My face had wilted and withered and waned,
Revealing every pain, emotion, thought;
And there was not one thing I could have gained
Had I not written ’bout what my mind fought.
My face had wilted and withered and waned,
“Well, like I said,” continued the monster when I was finally standing back on my feet. “I am thrilled to meet you; I have been trying to communicate with you for months now. Truth be told, I would be supremely honoured if you joined me for a cup of tea.”
The colossus looked awkwardly shy, almost starstruck.
“Would you? Join me for a cup of tea, I mean.”
I nodded in astonishment.
Your voice is music to me,
The kind that makes you wish the song would never end.
I could travel the seven seas within your beautiful eyes,
And to get lost in them would truly be a blessing.
To love a beauty such as yourself is an honor I hardly deserve,
For you bring out the best of me.
I am going to stay wounded.
And I shall never trow that
I can forgive those who have wronged me.
This might surprise you, but
my soul will avenge my perpetrators.
And I won’t ever want to think that
forgiveness is an art.
A former politician who has written op-eds for several large publications in the United States of America, the fourty-year-old, who is currently residing in the Rocky Mountain Area, the US, tells Stavyah Vatsarah, the roving editor at the Literary Express, in her response email that she worked full time until she got laid off in 2019. In the email, she writes about everything under the Sun – her published works, her hobbies, her family… Quite interestingly, she goes on to state that her first erotica entitled ‘Becoming Monsters’ has zero profanity because she is not too fond of using profane words. ‘If you can’t find something good to read, write it,’ she states.
‘I buy four bottles of hard liquor and some wine
hoping that by the time I get home, I won’t be able to walk
in straight lines. I want to stumble and curse and struggle to
slide my key from my purse. I want to rage against the
door’s lock, so incoherent I feel like it’s a sleepwalk.
The liquor bottles on my arm are an ice storm,
and now gloved hands shoved in pockets
are the only things that keeps me warm.’
As the brute winds merciless
Like a vast river at the realm do rush
For to pick off the feeble and the despairing
As trees and fences fall at the opening salvo
With faces blanched and by much dread afflicted
As to the ground from whence they came
They now far too soon do return
Beneath the impassive regard of the opal moon
Speaking about her published novella entitled ‘The Unbreakable Thread’ published last year on Amazon, Google Books, and Notion Press, Nissha says it is a romantic fiction in the new adult genre. ‘It is based on a Japanese legend. It deals with two souls who are destined to meet each other,’ she shares with us, clearly not willing to divulge more details.
Let this year rouse the knight in you that sleeps;
Each moment let the wakened you rejoice.
New days will bring new beginnings in leaps;
Year after year you will attain more poise.
Make wise decisions, let there be no hate;
You will obtain what you desire, my mate.
God bides in such a world, my soul supposes!
World that’s a million times larger than ours…
Thank God, be happy, ponder the world
Where orbs are gardens with flowers…
If you want to trod that world
Live the life here fully.
Do repent your sins.
You’ll get back life.
With the Lord,
Most of us tend to talk about actions that are already over. In other words, we like to either reminisce about the good moments or discuss our past life events to add value to an ongoing conversation. Hence, it becomes essential for learners to understand the uses of each of the past tenses. Nonetheless, many students face issues dealing with the past continuous and the past perfect continuous. They find it hard to figure what exactly is the difference between these two tenses. Thus, in this post, we have listed all the differences we feel you ought to know.
This year we worked from home, to our workplaces said ‘buh-bye!’
And then at home we joyed with our beloved ménage, kinsfolk.
When March bade to each of us that sad and alarming ‘Hi’,
we did confine ourselves to our homes, thus becoming broke.
You are not a poet if you know just to rhyme;
You are not a poet if you don’t know to chime.
You are not a poet if you just use dead words;
You are not a poet if you can’t deal with girds.
The excitement of knowing that Christmas was near
A scent you could smell in the air
That innocence of childlike hoping
To reap all your dreams would dare
The anticipation of Christmas Eve
Of waking to the perfect gift
Of music with bells, and Christmas roast smells
So next time that you see a soul struggle through the day,
Think of how your Santa would bring love to fill their day,
And every gift that you receive, be grateful and feel blessed,
Knowing Santa’s with you and that his love never rests.
The morning writer, whose list of favourite authors changes all the time, has had her short stories featured in the award-winning anthologies Elmwood Stories to Die For and Mayhem in Memphis as well. ‘My stories also appear in Low Down Dirty Vote VII, Stories Through the Ages: Baby Boomers Plus 2019,’ she says. We also learn that the online literary journal Backchannels published one of her stories in the spring and another story won second place in the online Short Storyland 2019 competition.
Could you behold the setting ball of fire a while?
Could you discourse with each hill that’s adorned by snow?
The path we’re treading on will take us one more mile
So we may touch the clouds that move in that destined row.
Oh, when the sky does gain its charm and glow at night;
We’ll wander each lane that reflects the Moon’s light.
Perhaps you may even experience that which transcends our mortal pleasures for one fleeting moment by the one who keeps you warm at night. I have silently accepted I may never. Never have I tasted that of angels. The most I have ever experienced was to have held hands with one for one moment in time, suspended in memory, a memory that partially exists and partially does not. If I were to tell you how I think of you, what I think of you, you’d be frightened.