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azurePond
33 3,487 M Seeking Light 2
The name is Pond, Azure Pond. I make lame jokes. Calm on the surface, but with some ripples underneath. Watch out for the occasional duck!
PathStep 103 Compassion hearts816 Forum posts372 Forum upvotes679 Current upvotes679 Age GroupAdult Last activeJanuary, 2025 Member sinceOctober 3, 2024
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Short Story
Reading & Writing / by azurePond
Last post
 8 hours ago
...See more Here’s my first short story on 7cups. TW: murder. I’d really appreciate any feedback, as I’m new to writing short stories! The Final Vow The house felt too quiet without her. He thought of her perfume lingering on his shirt when she leaned into him. He remembered how her phone had buzzed incessantly, but she had ignored it. Sitting in the armchair by the window—he stared out at the dark street. The tea on the table had long gone cold. His thumb brushed the edge of the mug, almost by habit. She had held it in this very chair, her fingers adorned with a slim, elegant wedding ring. It caught the light when she gestured, her laugh warm and easy. He hated how much he had noticed it. He ran his fingers over her scarf draped across the back of the chair. Her perfume still lingered faintly—vanilla and jasmine. It clung to him too, inescapable and bittersweet. The memories pressed in, vivid and raw. The way she had laughed that first night they met, her head thrown back as if she wasn’t afraid of the world. Then the way she had stopped meeting his eyes at breakfast over the last few months. He had known. Of course, he had known. The late-night calls, the quickened steps as she left the house. He had seen her looking around to evade his eyes before whispering into the phone, “When will you return?” He had heard her call that man “darling.” But he had forgiven her. He always forgave her. People made mistakes. The knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. He rose slowly, smoothing his shirt, and opened it to find two officers standing on the porch. “Good evening,” one said. “We’re looking into the disappearance of a woman from the neighborhood. Her husband reported her missing earlier today. Have you noticed anything unusual?” He shook his head, his expression soft with concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. No, I haven’t.” They asked a few more questions, thanked him, and left. He closed the door and stood there for a moment, gripping the handle. The silence felt heavier now, pressing down on him. In the basement, her body lay beneath a stained sheet. He stared at it for a long time, then reached down and adjusted her hair, smoothing it away from her face. She wasn’t his wife. She never had been... like everyone before her. But in the glow of the dim basement light, he vowed, “Till death do us part, darling.”
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A Comet of Well Wishes
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 15 hours ago
...See more You’re a comet streaking across the sky, A flicker of hope in a sea of darkness, A wish whispered on trembling lips, But your brilliance casts shadows, While your tail ignites the night. You blaze through hearts, Igniting dreams with your fiery glow, But in your wake, You leave only chaos. You gather the stars, Thinking you can light their paths, But your orbit is erratic, And when you spiral down, You crash like a meteor, Shattering everything you touch. You keep saying, “I didn’t mean to hurt,” As if your apologies could mend the scars, As if regrets could turn back time, But the impact is heavy, And the echoes of your passage Rattle through their lives. You reach out, Trying to guide the lost, But every hand you touch Is scorched by your brilliance, And now you wonder If the wishes you granted Were worth the destruction you left behind, If the light you brought Has left you in the dark. If the fire you sparked Was worth lives blown away as ashes. And you are so very sorry. You would tremble while crying, Creating tremors across the land, Shaking everyone and everything to prove That you are indeed very sorry. And the tsunami waves Of tears will vouch for you. But at what cost? If there are no lives left to see your remorse If everything ended in your tears of deluge.
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Swallowed Whole
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 23 hours ago
...See more “I don’t wanna get up.” The bed is a stomach lining, Raw and heaving, And I am the swallowed lump— Half-dissolved, half-forgotten, A stubborn clot in its churn. The clock doesn’t tick; it convulses— An artery spasming on the wall. I lie in my own stink, A blanket of sweat-stretched skin, Breath sour as reflux. The body is a mass of wrong signals, Fingers clawing at ribs, Scraping the cage, Trying to dig out a heart That drips through its fractures. The door yawns, A torn oesophagus gaping in the wall. I don’t step through. The world outside is a smear of mucus On a dirty lung, Its breath thick with rot. Even the air clogs, Coagulating in my throat. Routine is a shattered jawbone, Its shards gnaw at my thoughts. "Move," I whisper, But the limbs are rubbery tendons, Slipping, curling back. Every step is grinding teeth, Splintering under weight, The marrow oozing through cracks. Perfectionism burrows like a parasite, Its fangs sinking into the stomach. It chews at the soft pulp, Tearing away flesh That bleeds hot failure. The stomach churns, Hungry, Never full, Never satisfied. The words lazy, spoiled Trickle down like pus from the skin, Sealing me in layers of doubt. I am a corpse of ambition, Burning under the heat of what I have dared, Chest heaving for a breath long snuffed. Still, I churn in this stomach, Waiting for the rupture— To ignite, To vomit, Or dissolve What’s left of me.
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Ghosts
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 3 days ago
...See more TW : Gaslighting, Stalking The following text contains fictional elements that may include themes of fear, supernatural occurrences, and psychological tension. Reader discretion is advised. I felt it first in the corner of my eye, a shadow too persistent, too sure to be the swaying of a tree. Steps behind me when the street was empty, breath so close I thought it could fog my glasses, but when I turned, nothing. At home, it began small: the faint scrape of furniture shifting in the night, drawers left open by unseen hands. Then larger things— the way the curtains would ripple when the windows were shut tight, or how the scent of earth and mud lingered even after Auntie had scrubbed the floors. I swear I saw it once. Not fully. But enough. A figure crouched in the hallway, It was always there, just at the edge of light. Peering at me through reflections in the glass, its eyes burning while I pretended not to notice. Tonight, I keep my steps quick, but not quick enough. It doesn’t matter where I turn; the ghost doesn’t need shortcuts. It’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. And when it finally happens— when the street empties out, when I am alone— it runs at me, a scream rising in my throat just as its icy hand closes around my neck. I open my eyes in my bedroom, familiar but wrong. The curtains flutter as if someone just passed through. The lamp buzzes faintly, a sound that drills into my skull. And on my neck, dark bruises bloom like shadows pressed into my skin. She’s sitting in the chair by the window, her dark hair brushing her shoulders, her face carved from stone. Her eyes flicker to mine, and she sighs as if I am a chore she cannot escape. "Another ghost," she mutters, "No. It was a person. A stalker," I voice sternly. She raises her eyebrows high, And then- Then. She. Laughs. "What should I do with you? You have your mother's black, witchy eyes, and that's why the ghosts follow you—because of it. It’s your fault, really." "Not a ghost. We need the police!" I yell. The trembling starts somewhere deep, spreading to my hands as I clutch the blanket. She stands, her shadow stretching longer than it should, pooling at her feet like ink. "Better not leave this room," she says, her voice sharp, slicing the air. "The police are not ghostbusters. What you need is not an exorcism, but…" She raises her hand, and I flinch. Her lips curl into something unreadable, her eyes piercing as she leans closer, Her icy fingers digging on my jaw "They can smell it on you— the fear, the hunger, the cracks in your mind. So get it together. I don’t want another hazard like last year." Her words hang heavy, and the air in the room thickens, pressing me into the bed. I don’t ask what happened last year. I don’t want to know.
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Dumping My Tangled Thoughts in this Thread
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 21 hours ago
...See more They know where your roots twist, how your leaves tremble in the wind. Empathy isn’t kindness here, it’s a hand that pulls the earth from beneath your feet. They don’t scream, just whisper with the weight of knowing, and you feel the ground shift where you thought it was solid. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They listen to every word, each pause between sentences, as if your silence holds secrets you never meant to share. They catch the rhythm of your heartbeat like a song they’ve learned to play, watching for the moments when it stutters, when it falters. They pause and play For their delight. Every breath, every sigh— it’s all cataloged and returned to you like echoes you can’t outrun. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Monsters roam in the daylight, teeth bared, eyes alight. I’m exhausted, tired and weak, a crack, a slip, they seek. They feast on my dread so deep— I just want to sleep. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tangled thoughts that spin and twist, a web of ideas, too fast to list. The mind races, but there's still peace in the mess that refuses to cease. A voice desperately whispers: It isn’t all that bad. The roof over my head, sturdy and sure, a shield from the storm, the night so pure. It isn’t all that bad. The soft bed beneath me, a place to rest, a sanctuary where my mind can find peace. It isn’t all that bad. Health in my bones, breath in my chest, a body that moves, a gift, at its best. It isn’t all that bad. Freedom to speak, to choose, to roam, a world of possibilities to explore. It isn’t all that bad. The coffee’s hot and dark and strong, it smells divine. It isn’t all that bad. A dog barks somewhere at nothing again, a strange sort of company. It isn’t all that bad. There’s a stain on my favorite shirt, but it reminds me of laughter and wine. It isn’t all that bad. The air is cold and bites at my skin, but it wakes me up like a slap of life. It isn’t all that bad. A mismatched sock hugs my left foot, a quiet rebellion against order. It isn’t all that bad. The rain whispers softly through the speakers, a gentle white noise filling the room. It isn’t all that bad. WiFi hums in the background, connecting me to thoughts, to words, to you. It isn’t all that bad. The 7 Cups website is open, a space for words and feelings to unfold. It isn’t all that bad. I write this poem, imperfectly, but it’s mine, and that’s enough. It isn’t all that bad. The small moments add up like beads on a thread, simple, flawed, but here. It isn’t all that bad. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Any Ghibli movie fans out there?
Arts & Crafts / by azurePond
Last post
 20 hours ago
...See more Found an old drawing I did—12-year-old me was obsessed with Howl and his moving castle. Though it is a bit scandalous art for a preteen! Any Ghibli fans here? My all-time fav is Spirited Away. What's your favorite Ghibli movie?
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A Feather In The River
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 Saturday
...See more A Feather in the River I was staring into the river, Its surface smooth, Like a polished mirror too perfect to trust. A birthday party—or perhaps an anniversary. I can’t recall. I was a borrowed guest, Watching something odd in the water— A pale feather drifting, Circling as if caught on an invisible thread. "Be careful," he said, "Some people might be tempted to push you in." His voice was monotone, As though rehearsed a hundred times. I startled, turning towards him, His presence folding the air around him like static. I recognised him instantly— The kind of person spoken about In low whispers at gatherings, A name heavy with unsaid things. "Didn’t your parents teach you Not to stalk innocent girls?" My words were sharp, unsheathed, But his eyes reflected their edge, A predator amused by its prey. "Innocent girls?" he echoed, As if tasting the words. "Yes." The pause stretched before he added, "You’re the mermaid’s girl, aren’t you?" I didn’t flinch. The mocking tone, the nickname ‘mermaid’ All expected. I’d been warned. Prepared. "I am nobody's girl. And for your information, He's a merman. Don’t misgender people. It’s rude." His laugh was hollow, A sound that never reached the cold depths of his eyes. "A merman’s human afraid of water. How ironic," he said, "A psych0path jealous of a socially accepted merman. How ironic," I replied in the same cold tone. His reply was a smile, A blade dulled by disuse. ------------------------- The next time I saw him Was at my grandfather’s funeral. Not during the sombre ceremony, But at the gathering afterwards, Where grief mingled with awkward laughter. "I hate funerals," he said, His voice as casual as an invitation to tea. "People waxing poetics about the dead." He didn’t wait for a reply. "But he was a good grandfather, I suppose, Judging by your tears." "He is," I replied, unsteady. "Say he was," he corrected, His words precise as a surgeon's knife. "The sooner you adapt, the better." ------------------------- Another funeral. Another fleeting encounter. He leaned close. "If the Merman were here, He’d challenge you to forget him," He said, his tone like dried leaves underfoot. "He was a lover of games, wasn’t he? Always stirring up challenges?" My throat tightened, But I found my voice. "He sure was." His hand rested briefly on my shoulder, Solid, grounding. But as my vision blurred, He was already gone. ------------------------- At my aunt’s wedding, I had punched someone. Afterwards, As I sat outside, Nursing my knuckles in the evening air, The sky bruised purple and red. He appeared with a plastic bag of ice, Silent at first, Then crouched beside me. "For your hand," he said, As if this were routine. "You should see the other guy," I joked. "He deserved it,” His voice calm, unwavering, Like the river on a still day. "Of course you’d say that," I shot back. "And why wouldn’t I?" he countered, One brow arched in a silent challenge. "Well," I said, voice steady, "For someone diagnosed with ASPD, You’re better than all those psych0s inside." "Guess I fooled you too," he deadpanned. "Nah," I replied. "You’re not that good at manipulating Or hiding your intentions. Besides, I don’t care—" I paused, amending— "I don’t care if you fool me or ..." This time, I left first. But I turned back, My voice ringing out over the curious eyes. "I won’t be there for the next wedding or funeral. My dad’s sending me away." He didn’t wave back nor smile, There wasn’t a goodbye, But I caught it— The flicker of discomfort As all those stares pinned him down. A boy who wore shadows like a second skin, The man, suddenly wary of the spotlight He did not prepare for. ------------------------- The years flowed by, Like rivers carving new paths, Wearing down old edges. Alliances shifted, People became ghosts, And the world we knew Meandered into fresh green plains. The next time we met, There was no river, no funeral, No wedding to frame the moment. We stood as strangers, Or perhaps something worse. We met not as friends— Not that I ever truly was one. "Still afraid of water?" he asked, A faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, Though his eyes betrayed nothing. "And you?" I shot back, "Still afraid of being seen?" This time, his smile reached his eyes. Either he had mastered the art, Or the shadows were playing tricks. I do not know. -------------------------
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Guilty, Without Sins
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 January 16th
...See more "Do you know what, In all my years, Has been the most troubling Of human emotions?" I looked at him, His face smooth as porcelain, Cold, polished, Another mask without a stain, Or a statue left in place, Still, revered at the end of the day. I asked him, Not out of curiosity, "What is it?" "Guilt," he answered, A word dropped in silence, Like a spoon hitting a plate— Sharp, but without violence. “And sins aren’t needed for it.” My breath caught, Like a glass full, Sitting on a table, Waiting to spill. "Guilt seeps into everything," He continued. Did he feel it too? Obviously not. The weight– the slow, sinking dip Of a chair too old, Its legs almost gone, Quietly collapsing, But you sit all alone? Guilt. It’s the overdue bill, Left on the counter, Staring back at you, But you don’t know how to pay it, Don’t know how much you owe. I looked at him, His stoic grace as precise As a surgeon’s hand, Cutting through flesh with no remorse. And I wondered how he knew, How he, Could speak of something So quietly messy and human.
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