Mark Heathcote
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| Type | Title | Author | Replies | Last updated |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Story | Ten For The Ten Commandments (IP) | well-wisher | 9 | 14 years 3 weeks ago |
| Story | Nicknames for Aislinn | Mark Heathcote | 4 | 14 years 6 months ago |
| Story | Love is the drug | shoe | 8 | 14 years 6 months ago |
| Story | please (don't ) marry me! | shoe | 15 | 14 years 6 months ago |
| Story | the affair | shoe | 13 | 14 years 6 months ago |
| Story | No two people | Mark Heathcote | 2 | 14 years 10 months ago |
| Story | Spring Fever | jennifer | 2 | 14 years 10 months ago |
| Story | Eunectes Murinus | Anna Marie | 3 | 14 years 11 months ago |
| Story | Toothless Wander | lenchenelf | 9 | 14 years 11 months ago |
| Story | How royally Avant-garde am I? | Mark Heathcote | 1 | 15 years 1 month ago |
| Story | Nearly human (again) | Nick.A | 3 | 15 years 3 months ago |
| Story | Do the British take their brollies? | Mark Heathcote | 6 | 15 years 6 months ago |
| Story | VII Stanzas | Mark Heathcote | 2 | 15 years 6 months ago |
| Story | A Lovely Day | Jupiter | 18 | 15 years 6 months ago |
| Story | The Trouble with Grace | Silver Spun Sand | 30 | 15 years 7 months ago |
| Story | Chaosity Kills | jennifer | 2 | 16 years 1 month ago |
| Story | Penetrates | jennifer | 1 | 16 years 4 months ago |
| Story | The music of one’s love is deaf and dumb | Mark Heathcote | 3 | 16 years 4 months ago |
| Story | A Cautionary Tale | MistakenMagic | 2 | 16 years 7 months ago |
| Story | In these cormorant hours spent swift | Mark Heathcote | 2 | 16 years 8 months ago |
My stories
No louder than the snoring tigers lolling tongue!
O’ my sleeping; weeping, thoughts. We’re like army blankets, you and I Observing; nought but sunbeams... Nought... But the lintel iron moonbeams, Under—which no one listens.
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- 1053 reads
Once again ship foundered…
As; the sun, sinks teeth into deepest shadow Its, here I’ve kissed her heart of darkness… And looked; in skulls empty eyes roundness. And tasted her lurid lips; hearts deep cello.
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- 255 reads
The drawbridge across the brambles…
Memories are like the motes—cordoned Around some ever increasing scrubland... Where; little or nothing else can be seen… Except the stoical boatman, who goes to glean?
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- 234 reads
Egotistic eccentric things like this…
Poetry is my one passion—my one love But, what do’ I forgo’ What infernal fires glow? In this life there—of’ What other things, what of’ “Do I not understanding know?
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- 335 reads
Am I Insensitive?
Ghosts come in the shape of the living
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- 435 reads