Tag: writing
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The Well Best Forgotten
At the edge of townthere’s a well everyone swearsthey don’t visit.Too dark,too deep,too full of thingsthat were never meant to be pulledinto daylight. But every nightyou can hear the rope creak,the bucket scraping stone,the hush of neighboursleaning over the rimto see what’s floating there. They say the well shows truths.They say it reveals dangersbefore they…
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The Thought I Lost On the Way to the Kettle
I had a thought worth keeping,sharp enough to write down,but somewhere between standing upand deciding I deserved a cup of teait slipped out a side door in my mind.By the time the kettle clicked on,all I could rememberwas that it had felt importantin the way small things sometimes dobefore steam and habitcarry them off.
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We Taught Rocks to Think
We taught rocks to think.Not the old way, where stones held storiesbecause someone carved them in,but the stranger way;taking sand that once knew only tides and pressure,purifying it until it forgot it was earth,slicing it thin enough to tremble,and persuading it to carry lightningin patterns precise enough to mean something. We etched pathways into silence,coaxed…
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The Blueprint
I keep laying out blueprintsfor things I’ve already built.Not because they need fixing,but because I can’t stop seeingthe empty spaces between the lines. Everyone else points at the structure;the beams holding,the rooms lit,the whole thing standingexactly as intended.They call it solid.They call it good.Some even call it beautiful. But I’m still at the drafting table,pencil…
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Memories of Amoxicillin
There was a bottle in the cupboardthe colour of weak sunshine,with a label half‑peeledand a smell you could recognisefrom three rooms away.Thick as custard,sweet in a way nothing natural ever is,it clung to the spoonlike it didn’t want to let go. We hated it, of course;the way it coated your tongue,the way it lingeredlong after…
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Don’t Trust Poets
Don’t trust poets.They’ll swear they’re only describinga perfectly ordinary scene-a field, a street, a quiet afternoon-and you’ll believe themright up until the momentthe ground starts whispering. They’ll tell you the sky is bluewhile nudging you in the ribsas if to say,but is it? really? They’ll insist the strange thing you sawwasn’t strange at all,and the…
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The Parade of Polished Shoes
They polished the shoes and bent down to praise,they hung clever posters and learned all the plays.A drum got louder, a march found a beat,and neighbours began nodding in tidy, clean rows in the street. They offered neat answers with ribbons and bows,promised order, clean lists, and fewer of those.But maps made of rules leave…
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A Polite Haunting
Some days, a tiny creature wakes up inside my chest, a moth‑sized doubt with button eyes and too much interest. It flutters through my ribcage with a soft, persistent bluff, whispering in a velvet voice, what if you’re not enough? It’s polite about its haunting, it never claws or makes a scene;just rearranges furniture in…
Weather In My Ribs 