It is 4:00AM. Not 3:59AM or 4:01AM but 4:00AM on the dot. The desk awaits him, like a miniature boxing ring with pencils; talismans; a
On the first day, They had made a sheep That was identical in every way. It was a huge genetics leap, The scientists would say.
Click…clack…click. The dark figure inches closer then takes a step back. Clack…click…clack. Another step forward, followed by another one backwards. The steady movement of the
I never thought anyone would want me. ‘Pear shaped’, ‘odd’, ‘chunky’ and ‘sturdy’. Those words forever used to follow me, a constant pagan chant that
The objects in the Writers Museum, in Edinburgh, that inspired me to write this Gothic tale concern Robert Burns. The plaster cast of Robert Burns
Writers in Prison – Scottish PEN Poem Why grant us with such voices? For you do not want to hear us Why let us
Prologue “Well…Shit. Where’d he come from?” Chapter One On the night of October 31st, while the rest of Britain celebrated Halloween, a
Sitting in a train station; waiting for a train. The walls are white, the ground is cold and stone. The Sun shines, winter warm, outside.
Elegant, stylish and graceful, this exquisite woman was much more dignified than to be placing herself in this busy burgundy cafe in which she floated
pre-judged and pre-empted He goes mad, a bad; egg or so people think, his mind is made up, and outwards he goes for revenge. He
Snake on a sand dune, Slowly slithers sideways, down down down. The taciturn Snail, Has forayed too far, will not escape; the winter boot. A
Grandma Lili, have found your Treasure Chest. Tucked high in skylight, I climbed the ladder and entered a mess, Your attic of dust and webs.
In the picture I saw, he was sitting in a chair. It looked like hard cold chair. The color made think of oak but I
by David Clark The huge metal door swung open with a loud and uncomfortable creak, allowing Jack to enter and assess his surroundings. A settee
I lay here everyday and every night. I am never touched, never thought of, never needed. I am forgotten. I’m gathering dust, my intricate gothic
He was an older man, looking through his newspaper and soaking up the knowledge it radiated. His red tartan shirt was a mismatch against the simplicity
In the words of B.B King, music is like a good liniment. Music makes you feel good. Blues, despite the common meaning of sadness, makes
Ugh. Please not today.
The whole afternoon I spent musing over the times when I still felt needed; when I was continuously being entrusted with serving a purpose. My
Dreamy gaze and nail biting. She leans on the counter waiting for her chocolate-sparkled latte to be ready. Black ripped stockings stand out over her