Let’s go on a day trip. To the country?’ No, not exactly. We just nip to the place where the very walls vibrate their way from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell. . The BeastContinue reading “Who needs drugs?”
Category Archives: Morphic resonance
The Poet
I follow the path of poets of old. Their voices beckon me into the fold, Many cut short in the days of their prime, but nevertheless remembered in rhyme. . For somehow in the throes of death, They cry out with mortal breath “O kindred spirits, living or departed, carry on the work I started.”Continue reading “The Poet”
Kiss
IT BEGAN with a kiss. Not a passionate embrace but a soft brush on the cheek. The feeling of warmth and love from an old friend lingered on beyond the dream and well into the following days … Like a little seed, the feeling grew and grew until I longed to be with my oldContinue reading “Kiss”
Kiss
IT BEGAN with a kiss. Not a passionate embrace but a soft brush on the cheek. The feeling of warmth and love from an old friend lingered on beyond the dream and well into the following days … Like a little seed, the feeling grew and grew until I longed to be with my oldContinue reading “Kiss”
Weejie
Five curious students that should have known better perform a séance. It seemed like a good idea at the time … “… I LOOKED for the tell-tale signs of white on the end of someone’s fingernails but there were none … [The glass] darted from letter to letter, spelling out words that did not makeContinue reading “Weejie”
Who needs drugs?
Let’s go on a day trip. To the country? No, not exactly. We just nip to the place where the very walls vibrate their way from being oh-so-matter-of-factly Georgian and into a realm of bristling auras and dizzy spells and sages who know there’s a very fine line between heaven and hell. The Beast lurksContinue reading “Who needs drugs?”
The Poet
I follow the path of poets of old. Their voices beckon me into the fold, Many cut short in the days of their prime, but nevertheless remembered in rhyme. For somehow in the throes of death, They cry out with mortal breath “O kindred spirits, living or departed, carry on the work I started.” ForContinue reading “The Poet”
