Tag Archives: 100 Words

The Forage

An apricot sunrise seethed through the misty moors. She wandered grasslands; pulled lady’s smock by their roots, by the heaps. Her necklet loosened; it fell, unbeknownst to her.

In the sky, Parakeets danced; they sang an ancient proverb. Thou shalt not steal from nature in abundance; for nature shalt steal from thou.

Her heart repented.

©2014.alittlebirdtweets

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Popworld

Glitterball

 

Midnight, beats pumping, last orders. She watches him; he winks. She smears gloss to hungry lips. Gloss, she thought, it always mesmerizes him.

Morning after; their heads throb, and he induces rejection, mascara tears. Passing her tongue over furred teeth, she walks home with regret. Love, she thought, is more appetising beneath the glitter ball.

©2014.alittlebirdtweets

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Frozen

White light dapples the snow through the trees. Winter’s breeze blows at flakes rested on branches, forcing them to chute to the ground like dancing angels. She rests on a bench; allows the winter sun to warm her face. She imagines that she’s sitting in a Christmas card scene; that everything is picture-perfect. But the woolly jumper that she wears makes her skin sweat and itch. She feels uncomfortable and disorientated. She gets up, walks; and decides that today she’ll smile at no one; and that she’ll keep her eyes fixed on frozen paths, which threaten to swipe her feet.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Immortal Love

She narrates a passage from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; and her heart simmers as he watches her lips, with his ancient eyes.

‘A tragic story, my love,’ he says, brushing his fingers over the calligraphic text.

He bends to kiss her. She gasps, and feels blood trail down her neck. She watches it drip onto the page and expand like large ink spots.

‘You’re now immortal; and my death will shortly follow,’ he says.

He falls to the floor; and she watches his face turn pastel.

And on this day, every thousand years, she lights a candle in his memory.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Whitechapel

‘Whitechapel in winter does make me quiver.’ She said, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

Fog curled lavishly around streetlamps; like smoke from coal-fires had done, in the Victorian era.

‘It’s been said that the ghost of Jack the Ripper prowls these streets.’ He teased.

‘Oh, stop it!’ She grinned, thrusting her elbow into his side.

They walked along cobbled Commercial Road; which was once a market where the rich and poor intermingled and traded.

‘Hey, what’s that?’ She shrieked, pointing ahead into a doorway.

Their mouths fell, as they watched the grim shadow of a knife magnify over them.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Afterlife

My senses are more profound in the spirit world. Today I hover above my gravestone and listen to melodious birdsong. I watch sunbeams saturate the cemetery in ethereal pallor. I suddenly sense the familiar saccharine scent of white carnation, and I turn to see my wife standing before my grave, holding a white bouquet.

“Life is dreadful. I miss you dearly,” she whispers.

She lays the bouquet upon my grave and sobs into a tissue. She walks away. I try to pull her back, to console her, but my hands pass through her. She disappears. And I’m left heartbroken.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Reflections of Lady Abigail

I yearn for the pucker of youth that I once relished,

I ache for the shimmering face that could arrest the eyes of others,

A pursing of my lips only discloses the sunken contours of my face,

A wild flaring of my eyes only exudes bleakness,

My soul is dim,

I’m a shattered rose,

I’m crumbling,

I’m withering,

I crave the fragrance of light musk, summer dresses, flower picking, the lightness of step.

Time, you wait for nobody!

Time, you are not my friend!

I close my eyes in fear of my knowledge,

Inside I cry,

I fly,

I die.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Elsie

Elsie swirled the teacup around in her crumpled, conical hands; working the tea-leaves into a symbol. She had provided readings for many people over many years; it had given them an insight into their future.

‘What can you see, Elsie?’ The young woman asked.

‘My dear, I saw my own face merged with a skull. The skull is a symbol of demise. I am going to die very soon.’

The woman trembled at Elsie’s words.  As she became pinned to her chair with fear, she witnessed Elsie’s face contort; her eyes bulge and her head slither slowly to the table.

©2013.alittlebirdtweets

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Poetry and Prose

From soul to soul

itsthebiblophile

Writing can be anything for anyone but for me it's to express the overwhelming feelings I feel that cannot be said .[Disclaimer : everything posted here will be my own work (p.s. work here means everything written and not the images) unless mentioned otherwise. Please do not copy.]

A_V_E_M

Live Life Of Your Choice.....

D_VYANG_TALKS

Spontaneous Blogger! Doze on Sunday @7 PM IST

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It is all about words. Your words are enough to shatter someone's heart. Your words are enough to make a broken heart unbroken. Words have the power to change your life perspectives.

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For bloggers who aspire to inspire

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Following a Dream to Become an Author

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Seeking Solace in the Horizon of Life & Beyond.

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Lucien May is an English author who writes stuff down then says, ‘Wow. That’s great.’

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Creative writing and freelance services

Brunel Writer

Creative Writing at Brunel University London

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the semi-poetic ramblings of a teenage mind

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Sharing the Gift of Life through Poetry, Stories, Testimonials, and Creative Writing.

Rose Girl's World

Poetic Art From The Heart ~ Finding Beauty In Truth

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Live to Write

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Fictional Sentiments Inspired by Life

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Film reviews and recommendations

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Pop culture musings

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Music, Movie, TV and Pop Culture News for the Mainstream and Underground

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Shattering the Celluloid Ceiling

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Hollywood Entertainment Breaking News

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Horror movie news, reviews, interviews, videos, podcasts and more

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GREETINGS, PROGRAMS!

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With Kathy Fish and Nancy Stohlman

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poetry, poems, stories, fiction, creative non fiction, essays, anger, angst, sometimes love,

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a coven of creative characters

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Aspie who writes stories, and talks about life.

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Randomly generated unrealistic illusions and fantasies.

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The writing and photography of Carrie Birde

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Pages and Pages of Words & Thoughts

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I want to be a Paperback Writer.

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creative writing by northie

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Flash fiction, creative writing, short stories and reflections

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...like butta' on your toast!

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