A minute of

Cannot name that color: looks like wet white, an ivory with shadow or grayish that we used to call ‘pigeon dirty’. Painting of a horse head in ochre tonalities suited very well, especially with engine strokes so beautifully placed above the horse’s mane. Dark wooden frame bounds like it borders something very important. But the head was turned sideways, it listened carefully but didn’t have the guts to look around. Even the picture! Next to it, a playful aquarelle of Bruges, centered around innocent afternoon and lazy clouds. Water pretends to be still, but cannot hide the reflection of reddish bricks, red like cheeks of girl on the first date. This one stood tall, a painting bought as a remembrance of one hopeful day. In the next corner, 45 degrees further hanged a tapestry, old and out-worn, last twitch of the hand that wants to forget tradition and robust lines of family roots. And there was our floor lamp, high and dignified crown of an early spring tulip. This fragile light-keeper claps its metal cold hands in the curled handshake – even it’s lifeless and heavy body  prays for a minute of contempt, minute of sound and minute of everything else we didn’t manage to achieve in the empty room of our lives.

Maja S. Todorovic

If you liked this post, please share. And, If you you are interested in getting more inspiration for your creativity, writing and personal growth, sign up for our free monthly newsletter. You’ll get a free e-book with 31 daily prompts to inspire your writing. For additional tips, follow us on twitter and connect with us on facebook.


The hunter

For many moon returns I’ve been collecting words. I made a bed. A garden. A bed, planted garden and mounted house, I made of tough love. My heart is even now. It beats in the rhythm of the street clock, only speeds up 6 minutes before noon when it hears the song of trash trucks.

Day sits on my back like a bride’s veil, light but deceiving in this hour of zenith. Nothing stops. You can’t stop. Each worth is measured by a sixteen year old thumbs made of french fries. Exteriors sublimes, narrow walls of sudden disapproval are in front of me. I’m not alone. There’s many of us. Disgruntled, as I rise above superficial daily, biphasic outcomes, executioner appears with an ax, rope, whip in whoop to behead my intentions.

Non-approbation sprouts fear like a weed in the field of your purple smiles;  it’s a black sheep in the white flock of your thoughts, unwanted spurt hair in a bushy emotions you would like to pluck. They say you need to face you fear. I don’t have time for that. I can smell it from a long distance, I can sense its millihertz vibrations. I sneak, like stealthy snake I eat it raw, fragile, undeveloped and spit out the shells made of careless, nameless sentences.

I look deep in side of  myself: satiated garden groomed, blooms in the color of your eyes.

Maja S. Todorovic


NaPoWriMo day 28: Gone with the rain

It was typical rainy day: grey, wet curtain hid tired steps of people passing by. At the end of the street, just below the tiny slope, every tortuous creek plunged into the porous mouth of the busy, thirsty drain. Water blunged in the rhythm of soft, muffled sobs as young women, with unvoiced stone face, continued to cradle her empty hands.

Maja S. Todorovic

NaPoWriMo day 22: Zemia

I know how you breathe;

I know how you rustles on 7.83 Hz Schumman resonance;

I know your spaceless love, when you hold me in

enormous gravitational hug.


I know how you like to be cradled in the Milky Way,

I know how disturbed child you were 4.6 billion years ago,

how you didn’t like your first Pangaea face.


I know all about tantrums you had,

until you developed two cheeks, Laurasia and Gondvana

you liked to scratch with your flickering fiery licks,

how you erupt, through volcano horns.

and how you play with sand domes.


I know of your silica wrinkles, blue and green sinews,

running through your granite crust.

I know when you yawn in the rifting zones

in deep waters of Atlantic Ocean,

I know when you subduct your toes beneath

Pacific islands, in rhythmic tectonic motions.

I know your kimberlitic diamond bones,

your asteno-blood that furiously bleeds whenever you’re cut;

I know each secreted gem of your tissue:

layered sedimentary, pressured magmatic

or unsatisfied metamorphic,

about each cocooned crystal.


I know when you are angry or scared,

how you tremble, quake in shocks,

I know when you are not in the mood,

sending razor winds and swirling storms.

I know how you like to wrap me in your green wings

bath me in your silvery tears.

I know you.

You are part of me and I am part of you.

You are everything

I call home.


Maja S. Todorovic

NaPoWriMo day 14: Water

Starts with the a drop, hardly visible to human eye;

migrating through phases, changing shape, evoking sounds.

From below and from above together

becoming river; running unmercifully through

heavy stones and soft sands:

it’s a burble in the nearby forest

sometimes is a messenger of a tempest, cobalt-sparkling weather

when at last, becomes an ocean

remarkable and vast, yet infallible and modest

the giver of life, the purpose of any notion.

Maja S. Todorovic

NaPoWriMo day 13: Fortune cookie

It had a triangular shape – reminded me of a miniature souvenirs you would find on the crowded streets of Cairo..But it was light as feather, as a snowflake resistant to melt on my fingers. It had the color of sinking west Sun. The skin was crisp and fragile. I played with it in my hand for a while. It’s cookie like any other cookie you are eager to eat. But this one, instead of delectable white, sweat cream  hid just few words I was reluctant to read.

Everybody believed:

The truth, curled in this  little floury shell is just waiting to hatch out like a baby lizard from its egg, wanting to develop into u full grown destiny, a path that is a head of me?

“It’s a game, just a game!”…everybody cheered around me, but I didn’t hear their voices any more. From that moment I knew:

There is only one writer

of the unfolding book

of my life.

Maja S. Todorovic

NaPoWriMo day 4: The Cruelest Month

Months for me are usually an easy ride. 28 to 31 days, it passes rather quickly.

But years are the long snakes that drag unpleasant months, we don’t want to remember and recall. In each year, there is an unforgivable month, snake’s mouth that just swallows all of your energy, time, existence and you end up wondering: “Life has a party on his own and I’m not even invited!”

I have that one particular year, when in March everything changed for me. In my country we call March Baba Marta (Granny Marta) and yes! March is a capricious, unstable, sometimes sleepy, sometimes rainy, rarely shiny: like an old grandmother who growls around trying to find her cane.

Through the window I could see the remnants of snow, her silver hair spread across the park. Small snowdrops, random teeth in that deceiving smile, were trying to turn their clumsy heads towards sporadic Sun.

That March wasn’t only the beginning of spring. It was suppose to be the beginning of new life for me. Instead, March brought the cruelty of the unknown, acridity of the uncertainty. Baba Marta was not in the mood.

April came like a young, playful girl, with the greenest eyes I ever saw; colorful dress wrapped her blooming body; teasing me, inviting me to join her; wanting me to forget awful Baba Marta.

Strangely enough, as the Sky was arranging tender clouds and Sun began to caress my skin,  all I could think of is how warm was behind the cold, icy February walls.

On the Beautiful Blue Danube

I could see the island from my window. During summer we used to go to swim and play there: At Lido beach. The alluvial plateau verved with life and deep, green bushes. In the middle of the island was a small lake where fish in love would go on a date at night; secluded from the city lights youngsters would play in my hands. As I would dig in the sand my little feet, with one eye I would count all 17 archaeopteryx species that I new and with other I would admire the Kalemegdan walls, standing proudly above the river bank. “The Beautiful Blue Danube”  did exist. You have to believe me!

No, it’s not like the story I used to tell about wired fences, birds with plastic wings and hatcheries of oil spill rings.

Maja S. Todorovic

What a stag!

I snuffle around with my muzzle.

Ladybug jumps from grass to pebble, here near

the stream. Then on my horns.


It’s a nice sunny day.

No winds or rain on the horizon.

Perfect for hunting.


That’s how I see above my just shot body.

“What a stag!” – one voice said.

These horns will lovely decorate my

cottage wall!”

“With rest I’ll make a stew,

the one that tastes the best!”

-said the other voice.


Then they pulled my flabby body,

leaving trail of red juice, staining the flickering water.


Their heavy leathery boots rooted deep rills in the mud,

carrying my unclenched, loosen flesh on their backs.


They packed everything very quickly,

so didn’t recognize the rustle movement behind the oak tree.


I tremble on this cloud of nothingness,

watching the scene of my terrifying dreams:

This time my son

my large body shielded you,

so you could carelessly play in the grass.

What will happen  when leathery lethal boots return?