Source: “The Song of Sixpence” (1881), Walter Crane
The Hunter’s moon rose high as Henry knelt, pulling the pie out of the oven. Dear Liza’d been sent, holey bucket in hand, to gather autumn leaves for decoration. For their 154th anniversary, he’d sworn to make the pie on his own, Continue reading
Basics first:
Butter, on countertop, softened with time
Sugar, stored frozen ‘gainst careless craving
Egg twins, room temperature, golden eyes wide
Dash of vanilla, razor-sharp sweet Continue reading
Act 1
(A moment of peace, the calm in the eye of the storm.)
Just a few short hours ago, there‘d been a clatter of metal against glass, the whine of motors rotating through a thick sludge, the wet thunk of an awkward body, a snip and rustle of evisceration, the rasp of metal on metal, and a clang of slamming doors.
“I think we’ve done all we can for now.” Karen wipes her brow and surveys the damage. “When are the troops supposed to arrive?”
Write or write not - there is no aspiring.
Poetry and Commentary that Smells
poetry, fiction, art, books, retro
A dose of fetish. Good friends. An incomparable muse.
It's All True, None of It's True. Don't Ask.
Words of a clarklike female
A writing blog by H.R.R. Gorman
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Fiction Writing
Lance Greenfield - Night Writer
