A Bridgeton tale.
…the cyclops makes monsters of us all” Roy Braithwaite (taken from a taped recording made by his Niece Geraldine Braithwaite 1987)
He was literally a polymath. A book and a packet of cigarettes were all that he wanted.
Or, what happens to the woman who loves a king loved by God?
I sank to the floor, gripping the edge of the toilet with my good arm until I felt the nausea subside.
He had stepped back, and then forward, squinting carefully to discern different brushstrokes. By changing his perspective, he hoped to find the trick that revealed each piece’s significance. The inhumanly smooth paint told him nothing.
In London's Highgate Cemetery, a restless spirit guides the reader to a well-visited corner where a troubling secret is revealed
Their comfortable, dispassionate partnership soothed their aching feet and cushioned their joints, ailments that had become emotional side effects of success and that death march to fulfillment.
A Dystopian Tale in Long Island
Peering into their images was like looking at history for the first time, a book laid open for years and never read.
“So, the city: is it ours?”
No longer hostage to the vestigial ballast of our former master, we were free to chase whatever fancied our opposable whims.
What kind of story would you like to write?
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