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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…
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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: A Thursday Door
A Chinese Jueju poem * Door facing door—no path seems clear,One room holds grace, one room’s a mirror.I reach the hall to seek a way out,And open a door… to my former self. *Jueju means “cut-off verse” and is a very concise poetic form. It contains four lines (a quatrain). Each line typically has five…
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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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15 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
A Stream of Consciousness We are a small village on the edge of a larger one, with an ancient forest standing mute as moss between the city-folk and us, and an Anglo-Saxon church whose bells fill Sunday with a provincial air beside a field thick with bracken that sheep chew to the root every winter…
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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…
It's Still Life 