-
dVerse Concepts
Pulling in the Thunder The fisherman plants his hopes against the current. Sand and salt and sea, it stings his lips. His life is pebble-rattling, like thunder pulled from the sky. It’s a lullaby to deafened ears. His fairytale songs of seagulls white, and nights crow-black. Wings beat the air, as long nets draw in…
-
Quadrille #51
Roots of Fiction my first waking thoughts are never of morning, never what pills I should take, which joint ointment for knees or sore muscles, or is it Monday or Tuesday. I wake to my pens and paper, scribbling down remains of dreams, burning roots of fiction. written for dVerse Quadrille #51
-
Wisps for TLT
Untitled Like muslin clouds. Or ballerinas. Pirouettes turning like wheels, waxing and waning. Moonlight melting into dusk, and I stared at smouldering smoke, and candles sputtering. for 3-Line Thursday at Ink In Thirds
-
Twiglet #64
Thin as Skin I’m waking to the world’s return, just before dawn as the sun and moon agree a truce, and deepest sleep is thin as skin. Its jealous eye opens. Wakes. for Twiglet #64: Before Dawn.
-
A dVerse Drinker
Un Goût de Paris You see, my mother only wore one perfume. I don’t count Avon’s Skin-So-Soft ‘cause Mum used that as an insect repellent, although to me it smelled like a toilet freshener in my Aunt Suzy’s outhouse. Anyway, Mum wore “Evening in Paris” – Dad always gave her a bottle at Christmas. Now,…
-
Twiglet Prompts
An Invitation A Twiglet is a brief phrase meant to prompt a first impression. A response; a few lines; brevity. It’s a jump-off point for something meatier in the future. There’s no right, no wrong, and no time limit. I post a new Twiglet every Tuesday at https://thetwiglets.wordpress.com Everyone’s welcome to join in.
-
dVerse Haibun Monday “Grey”
Those Fictional Greys Funny thing about long-term memory; it’s like it just happened yesterday. Like when I was remembering my grandmother who departed us nearly 30-years ago. I can see her now. Grandma sitting in a straight-back wooden spindle chair. She sits where the sun breaks through the window but she still feels icy. And…
-
for Wordle #339
It’s the Way of Bruised Flowers Between dreams and death’s sleep, between winter’s rustling reeds, I heard the hollow sound of hunger. I fought the urge to shout at bearded madness, or hissing vespers and endlessly confess to boundless wind. Memory is sand. Stormy. Fleeting. It’s the scent of damp iron. Lonely as wind. I…
-
for Ink In Thirds – TLT
Descent into a Very Short Story There, alone in our moonsnatch valley it’s picture-perfect, be it on canvas, where rain falls, liquid as cruel sighs. for Three Line Thursday, three lines max 10 syllables per line. The word this week is “Alone”. Image is from Unsplash by Peter Hammer.
-
Red Wolf Prompt 362
The Bones of Sickness Her complexion is gusty grey. She’s the face of rooted weariness and boredom — the bones of sickness. She closes her eyes on her own froth, darkness filling her ears as she sleeps with captive shadows. Sickness is a dark strife of crumbling candles. Her lustre is uncoupled, a stammering pale…
It's Still Life 