MistakenMagic

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThe boy who stands upon the hill Parson Thru1912 years 3 weeks ago
StoryBlown away. Highhat2812 years 3 weeks ago
StoryA picture of you. ScoZen2412 years 3 weeks ago
StoryNature of the Beast Silver Spun Sand1712 years 3 weeks ago
StoryThe Gift Beeme312 years 1 month ago
Storyearly sun over Hope Valley JupiterMoon612 years 1 month ago
StoryChristmas Dreams jolono3212 years 1 month ago
StoryPlaces to go Parson Thru812 years 1 month ago
StoryChapter Five: Matthew maggyvaneijk512 years 1 month ago
StoryLady M Silver Spun Sand1012 years 1 month ago
StoryHome Sweet Home iDrew612 years 1 month ago
StoryMerry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence Silver Spun Sand1012 years 1 month ago
StoryHey Joe... Silver Spun Sand1312 years 1 month ago
StoryIthaca MistakenMagic1412 years 2 months ago
StoryYou have to Laugh...Don't You? Silver Spun Sand1612 years 2 months ago
StoryMother Nature's Plan skinner_jennifer3812 years 2 months ago
StoryFate II shoe712 years 2 months ago
StoryHolding On To Nothing jolono2912 years 2 months ago
StorySpirit of Africa Parson Thru512 years 2 months ago
StoryThe great irony Parson Thru1412 years 2 months ago
StoryCherries Are Not the Only Fruit Silver Spun Sand1712 years 2 months ago
StoryPolenta lenchenelf512 years 2 months ago
StoryGames People Play MistakenMagic2512 years 2 months ago
StoryBreathing to the music of a New York street piano maggyvaneijk2512 years 3 months ago
StoryNotes on a Long-Haul Flight MistakenMagic1912 years 3 months ago

My stories

Bad Writing Prize (Inspiration Point)

It was a wet and windy night, though not necessarily in that order...

There Will Be No Other End of the World

And now, what is left after the end of the world? The dark smell of brown sugar in an empty kitchen, my cousins playing cricket in the park...
Poem of the week

Wind Chimes in North America

Prayers return to my lips like a reluctant lover. Now I talk to God the way one talks to a coma patient...
Cherry

Lindsay

I don’t know why, Lindsay, but last night, smoking in the stone cloisters of the quadrangle, I thought of you.
Cherry

Always Summer

I read John Le Carré below the beams of a converted farmhouse, under the arm of rural France. Light filtered in through the slats of painted wooden shutters,

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