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
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
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
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
‘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
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
‘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
Analyse own life
Word-Experimentalist
Listen to your inner self..it has all the answers..
Wellness • Poetry • Life
An opinionated girl penning down her thoughts.🌸❤
AUTHOR OF EPIC FANTASY FICTION ©WindWhisperer - MATURE CONTENT/ADULT CONTENT
Shabnam
Running, Writing, Real Life Experiences & Relatable Content.
From soul to soul
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.]
Live life of your choice
Spontaneous Blogger! Doze on Sunday @7 PM IST
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.
Aren't songs of grief lullabies to the lost?
Imran Ali
Following a Dream to Become an Author
Seeking Solace in the Horizon & Beyond
SEVEREK YE
Lucien May is an English author who writes stuff down then says, ‘Wow. That’s great.’
Creative writing and freelance services
Creative Writing at Brunel University London
the semi-poetic ramblings of an early-twenties mind
Sharing the Gift of Life through Poetry, Stories, Testimonials, and Creative Writing.
Poetic Art From The Heart ~ Finding Beauty In Truth
infusing poetry into the mundane
Fictional Sentiments Inspired by Life
Film reviews and recommendations
Pop culture musings
Music, Film, TV and Pop Culture News for the Mainstream and Underground
Shattering the Celluloid Ceiling
Hollywood Entertainment Breaking News
Horror movie news, reviews, interviews, videos, podcasts and more
GREETINGS, PROGRAMS!
Writing, Sewing, Travel, and Thoughts
where adventure meets a creative sanctuary to RESTORE, REPLENISH, RECONNECT, and RE-IMAGINE your writing and your purpose
poetry, poems, stories, fiction, creative non fiction, essays, anger, angst, sometimes love,
a little bird tweets 