A forespurrer-sent writ (raw)
My lief dearling,
'Tis mickle mirž werewiž J am penning žis pi∫tle vnto žee, for at long la∫t haue mine eyes lit vpon žee, že faire∫t cheer 'yond matches, anew, be it eižer an yble∫t or becur∫t hap. Jn ∫o doing a wonder-∫tricken witting had yfallen to vnbo∫oming an er∫t afear'd trož, namely žat my yearnings after žee haue abiden ∫teadfa∫t and ay-youžful. J hereupon, wižouten care of gain∫aying, dare word, whil∫t begazing žy comely leer, žat fullheart'd art žou beloued of me.
Wo! already am J ware, owing žeeward heap-meal wiž žanking for že ∫hrift of žy mi∫deeds, of že naked ∫oož žat J haue been cro∫t in žy loue, which, J mote aknow, was a bitter keen ∫haft in že mid∫t of my brea∫t at one ∫wift ∫woop. How∫oeuer že wellaways worž že ye∫ter-tidings nažele∫s, a ne'er-afore-met kindne∫s haž bedwelt my weeping wound, and ouer head and ear
A Dust of SnowSnow was the great purification. All of the dark places of the land dotted with coated trees were blanketed by mother snows cold hand. The earth was softer in winter, in white. It was sleeping soundly beneath the coverlets where only wolves, rabbits and deer went tuttering by leaving their trails and magic.A Dust of Snow2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The girl’s cheeks had long turned chill-burnt red, polished and bright as two crisp autumn apples. They burned in the pale of her skin in the moonlight. In some other time, her lips as red as hearts and her hair as dark as raven’s wings might have stirred a poem. But the eerie mingling of fear and desire glass coating her brown eyes made her seem a mad, mad straw creature than a beauty.
The snow was deep and it bit to the knee, sometimes keeping her stuck in place. Frostbite tingled, a small sting at first and now a sharp bite in her feet; fingers. Her mittens had been swiped by a lashing pine, a boot kept by unforgiving drift. Her dress cold and wet.
The Ink LineBack in the first house I called my home,The Ink Line8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I spied a map in the front window.
Encoded and golden,
it's language the places I visited during the Summer.
We used to save the fish there,
Keep them from being caught by rogues
With eyes like toads,
Preying on the animals
By feeding them corners to huddle up in.
The Ink Line;
A place where lost time
Met frost vines,
Encompassing a lake
Gorgons’ eyes –
I froze...just looking at it.
Years passed. I read the tale of Gilgamesh,
Convinced he was speaking to me –
mostly. No, I'm certain.
"Paradise always felt lost to us" he’d say
"It’s why, as children, we sought it out each day."
And I knew the Ink Line was the place...
That warrior brought me dreams, warned me about a serpent
Due to appear in between the ripples of the water
And the reflection of the full moon.
It would consume me whole,
Digest me to places where you could only pay boatmen a toll.
All leading to a world of colossus with r
Exploring Art 37: Does your muse have adhd?Hello friends. I am here to discuss a serious problem.Exploring Art 37: Does your muse have adhd?1 year ago in Personal More Like This
Adhd in Muses.
You see, this is something that rarely goes diagnosed, much less treated, but it is a situation we all know. You are there, working hard. Your muse is leaning over your shoulder offering words of encouragement, and then... suddenly..
"Yes, yes that's looking wonderful, just a line to the left no-SHINEY! TENTACLES! BUTTERFLIES! WE SHOULD SCULPT! I KNOW I KNOW CRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFT FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAM! HEY YOU HAVENT DONE OIL PAINTING EVER, WE SHOULD START NOW! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"
There you sit, gazing in wide eyed startlement as your once refined, elegant inspiration flings itself in a frenzy around the room leaving a trail of art supplies in it's wake. We've all been there, but I am here to say.. you are not alone. There is help.
The first step is to contain the muse. This may not be easily done, but I have found constructing a cage of colored pencils that have been taped together with artist's duck tape works wonders o
Mold Greg was cleaning behind his toilet on a Friday when a voice came from within the wall.Mold2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Hey!" the voice said. "Look, I give, all right? I'm coming out!" Greg watched as a stream of black-and-white goo poured out of a crack near where he'd been scrubbing. It smelled of mildew, and, when enough of it came out, formed itself into the shape of a man.
"What are you?" Greg asked, looking up at its globby face.
"I'm the mold that lived behind your toilet," it said, "and I'm here to be your friend."
"Because I didn't develop self-awareness without reason, and you're a loser who cleans his bathroom on a Friday. Get your keys; we're going to the park."
Greg drove. They went to the basketball courts and the mold won in one-on-one against Greg. Twice.
"You need to exercise more," it said. "
paper hearts. Theres a crevice in the wall where she hides her little baby girl, all plastic smiles and mechanical giggles. She cuddles it like it has a soul and speaks to it like it has a name. Its soft rubber skin has been covered with paper hearts and marker stars, and its little plastic ears have been filled with whispers of adoration and love. Its wiry blonde hair has been crossed into braids, twisted up above its head, and she has pulled a dress onto its synthetic body with the brightest little smile. She reminds it that its beautiful, even though it cant hear. She fastens it tight into the beaten pink stroller and skips behind it as it rolls across the pavement, dancing in the sun like there is no tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream.paper hearts.6 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cru