| Winter is coming and she comes to stay. |
| The story of Ellie - the girl who almost was. |
Like a bright eyed magpie, I have been scratching out and collecting pieces of Joseph for years, his indecision fuelling my already redundant habit of nest-building.
On good days, I would take the wrinkles around his eyes; filled with memories he had tried to shed, they glittered in the deepest part of the night - beacons for lost hearts and flightless souls.
On days that were just some days, I would take the mishappen, roughly jewelled scars lining his arms, hips, thighs; within their imperfections I found facts, each with one thousand facets.
On bad days, I would take the marrow from his phalanges; in the soft light of morning it turned to mallow and stuck to my own bird-bones, a constant reminder of that which you cannot shed, no matter how many years you spend trying.
But like all nest-builders know, there comes a day when the nest fussing is over and the children must come to it but instead of children, tobacco fireflies fell upon our arms and set us to screaming.
| This is the end of Joseph, the boy who could not decide whether he was or was not. |
As the first brother stepped onto the sun bleached grass with the heart of the father clutched to his side, the second brother turned to the woman at his heel and though his eyes sought hers, they alighted on the twist of her lip -- a twist he had long since forgotten for the woman had not lifted her joy to the surface in many a year. And as the second brother watched the woman watching the first brother, his hopes faded from her eyes and coiled themselves within the thrumming shelter of his heart.
So it was that the father was lost and the first brother returned from a war of many years to find a heart waiting for his own. And amid the tumultuous heaving of shifting affections and mixed grief, the second brother was lost -- forever.
| The short story of two brothers, led by a father. |
Winter, fellit is the startWinter, fell by ~Lacewinged-Beauty
of new beginnings --
of a new month
and new murders,
but hush, sweetheart,
don't get ahead of yourself,
the worst is yet to come.
winter will come a callin',
her bones crackling with
anticipation as she draws children from
their beds with icy hand
and you, my darling,
are next.
It's A Wonder, We'll Never LandSage-lipped and infinite, Peter pries open the soft teal of September with fingers that shake and shiver; Alice watches from afar and through windows that tremble beneath the weight of almost-frost, there is the green eyed cheshire smile of a boy both familiar and completely unknown. But as much as the wanderlust has gnawed on the edges of her patience, cracking her reserve, her thirst for Peter keeps floating in her malpighian layer; and, cursing the idea of wrinkles folding her youth, it creeps out before she can close her eyes to restrain it.It's A Wonder, We'll Never Land by ~Lacewinged-Beauty
As the thirst slips into the jagged corners of her vertebrae, leaving shards of glittering wanderlust in its wake, she finds Peter on the other side; he is further away than she needs him to be - dancing on the surface of her dew-bitten skin - but her hands are the frail claws of craven women and she cannot reach him.
She cannot reach.
Time has withered her, outside but never in. Peter, the ever cautious memory, hooks nimble limb into the canyo
Wonderful Wednesday Features 003Welcome back for the newest 'Wonderful Wednesday Features'. Over the past week I have come across an extreme number of amazing pieces of literature and some beautiful photography. Everyone featured today should be incredibly proud of themselves - your work is inspiring, unique and so creative. I have also added a 'Special Feature', so from now on a writer or a photographer or artist will receive a feature with three of their works; and a 'Group Feature'.Wonderful Wednesday Features 003 by *imaginative-lioness
I urge you all to have a look at everything posted here, and if you have suggestion, either something of yours and somebody else's, please send me a note with the link. Or if you just have a writer or photographer you know who deserves a feature, send me a link to their profile and I will choose something from their gallery.
Literature:
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Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.Stories of feelings with no names - Revision by =SilverInkblot
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from your late Grandma Moses.
ii.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. Y
Tramps like usYou can’t take me far enough away.Tramps like us by =SilverInkblot
I can’t stop thinking about leaving. I can’t stop trying to pull my feet up by the roots, trying to rip up the radicles I’ve been setting down since birth. I can’t breathe in these small towns, suffocating with friendly smiles, church bells, and the last fumes of exhaust from the bus transit hub, but these whitewall tires are flat. Those long drives with your feet on the dashboard always end in damp motels with thin blankets and half-hearted kisses.
We’re following the birds because they know where they’re going – they’re going somewhere warm. They&rsqu
Anger 
Sta.sh
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