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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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‘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.


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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.


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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.


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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.


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Be the peace you are looking for

The Flowers of Art

In the kingdom of life, with the strokes of the brush, the bow and the pen, artists have sowed their hearts to contrive, fields rivalling in beauty the Garden of Eden.

Alice Wake Up

Give Life a Meaning

Girl, Interrupted

Getting the words out

J.W. Carey

There is a great literary tradition of well-off white guys hating themselves. I think it ended up being called Existentialism. I'm doing my damn best to keep it alive.

Mellow Mayhem

A Mellow Revolution

Marc Fusion

A concise guide to the world of cinema, tv, and games through the eyes of a sociopath

Haint-Blue Shudders

Ghosts, Spirits, Hags, & Haints

The Protagonist Speaks

Interviews with the protagonists of your favourite books

Megan Slayer and Wendi Zwaduk

Second Chances and White Hot Romance

A Life Beyond Crohn's

Living life with Crohn's Disease

Ilonita's Books, Quilts & notes

My book reviews, quit & sewing projects, and notes from travelling.


When no one else listens

My Wonderland

A blog about my life and thoughts


Because we couldn't fit it on one page.

This, That, and The Other

Random musings on life, society, and politics

Ink That Flows

"For sale: baby shoes, never worn." - Hemingway

Daniel Triumph's Blog

The Pursuit of Quality Narrative Through Study and Practice

Arrowhead Freelance and Publishing

Making the world a richer place, one story at a time

Writing and Editing

Helping writers write.

Mel Gough

First book, "A World Apart", out now with NineStar Press

Freya Wolfe


M's World

Poetry For You

Dark Thoughts. Deep Reflections

The Depressed Mind Speaks

wings of snow

the dark, dark days.


Writer!! Weird and obvious and off-kilter and plain ole hustling my stuff!

In the Margins

Tips on editing, writing and grammar

Rukrym Chronicles

my existence beyond time and space

Sisters Write

We are just two sisters, 👭 Living in different cities, 🌆 Distanced by our lives, 🚶‍♀️💃 Brought together by our words! 🖌📝

the grapheus

Writer, pastel-painter, and general poiema.

Payman's Perspective

a subjective truth

Tea Leaves in Ashtrays

A Safe Haven for Literature

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