Sarah's mind returned to her; her fog lifted. A shovel in one hand and standing over a freshly buried, small hole in her garden. With no memory to what was buried, Sarah cleaned herself off, stowed the shovel, and returned inside.
By Julia Sinton3 years ago in Fiction
Dear Jean Rhys, You gave a voice to someone sad and alone, You explained the reason for her perceived caprice, For she was meant to be the ‘mad old crone’.
By Julia Sinton3 years ago in Poets
Dear You, Thank you for your letter, To me, it meant the world. My spirit, you did better, For I was in the corner—curled.
Dear You, Yes, I said it, dear You, I just wanted to say, You have made some mistakes, And that’s okay. You have had some pains and aches,
Do not take my fire from me, The beauty mesmerizes me. The angel’s fine hair— Of pure white-ash, To powder turned if tried to insnare.
Titillating tautogram, tantalize taste. Topic, ticked! Tell tacky tales. To that!, Topsy-turvy tellings, Trape through the tregmental’s typicals.
“The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. Do not give it light, or else at night. it will come for you. Do not look into the eyes, or else the eyes will lie to you. —Jayne.”
By Julia Sinton3 years ago in Horror
Hastily honing harmful habits, Here, humbleness has halted. Habitually hindering hope, Hiding honesty; has herded hate.
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. The person looking back had all the right details to my face, and character in the mannerisms for how I move. Yet, that smile… the smile was where the deceit was loudest, how those eyes smiled…
I'll go into restaurants, and grocery stores maskless, Grannies dying, children crying, but it's not reckless. Your loss of health; I don't want to see it,
Mystery, history, repeat, The same wars do repeat. The invasion began, The innocent defended or forced; they ran, Mystery, history, repeat.
Nearly atop, Sisyphus rolled his boulders, Just like you with your desk job and folders, Toiled to climb, in the muck, Always just out of luck,
