Tag Archives: Up to 100 Words

Prism Dreams

I long to roll down the river called Prism Dreams; to feel the night sky percolate the open pores of my skin. But I heard that the riverboat overturned last winter; had kicked all of the stars out of kilter, had halted the flicker of dragonfly wings under a wearisome moon. I heard that life had become receptive to the fear that had flourished in the eyes of the submerged.


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The roses in the garden were wilting, as though they were nodding their approval of your ignorance towards me. So I tugged them from the earth, removed their mocking heads, and threw them into the sad September breeze. The stalks they cried. The thorns they hailed. And the embers of petals floated back to me, and melded to my sweating body like greedy leeches. The embers still remain there, burning into my soul, like a wild and sorry tattoo.


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A medley of Bach was the only thing that could silence her mind, in this racing city. She pressed the volume up on her Ipod. The iconic chords managed to dumb-out the sound of her heavy stilettos upon the pavement; a sound that seemed to mimic the screech of a pneumatic drill in concrete. She longed to hear the pigeons coo; but even they failed to take a breath amongst the madness. They bobbed past her feet aimlessly, in their search for mangled morsels. She watched one blink, and she winked right back.


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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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She handpicked the last rose of summer; watched the petals wilt into a ballet of depression. The ghost of his apology of deceit had bred in her mind for days. She knew that walking unafraid in a world devoid of him could never equal the burning desire of a restored heart. She crushed the rose in her hand. Someday she would visit his office and attempt to rekindle the love of her lover; a man whom she would always believe to be a raw diamond in the earth.


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New York

Crimson rays from the setting sun had stirred life in to the lank, concrete buildings. The glower of taxi headlights had greeted me with their vitality; and had sculpted hopes and dreams inside my heart. I had watched a man limp up Lexington Avenue. He’d asked the world what their dreams were; or had been. I had tried to offer him an answer; but his silhouette had vanished within the towering steam that had emanated from the street’s drains. And, I had known then, that that flash had been my New York minute.


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Petals, a million shades of rose, lay frozen-in-time, upon the cemetery’s frost-laden grounds. Tomorrow, heartless feet will crush them; turn them into russet particles. Their dying breath will emit rancid vapours into the air, as they succumb to the earth. And, beyond the borders of the cemetery, people will look to the skies; sing the lyrics of summers’ song. Smiling faces, embracing sunlight; unaware that decay is a fraction away.


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Elm Lake

Elm Lake ©2013.alittlebirdtweets

Whenever there were grey curls in the skies, the lake would awaken. Sinister waves would ripple on its surface, and rekindle a whispered voice that spoke of a past happening. The voice would travel through trees and into nearby cottages, where it was eager to be heard. But, no one would listen. No one wanted to believe that it was the voice of the girl, who had drowned in the lake half a century ago.


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Memoir of Mrs Coral Edwards

08/09/1932, 12 Brinkley Place

This house is unsettled, now that you’re gone. Its corridors, once stage sets to our stifling dramas, now shiver with dejection. Its walls, once listeners of our wicked quarrels, now echo the same words over like a maddening amplifier. I can only scream with the hope that it will dowse the uproar in my head. I know that this house pines for your return. I believe it feeds on our conflicts. I’m here alone, Noah, and I’m ever so afraid.


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Anonymous Caller

‘Hello? Who the hell is this? Will you please stop calling me?’

Heavy breathing penetrates the phone receiver, whilst keyboard taps meld with sounds of spittle. Then silence.

Marian’s heart thumps; she drops the receiver, flees the house, stands in the road and stares witlessly at every unlit window surrounding her.

In an apartment, ten blocks away, he hangs up and types.

Dear Marian, the docile tones of your voice inject me with virtuous energy. I know it upsets you when I don’t speak; but knowing you’ll reject me again leaves me with unwelcome dread. I can offer only silence.’


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A Love Song

From a bird’s-eye view, through an open roof, you’ll glimpse me alone; strumming a guitar, in the attic of a house, in a tired seaside town. I scribble lyrics to melodies; sing to backing tracks of seagulls’ cries; they perfectly mimic the beats of my disjointed heart; the one you nurtured, tasted, threw out to sea.

     #Ships they sail away,

The lovers disappear,

     They hold on to nothing,

We hold on to fear#

Notepapers escape my hands, as they‘re lifted up to the skies by the salty-air breeze; and I wonder if the Universe will ever hear my love song.

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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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Jesse, tonight the light on the stairs fails to illuminate my presence. My milky body is enveloped in a torn chiffon chemise; that no married woman would ever dare wear. But you don’t see me, do you? I see a bed with a hole where I once laid; a telephone that no longer rings for me; a wedding photograph that is fading in time; don’t you see the days sunlight bleaching us? I guess life was so much more intricately woven for me, than it was for you.


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Lydia, as I sit in our garden, I am reminded of you. The orange-blossom scent of the tree, the one you planted two years ago, does so echo the deceitful musky fragrance of your skin. I wonder if the roots have consumed your ashes, and if your scent has been carried up through the branches to be radiated out through the buds. The thought of your scent fusing with the Spring oxygen, leaves me sickly. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall chop the tree; that once was a symbol of our love. John.


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Be the peace you are looking for

The Flowers of Art

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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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When no one else listens

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

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

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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

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