Being marbled
His hands were worst, pretending softness gently just before he formed my ribs. At least the rocks were honest, my womb of sorts, the secret script of being marbled me, […]
His hands were worst, pretending softness gently just before he formed my ribs. At least the rocks were honest, my womb of sorts, the secret script of being marbled me, […]
Writing about living in two places (and times)
Poems & Stories from The Author Stew
practising for a whole life
haikai poetry matters
Running in the slow lane
The view from here ... Or here!
“Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.” — Albert Einstein
chronicling my quarter life crisis