Winter. 1616. ‘Hand me that cutter, will you?’ His voice was rust on iron in deep water. ‘This junk?’ Old metal with a thin cylindrical shape was… Read more “Prose 5”
Category: Prose
Prose 4
The air was cold. Frost filled pockets would fill and slap you in the face as you exhaled and moved, and that’s how you kept alive in… Read more “Prose 4”
Prose 3
Slow horns blast in an uncoordinated effort to ruin my psyche. Craving something normal, I’m salivating at the idea of classical music. I can almost see it.… Read more “Prose 3”
Prose 2
You can spend four hundred nights alone. Content to be alone, but a longing is there. If you’re unaware of this longing you’ve never truly been alone,… Read more “Prose 2”
Prose 1
It was easily seen and impossible to forget. The straight angles of your face and the curved lines of stunning emotion.
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