Pick of the day

A Conversation in Hester Pit. 16 January 1862

204 miners died in a Mining Disaster at Hester Pit in January 1862
Image source is Wikipedia Commons, and it is in the public domain.

 

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Story of the week

La Femme d'argent

How could I forget the autumn of 1998, and that weekend in Paris?  A sullen, funereal mist folded around the city for the entire three days, fallen gold-and-brown leaves sticking to the soles of our shoes as we walked along the Quai de la Megisserie, gently mocking the efforts of the street artists lining the pavement. We climbed the Eiffel Tower, only to see nothing but a blanket of spectral grey from the top.Read more

Poem of the week

A Conversation in Hester Pit. 16 January 1862

204 miners died in a Mining Disaster at Hester Pit in January 1862
Image source is Wikipedia Commons, and it is in the public domain.

 

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Features

Story and Poem of the Week and Inspiration Point

Big congratulations to TFH who gets my vote for Story of the Week with 'La Femme d'argent' and to Ewan for 'A Conversation in Hester Pit. 16 January 1862'  which is our Poem of the Week'  

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POETRY MONTHLY

Hi all, hope all's good where you are and big apologies for the lateness of Poetry Monthly this time!   January, as usual, brought some great writing. Here are two poems to have another look at:    Read more

STORY AND POEM OF THE MONTH

For January, very kindly chosen by Fatboy74:

 

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I Dreamt I Wrote Another Me by Alex Smith (london_calling79). Out Now!

The latest release by Cerasus Press - ' I Dreamt I Wrote Another Me' by Alex Smith has just been published.

 

You can order your copy here:

 

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IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO JOIN ABCTALES.COM

We have had to suspend the automatic joining facility for a while so if you would like to join us please email admin@abctales.com with your desired username and we will set up an account for you. It's all free!

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Bee's Journey

Picks of the Month

Rise and Fall of the One-Man Empire

I unsolved a few mysteries
(a good night’s work)
then strutted the morning streets
with a candle in my head,
half-believing that everyone was
watching me pass,
admiring my
lofty
burning
transcendental

eyes.

That lordly stride!
Those mystical lips!

The sky rolled its eye up over the avenue,

the city shuffled its deck of people,

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Skull

John was glad he hadn’t stopped drinking, because otherwise it would have been a shame to waste the half-can of Pale Ale he poured on his Cornflakes. There had been a time when he’d thought hard about going on the wagon. When his wife, Effie, left him two, or more years ago.

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