Tag Archives: Writing

Ghost Writer (65)

“I write… Stop… Write again… This is my way and ever has been. Why change it for the sake of supplicating demons?”

The Ghost Writer

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Ghost Writer (64)

“I have fallen so far, yet it was the not making a sound when I landed that hurt the most. If ever I landed at all?”

The Ghost Writer

The Birds and the Bees

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The Birds and the Bees

The leaves hung like hummingbirds hovering for food. In swarms of suspended metals, autumn’s glinting deposits waited to settle on the scorched ground.

Next came the wind. Warmer than a lover’s kiss, colder than a refusal, it took me in its swirling embrace unsure whether to throttle or enfold. Me and that last of all trees in that last of all places.

Those leaves that remained whipped about like bees stinging at my skin, my throat, my everything. In beauty, I died.

We all did.

Folded – They’ve Tried

Folded. Yes, folded. They bend and score and twist and press, but I will not be made as they. Not for a day. No, not a day.

Opened. Yes, opened. All flowers must bloom, petals unfurling to take in the sun. The butterflies will come. Yes, they will come.

Beautiful. Yes, beautiful. This world of colour and texture and light and sound. It’s magical when you look. Folded? No, not I.