They must pass through the colonnade of aspen trees as sunrise cuts through at the height of a small Greek woman.
She was that woman, barefoot, in a thin silk shift, a blue bowl of fresh oranges from Thessaloniki in her hands.
So the prophecy said. Continue reading
We’d planned it down to the last detail, listed everything we could control and those things that we could not. Continue reading
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
