Accepting Death, And What Comes With It
Annabel accepted the fact she was going to die at 2.37 pm on a quiet, nondescript Sunday afternoon.
Short stories and poems, from strange places inside my head.
Annabel accepted the fact she was going to die at 2.37 pm on a quiet, nondescript Sunday afternoon.
James doesn't know made him go into the church, a small grey stone one with a gently twirling weathervane.
He slithers across the floor His hunched form full of false humbleness. Dark, dingy, a mossy green Intercepted by a jewel-like flick, A speck of colour, In an overbearing land of monotone.
The sea is a feline huntress, Arching her back against tumbling waves. She pads along raw coastline, Hissing and spitting at crumbling rocks.
It was war. Every day, they would sit in cold metal capsules, cramped in like mice in a cage. At their specified time, the door would unlock, and it would be their turn to fight.