The Writ

Page 2

32 articles in category The Writ / Subscribe

Always us, through night and day:
Eyes wide open, flaming stars,
Loving true, loving right,
With fingers sweet to soothe our scars.

A solid grip through toil and play;
We walk as one on steady feet.
No burden vast, no torment may
Our compact break. Two hearts, one beat.

One day thou shall return, prisoner sans walls,
To lie awake at night, dripping, hollow’d, spent.
The fly-lord hath raiseth the scepter; he calls
for thee, erstwhile blood of pinings rent.

Thou will not lull or soothe thy weary flesh;
Noone dare stay time’s flow in yer favour.
Father. Master. God wielding yron mesh
will past regret ensnare thy soul with fervour.

There's this way that I like of thinking about you: not entirely lustful, not with outright love. Because, you see, desire is addiction and I'm already hooked. And while love is where I'm headed--hell, I think I caught it bad--it's your eyes that tell me something; it's your heart that says: not yet.

This geek

You can say that this particular storm came without the warning of the preceding calm, for hardly anything under, on, or above the high seas is ever calm. And when you deal with someone of Mr. Drummond’s repute, well, you get to learn that hardly anything comes with a warning.

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Point in fact: they always said she was danger, her with the hourglass pupils, a bad influence. I heard that spiel a thousand times. “The devil is inside her,” they would say. Or, “That’s no woman, that’s a succubus”. And yet there I was, doing what I never could have imagined I would do: dating her.

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There was an inmost coziness between glass and individual. Bear was not yet drowned in it, but they were engaged, one to the other. Very. He sat at the bar, legs dangling over a stool that would never prove too short, his sight glued to the TV above the shelves.

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I never understood my grandma’s smoking habit. It was already the 90’s, for chrissake, a point in time where everyone knows, at least in theory, that cigar smoke is poison. And the corollary was no less true: people died because of it. But there she was, an entire rosary at night, three soft packs during the day, and a lot of grumbling in between.

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The garlic-chopping knife takes an extra iron tango step, dancing with his flesh. He runs to the bathroom, showering the wound with iodine from the first-aid kit and covering it with a thick gauze blanket that turns crimson in a second.

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