When he spoke, his lips ghosted passed her own, not quite touching, but near enough to burn. To sear. To blaze across her soul.
-
-
The cry of cicadas is both a warning and a memory. Every year they bring with them the nostalgia of Christmas. Emerging on the curtails of a dry heavy heat to become a daily backdrop of ordinary outdoor life.
-
I am infected with an alien. My body has become a treacherous landscape of nope. Within mere weeks the alien has taken command and turned all my senses traitor. My memories of food are full of pot holes and landslides and precarious roads that lead to a rather strong gag reflex unlike anything I’ve so far experienced.
-
Seventeen years old and here I am, sitting at a small, corner coffee table, glaring at the menu and praying that the waitress waiting to take my order doesn’t notice the unshed tears I’m fruitlessly trying to blink into submission. I am not going to cry. I’m not. I’m seventeen for Gods sake. Not five. Not lost and alone without…
-
Changing a blown tire on a burning black bitumen road was not high on Tim’s list of “shit I want to get done today”.
-
You’re late. Except you’re not that late so it’s okay. It’s nothing to make a fuss over because everyone is late sometimes, right?
-
Life explodes in all its grandour and chaos and mishaps and that means that sometimes, despite best intentions, things fall by the wayside.
-
A new post for a fresh website look. Also (in case you hadn't noticed) I've been feeling rather sappy lately.
-
He kissed her. Not because he liked her, not even because he’d really wanted to, but because a demon had once told him to try.
-
His eyes fell on her, still so bright, and she felt that shiver from so long ago creep back through her. Back through the tips of her ngers and her lips, where she sometimes still felt the burn of his soul.
