Category: prose
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17.12: Six Sentence Story
Note to my readers: I’m travelling for the next few weeks in Colombia. I’ll be reading with gratitude, even if I can’t reply properly immediately. El Mohán: the Colombian River Spirit Time braids itself into the mist and murmur of the Río Magdalena, where women wash laundry in silence and speak of El Mohán only…
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13.12: Later …
From my path to yours, I send warmth and my best wishes. AI imagery. ©Misky 2006-2025.
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9.12: Six Sentence Story
Hols with an O Not a U Brigid sits near the electric space heater — warmth feeling like salvation as it chases the damp chill off the floorboards. And there’s a pigeon in the birdbath: it lifts its left wing into the gauzy rain (sheets of it falling, half-translucent), splashing about as if the rain…
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6.12: MicroDosing 100 µg
“The heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing.” – Blaise Pascal’s Pensées It’s December again. The air grows thin and bright in December. Reason sleeps. Another sense awakens. A filament stretched across the dark, humming with a frequency only grief can tune. The clock’s face glows 03:06, not as numbers, but as a…
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5.12: A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief
A Poet’s Thoughts on Grief I have found grief’s pain remains.It does not leave. It does not soften.It evolves. It ceases to be a personal affront,a fist shaken at a betraying sky. It ceases to be a question that demands an answer. It ages.It becomes a quality of light.A longer shadow.A poetic quality. We learn…
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2.12: Six Sentence Story
At the Intersection of Odd Numbers Bon Appétit — The Pepperbright Canticle The bell above the door startles itself into a shriek of fingernails on a chalkboard as a woman, trailed by a rosy-nosed child in a cat-eared hat, ignores the door slamming shut behind her and asks, “What do you have for a dinner…
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25.11: The Intersection of Odd Numbers
The Glyph of Rainmoth Fold The Unbound Heart The bell above the door startled itself into song as a woman stepped inside, trailing the scent of wet wool and old rain, her umbrella dripping quietly onto the floor, the air folded small around her shoulders like it didn’t want to be noticed. Brigid set down…
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21.11: MicroDosing 150µg
Quiet Hearts There’s a man who wandered here and there, collecting silences: the thin breath between cathedral notes, the feather-pause beneath a crow’s wing, the split-second hush before a lie takes shape. He trapped each one in cork-sealed jars, labelling them with careful hands, certain he was gathering rare specimens of the world’s quiet heart.…
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18.11: dVerse Quadrille
The Internet Is Down Again Come on, you sulking hulk,we coax you from the dark,we whisper to your routers,and promise you the clouds.Rise now, little lights,shake off your grumpy moody gloom.The world waits, half-breathing,for your bright return.Come on, Cloudflare, wake up! Written for dVerse Poets, Quadrille (44 words) “coax”. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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18.11: At the Intersection of Odd Numbers
A Black That Remembers Brigid had the office door painted Vantablack; she loved this colour, it was so dark it erased everything but consequence. Customers slowed in caution as they passed it, uncertain whether it was a surface or a hole; the crow croaked “wormhole” at it endlessly, and Pierre swore he heard a slow,…
It's Still Life 