on a monday morning, who knows what might happen.…
Browsing Tag
whimsical
ravan was chasing me. he had ten heads and ten faces and ten sets of teeth bared as he sprinted effortlessly, bow and arrow in hand. his skin was swarthy, his eyes bulged, his hair blew wildly in the wind. i could feel my breath getting shorter and shorter, till there was practically no breath left. my feet were tired. my head was hurting. how would i ever come out of this alive? then i remembered something. i stopped running.…
steam rose in quiet swirls from the tea cup. the sky was cloudy, a faint hint of tea leaf in the air. it was almost 8am. allyrie swung past the second ellipse and turned toward trudon high. in the depth of her manah, she saw licks of myriad hues, a gushing sound came closer. was there a flood of vyrka on trudon high again? there was no time to ponder such things though, allyrie was on her way to…
she wasn’t very tall, had a slight figure, hair in a bun, a pleasant expression, nothing remarkable really, yet the two of us were staring at her riveted. next thing i remember, we’d waylaid her and started an animated conversation. i looked at the photograph recalling things. it was the winter of 1980, i think. no internet, no google, no photoshop; i have to rely on good old memory. nice feeling. in fact, when i found the photograph, and grinned…
“bzzzzzzzzzz!” it was the carpenter bee. black and rotund and a little hazy as it whirred about and dashed against the blooms of the bright yellow trumpet flower. “oh, up early today i see!” exclaimed the lavender mauvely, it was the nearest to the blues it could get. “let it be… let it be…! let it beeeee…” replied the carpenter bee, it had a thing for punning. no one ever said a bee couldn’t, after all. lavender rolled its spikes,…
“i think,” said the frog, frowning wisely, “you start feeling freedom once you have lost something…” it paused and gazed up at the sun moodily, then added a final word with an air of authority, “forever.” the lavender swayed as it laughed, a throaty provocative sort of laugh, “a loss, really? of what? or of whom? and why should loss make you feel free?” who’d have thought the slender spike of pale mauve flowers with those soft, intricately detailed, delicate…