The secrets of a secret book
This text was found in the aged librarian’s desk (postmortem), the handwriting was not that of the librarian but scribbled in green ink by an anonymous feminine hand. Somewhere In […]
Family matters
Entering the restaurant I sensed the odor, tobacco smoke and olive oil, garlic and basil mingling with my fear. “Right through… he’s in his office,” the fedora-man hissed; pressing the […]
In the Library there are no Mirrors.
The aged librarian never gazes into mirrors; he has ceased to search for liver-spots, and he doesn’t need to know how much his skin has ceased to tightly wrap his […]
Silent headstones
The moon has already wrapped itself in silver clouds; the branches of the bared canopies, like sooty filigree, are skeletal hands waving in the mournful breeze. An owl hoots. I […]
Morning Reflections
Morning water-mirrored, mountain appearation seems reversed unless you know what’s up or down; like when you read the morning paper reflecting if the world (and its words) has turned the […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 