The snowbells ring throughout the endless night. Shaking their stark, blistering white light across the frozen fields, these little bell-flowers help light the way for the night travellers who search out for spring's new song. When the south starts to warm, after the deepest chill of winter, the land exhales a wistful air that sends itself reeling towards any remaining cold and ice, its determination gathering speed as it melts all in its path. The north feels it coming, and the brave flowers that found their way out of the snowbanks reverberate and buzz with pleasure. They call out again and again to the wild, warming winds. Those that travel after them delight to see the snow fracturing on their path. Green fingers rise sharply from the clods to greet them, and they dance together as the world around them brightens.
Wednesday, 1 August 2018
Thursday, 1 March 2018
Inside the stack lived a little lady made of words. Letters ran across her skin, her eyelashes beat with exclamations and her hair uncurled languorous descriptions of the stories her heart whispered in the night. The walls of her home were faded papers, histories and folktales that lingered on the page like shadows. Whether from sad thoughts or moments of delight, the tears she shed were made of blackest ink. They splashed around her and broke into an alphabet, the tiny characters ran around and banded together, weaving themselves into new yarns of extraordinary adventure.
. . .
Wednesday, 28 February 2018
In winter the world falls away in sheets of colour. And shadows stick themselves to trees, grey and dark they reach out forever towards the slate of sky; ink upon a broken board. The hills are still, and lifeless. Winds roll over them, moving nothing. There are no eyes here, they went away long ago. There is no witness, the swans have ceased their singing.
Thursday, 22 February 2018
A world away, and the sea still knocked against the arching stone pier that guarded the village. Gulls twisted themselves between sun and spray, ricocheting like rounds of hail among the rooftops. The residents within sighed and didn't notice that their days split apart - some hunkered, with knitted brows and pinched lips, determined gleams concentrating in their eyes; while others found their way towards the black windows and looked out at the liquid horizon, their hearts melting like mist that waits to see the sun.
Wednesday, 21 February 2018
The cloth closed her eyes like liquid ensnaring a scorched surface. It hid the dreams that darted under the lashes, all were smoke and shadow, thoughts that had run until they burned, but now lived on emitting the low hum of fading embers, exhaling the vaporous mild memories of luminous inexperience.
Tuesday, 20 February 2018
The letter the dear girl had sent was a long, exquisite tale of social conquest: an evening party had been attended, a viperous acquaintance had attempted to inflict a mortal wound upon a romance but the girl had triumphed, her intended had appeared quite by chance at the party, and with eyes for no one but her.
Friday, 16 February 2018
There, in the corner, stood three misshapen chairs. Made of wood-knots and found fragments, some old hands had once fastened them together in a likeness of themselves and the chairs took on the demeanour of palm-cups, ready to hold whatever set upon them. They had lived a long time in this pale room, which only ever seemed to shine with a soft, wintry light. The people, their minds in knots and fragments, would come and go, forever changing, they left fingerprints of sky-ice.