Plotting for Kisses

November 12, 2019

The girl from up the stairs is plotting for kisses.
While making her lips taste of tea leaves before painting them,
she collects the stormy weather to darken her light eyes with.
The girl leans back and turns her hand into a piece of art,
or a photograph of two lovers.

She slips inside of stained glass and roams through dusk
in shades of purple, blue, and milky white angel wings.
She casts aside her identity for just a few hours
and pretends that she is anyone you want her to be,
while never changing her smile.

You can hold onto her, around the slender waist,
but only with a grip as weak as autumn light,
before she passes back out into the night,
swooning into the pages of history books,
like all good stereotypes.

James Cramphorn

she screamed again

November 12, 2019

Also another time she had wakened in dead of night, thinking that something touched her, and when she looked she saw that a black scaly tail,  tufted with flame at the end, like a fiend’s, had switched across her and lay there burning the covers.  And when she turned shrieking, to see what manner of thing lay beside her in the bed, she was at first reassured by sight of her husband’s face, then saw, to her horror, that horns had risen, black and pointed, from his forehead. After that she screamed again and remembered nothing until Joseph was shaking her awake, and there were neither horns nor tail to be seen. Nor were the bedclothes scorched.

Evangeline Walton
Witch House


November 12, 2019

If the future remains uncertain, we know the past history of nationalism. And that should be sufficient to encourage a habit of watchful suspicion.

Michael Billig
Banal Nationalism

look away

November 12, 2019

As a young girl I used to undress in front of my Aunt’s doll collection in the hope that embarrassment would make them look away. But they never did.

Oh, so many dreadful, greedy eyes they had –

Keep it sugar free

November 12, 2019


November 12, 2019

The weird thing about houses is that they almost always look like nothing is happening inside them, even though they contain most of our lives. I wonder if that is part of the architecture.

John Green
The Fault In Our Stars