyce, Woolf and Pynchon, Not So Distant Horizons asks as many questions as it answers. Simultaneously dense and concise, the writing puts a spin the stream-of-consciousness style, which was popular during the first half of the twentieth century. It's worth noting that all the traits of this book are not exclusively postmodern or surrealist. It also builds upon the style of contemporary writers. Being stuck in the past is something both the narrator and the author despise. Elements of philosophical fiction are also abundant. Tending to become someone else, the narrator chases so-called specters, perfect images of himself that he sculpted during his lifetime. Having drowned in self-pity and loneliness in the surrealist setting of the book, The Garden, the narrator begins his writing by starting to question everything from his past lifetime. Hundreds of years pass in just a few sentences. In the Garden, not a single object is reminiscent of the world he had left behind years ago in exchange for eternal solitude. It is the arrival of his childhood friend, Juno, that changes everything. Juno, acting as the driving force for the book's plot, brings with her a lot more than change. Long-buried questions resurface. They are not exclusive to the narrator; both the reader and he can ask themselves the same question: is what I am writing true? Can I rely on the story being consistent? Find out by reading the work. Still in progress and to be continued.

A man's first night in Elbour (Melbourne, Australia) and he is instantly drawn in by it's intoxicating airs.

There's something strange about the first few stories in the news this morning. Not now, but there will be. In nearly 15 years time, when they meet again on a living room shelf. FIRST CHAPTER

Indifference is a short story collection that explores the existential struggles of humanity. Everything from the difficulties of choice to daunting speculations of our place in the universe. Indifference brings these issues to light and, in some cases, shows the small glimmer of hope that still resides even in jaded times.

I walk this lonely road *applies black lipstick* the only road I have ever known *puts on black eyeliner* "It's not a phase, I repeat it's NOT a phase."

A surreal nightmare tinged with psychological horror and dark humor exploring the breakdown of reality. Explicit sexual imagery, strong language and surreal horror ahead.

This novel follows the life and experiences of the protagonist, Mary Olivier, exploring her journey from childhood to adulthood. It is a psychological novel that delves into Mary's inner thoughts, emotions, and personal development, examining the influences and societal pressures that shape her life. May Sinclair was recognized for her innovative narrative techniques and her exploration of psychological realism in her works. "Mary Olivier: A Life" is regarded as one of Sinclair's significant contributions to literature due to its introspective and psychological depth, offering readers insights into the human mind and its complexities. Original by May Sinclair. Reposted for easy offline access.

While taking an airport shuttle home to attend his father's birthday party our protagonist narrator, Fodder, daydreams about the ticker tape parade the town will throw in his honor for his heroic rescue of a drowning swimmer one year ago today. After missing his stop, he is forced to walk home at dusk, is struck by a vehicle, and then arrested by police charged with a string of home invasions. When he can't provide evidence of his innocence the sheriff releases him into the custody of Doc, the proprietor of a local treatment center, pending further investigation. When our story starts his benefactor forces him to join on a seemingly futile search for clean glass mason jars. As they scour the neighborhood for suitable containers, they meet a variety of local characters who continually mistake him for someone else. When he's finally given a chance to redeem himself, to save the actual burglar's life, he fails and is subsequently charged with felony murder.

Influenced by modernism and the literature of the post-WW1 world, Ozymandias is a short film about hopelessness and things out of our control.

This poem explores the melancholic beauty of grief and transformation through dual languages, blending the haunting elegance of English with the delicate intensity of Japanese. Bathed in quicksilver, the speaker grapples with emotional weight and inner conflict, torn between vulnerability and strength. Vivid imagery of shattered glass, serpents, and metallic tears evokes a haunting sense of beauty in pain, as the speaker transforms into a statue of silver and grey - frozen yet eternally weeping. The interplay of languages mirrors the speaker's fractured identity and emotional turmoil, adding depth and nuance to the poem's exploration of fragility and resilience.

Thoughts might be 'scribbled' upon a blank page of the mind when a gust of emotion strikes you at any corner. Perhaps this is resultant of what is addressed as 'spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings'. The verses which have been scribbled or written harps primarily upon the beauty of nature and its ability to cast off any tinge of despondence even if temporarily. The beauty of nature lies everywhere- in the seasons, in a country side, when a person enjoys solitude or upon observing a sudden gust of shower in Spring.

A poem.

This is a poem mainly about expressionism and modernism. In other words, I feel as if we're all just carrying out our usual lives without analytically dissecting and observing them.

Max walked through the door and didn't wave, or rather, he forgot to. The metro ticket sliced his finger gently but what is a sting compared to a stab. He loved them, but he'd forgotten to say goodbye to too many things before this and as he let his finger add to the layers of paint peeling from the wall, he felt the hunger that had settled in his stomach rise and fall with every step. She didn't follow him. He left her there in the hovel, under stank sheets, under dim lights, underground with the rest of the wild things that writhed in his mind. A sandwich waited for him at home, a glass of orange juice too if he asked, every memory framed and preserved on the white shelves and table tops in his house that he wanted so badly to leave behind. Walking out of a cell that he once thought was the entire world felt less of a heroic escape but rather a sprint from a crime scene. He tasted bile, his clammy palms wrinkled the metro ticket and he was running but he didn't feel it. He didn't feel his finger throbbing, his heart breaking, his head hurting, he only felt regret for not realizing he'd only ever measured happiness with a ruler made of pain.

to life