Tag Archives: Face


Ernest Burroughs pulled the well-thumbed life manual close to his face. His cataract eyes failed him; so he sniffed out the written words with his white-haired nostrils. The words travelled his nasal paths to his brain; where he chewed on them vigorously, squeezing them of their collective meaning. Billions of random words danced atop his eyeballs like small dazzling clouds, when his chest tightened. And before he could impart the revealed recipe of immortality to mankind, a force pulled him through a white tunnel.


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I had been drawn into a dark circus of a world; a world where high-wired voices had giggled so delicately, over nothing.

This is the spirit of the circus, they had voiced with curled lips, and it’s about laughing over fake flowers, to entertain the curious.

Summers had slipped, and my laughs had burned out like old rings of fire. The mouths of jugglers had wheezed at my woeful face.

A circus is no place for a sad heart, they’d chorused.


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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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Little Doll

You were Isobel Isaac to the world; to me, you were Little Doll. Your enchanting smile would leave paparazzi hypnotised at the lens; they failed to detect the cracks in your face; the heavily overworked Maybelline eyes, that were merely a make-up-of-the-season disguise for the early morning Napoleon brandy drinking sessions, we so often spent.


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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.

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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.

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Interviews with the protagonists of your favourite books

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


When no one else listens

My Wonderland

A blog about my life and thoughts


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Random musings on life, society, and politics

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

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The Pursuit of Quality Narrative Through Study and Practice

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

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

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M's World

Poetry For You

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wings of snow

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

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my existence beyond time and space

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

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Writer, pastel-painter, and general poiema.

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a subjective truth

Tea Leaves in Ashtrays

A Safe Haven for Literature

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