Category: prose
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8.10: A Six Sentence Story
The Small Matter at the Aire de la Clermont-Ferrand Rest Stop The cubicle door springs open with a bang, and a woman emerges; our eyes meet in a flash of mutually accusatory side-eye, wads of loo roll fill both of her hands. “French toilets,” she drawls with a weary little heaven-tilt of the head, the…
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8.10: A Cello’s Song
A Cello’s Song (A Ci-style poem to the musical pattern of Shuǐlóngyín) I rise from silence, drawn by the bow,hair on gut, breath against stillness.At first I am nothing —a shiver through empty air,a thread unwinding from dusk. Shadows lean close to listen.Walls tremble; windows remember rain.The candle wavers, then steadies.A single voice holds the…
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28 Sept: Mystical Sunday
The Jar-Keeper (A Six Sentence Story) She keeps them in mason jars — not the whole eyes, mais non, just their colours. Jar #1: hazel flecked with gold, stolen from a baker who smiled too wide.Jar #2: a pale blue like a winter promise, taken from the gaze of a woman who never blinked at…
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28.09: Au Revoir
Gone to dance On The Bridge of Avignon, drink the Rhône, and eat my bodyweight in cheese — back when the moon pulls the tide of my feet. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.
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27.09: MicroDosing 100µg
The wheat stood like an army of old men, with their backs bent but unbroken, their gold gone dull under the autumn flat sky. A kestrel circled high above — on a breeze that smelled of turned earth and too soon endings. Its cry was a needle pulling a thread of silence through the day.…
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25.09: A Six Sentence Story
Seven Seven: prime, indivisible, stubbornly herself. She is a parenthesis of grace, a question mark of sunlight — “Can you do this?” she asks as she unfolds into a perfect split on the kitchen tiles, a compass toward joy and impossibility. Her hair is a midnight river streaked with ribbons — not just purple, but…
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23 Sept: A Six – The Book of 27
21 of 27: Mourngale – The Colour of Unbroken Song Mapping the Riverbed Winter had settled into the seams of the house that morning—our quarrel lost to the iron’s hiss, as I pressed three shirts, their cotton wrinkling like elephant skin under my restless, riverless hands. Life was steady, yes — he worked, I worked…
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22 Sept: MicroDosing 80µg
Wind cut through the trees not like a visitor, but a thief returning to the scene of the crime — carrying scents of wet earth; petrichor’s ghosts of rain; breath of graves. Leaves fell in a slow, silent surrender, moss drank from the dark, and the roots twisted in their sleep. Decay was not an…
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20 Sept: dVerse Imagist
Black Waits (an imagist poem) Black window stares across the street.Black curtains hang, charcoal cloth.A child coughs.The mother hushes him —black sleeve across his mouth. Black rain shines.Even puddles reflect black —broken buildings,black coat flapping against wind. Black comes quiet:mail left unread,a room kept shut,a name swallowed whole. Some things root in blackness —moss in…
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19 Sept: A Six Sentence Story
Crow A crow bows its head over a weathered day, hooked beak probing this, that, and memory. Its black ribs stitch the horizon as rain threads the air, dissolving the field beyond into a smudge of ash. Crow, pilot of the deepening gloom. Crow blackness of feathers drinking in greyness — a moving void against…
It's Still Life 