Category: AI Art
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19 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
The Sea Soft as a held breath, it speaks —pebbles learning rhythm,each stonea lifetime smoothedand given back. The sun rests behind a veil,its gentle mercy,not wanting to scorch. Wind and water barter secrets,a salt and hush trade in tides.And he stands listening,a child of this quiet moment, so let the sound wash your bones —those,…
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18 Sept: From the Oracle
From the Oracle —A Cadralor: Once the Sea, Now the Snow I.It is coming —the season of white,of silent claiming,of soft annihilation. II.Once, I was rain —the blessing, the renewal.Once, I was the sea —deep, boundless,salt-blooded and sure. III.Now, the field lies gripped,withered to the root,begging for rainlike victory, like mercy,like an oak strainingin the…
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17 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
Verdict Wind Blink—and it’s raining cats and dogs,clouds inked in bruisesgallopingacross a sky. The crow shrieks —sparrows vanish mid-flight. It gives pause.A flutter.A missed beat. I count them on beads —knotted threads soakedwith intention. Was it us?Was it them?Why does this wind feel like a verdict? It pulls at the hem of the world,whispers under…
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16 Sept: dVerse Prosery
Sulphur and Silence The city never learned how to be quiet — Elias liked it that way; the noise smothered his wife’s laugh. He sat in his worn armchair, the one she always called a mistake, watching the world blur past his third-floor flat. The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes moved…
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16 Sept: A Six Sentence Story
The Book of 27, The 20th Glyph: Cindertide Anger that forgot what it was fighting The Syrup “Auntie, may I have the syrup, please?” — my nephew, hair the colour of reef-sand, still damp with strawberry shampoo, the first to call me auntie, the first to make me feel it fit; “Yes, of course, love,”…
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16 Sept: Liturgy for Cindertide
The Book of 27, The 20th Glyph: Cindertide – Anger that forgot what it was fighting I. The First FlameIt begins sharp—a flash of fire with a name, a face, a reason.This is for the child I lost,for the cradle I never filled,for the syrup I will never pour.But fury is a poor craftsman.It builds…
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14 Sept: Mystical Sunday
Her Ink Bleeds (microdosing fiction in 50µg) Thunder never needsto shout,to linger.Some words roll lowfor days, lodgedand scrolled between yourribs and lung,until even your breath tastes of copper.The Old One knew this —she’d spent a lifetimecollecting echoesin inkwellsmade of hollowedbones. Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT…
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13 Sept: Riding the Storm
Riding the Storm Storm drags the swamp,but that man won’t run.Barefoot in mud,and he glares at the skylike it owes him something. Cypress leaning close,gossiping in the shadows —thunder shakes whiskeystraight down his bones. There’s storm in his blood,hurricane in his breath —he was born to howldeep against the dark. And when the sky splits,when…
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12 Sept: Ten Things of Thankful
In no particular order: 1. I am thankful that the English language has progressed beyond St Patrick’s 5th century Tale of a Nation (although I adore the word “docus” – a silly person): “Eh man, but ye maun be an unco docus to mistak the yowlin’ o’ a wheen dougs for the squeelin’ o’ ghaists…
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12 Sept: The Women of Lafitte’s
A Short Story The Seamstress She leans into the clatter of the machine, foot steady, hands coaxing fabric through with a tenderness that belies the harsh steel needle. The air is heavy, close — thick with the sweetness of cotton dust and the metallic tang of oil. Outside, New Orleans sweats; inside, she stitches against…
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