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This is just a quick reminder that this blog does have a Facebook page, in addition to Twitter. I use both, but in case you prefer Facebook over Twitter, you can find the page here.

I use it to post new links and sometimes update in general about what’s going on in my little world.

Hope to see you there!

 
 

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The Ritual

Every Friday it’s like clockwork.

She pours a coffee and reads the news, or watches it – though the second is a deviation from the written version. She waits until the coffee has cooled for three minutes, drains it and repeats.

The early-on jitters have all but stopped now, she is so used to the bitter eye-wateringly strong brew. It’s a parallel that is blindingly obvious; it mirrors the way things were with him, early on. She remembers the accelerated heartbeat, the nervously shaky hands, the way cradling a hot drink gave her something to do.

Now, she only has the coffee for company. It’s the only part of her ritual that remains intact – even the coffee has not survived the change. She stopped embellishing it once it was just her, because he always added something to his drink.

The machine drips a fresh serving and she scalds her lip on the edge of the cup. Blames herself for being too eager to remember.

If the weather remains cold enough, she’ll take her drink out to the balcony, breathe in cold crisp air.

(don’t you feel more alive? he asked her once, and laughed when she said she felt more cold)

Out here, she watches the fog dissipate from the horizon, tries to imagine all the shapes that might be seen through the layers of fog and air pollution. Once upon a time, they would sit here together and drink, make up stories about all the people they couldn’t see and tell tales about the ones they could see. She doesn’t do that now, because she’s on her own and her imagine isn’t the same without him to bat around ideas.

It’s clockwork, a finely tuned machine that she never allows to falter. Every week she carries out the old ritual, faithful and loving. Every week she burns her lip on a fresh cup, reads the news and tells herself a story about passersby.

It never brings him back.

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2015 in Flash Fiction

 

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Stellar and Lunar Round Up: Week 1

Hey all!

I hope things are well with you. I had a job interview yesterday, I think it went alright.

I began my Stellar and Lunar blog event last week and had a handful of responses. I’m not going to try picking one out, because I enjoyed them all equally for different reasons. I hope I’ve not forgotten anyone, but if I have please let me know.

Jessica from masterselftherapy.com brought us a psychology piece about dreams, sharing and recreating them.

Dajena of MoonSkittles contributed a poem about waiting and light. It’s a lovely piece, wistful and dreamy.

Nitin of Nitin Nair Writes also brought a poem, a tale of dreaming and loneliness and seeing someone in particular.

Your new challenge (week of May 21) is Reaching Out.

Feel free to drop by, bring us something starred or lunar and help yourself to the fridge. Also, welcome to any newcomers!

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2015 in Stellar and Lunar

 

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Warping

The mirror is crafted of a smoky glass that gives me a new pallor, manipulates my hair colour and warps my clothes.

I don’t recognize myself right now.

I step away, to the normal clear mirror. Too late, my mind has been tricked, the mirrors lying.

I don’t recognize myself.

 
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Posted by on May 21, 2015 in Fiction

 

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Word Crush Wednesday: Emily Bronte

Today’s another of those disconnected, irrelevant quotes. It’s not attached to any particular situation in my life, like I tend to do. I haven’t got the patience or time for that, because tomorrow I have a job interview. I’m trying to figure out clothes. Trying not to freak out, and in a minute I’ll go and play my uplifting power songs. (Is it just me, or do I always seem to post a quote when I have a job interview coming up?)

This is one of those quotes that lodges into my brain and stays there, always on the edge of my mind and sometimes in the centre. It comes from Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

 
 

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Poetry 101 Rehab: Dark

i rely on the dark.

it is an elixir,
a serum
the better to
tell truths.

witness once every
twenty-four hours
and hide to reveal new things.
one by one
details come to
the dark.

strip away the dark
and layer up the
light
bring back the fake.

honesty by light –
it’s too much,
too nerve-wracking
and i can’t stand
it just yet.

(the dark offers
too much protection;
why ever would i
give it up?)

there’s too much shelter
right now.
even so
the horizon is finding its
first rays
of light.

 
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Posted by on May 19, 2015 in Fiction, Poetry

 

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tune

we’re out of tune, the
pitch all wrong and there’s no time
to correct it now.

 
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Posted by on May 19, 2015 in Poetry

 

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