Pick of the day

War

You bombarded me with   platitudes  until my bunker shook  until my nose was filled with  mustard gas and lexicography     Your precious moral turpitude  scored a direct hit peppering  me with shrapnel   and genteel verbosity Read more

Story of the week

ELEPHANT NEST: CHAPTER ONE.

My thumb caresses the cylinder of the nickel plated, 38. Calibre revolver, resting on my lap, beneath the desk. With each of the six chambers still heavy from the burden of yesterdays thwarted hopes and desires and todays potential daydreams.
I sliver the tip of my finger across the barrel of the glimmering steel and catch my distorted reflection stretched across it.
I don’t recognise him.
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Poem of the week

driverless

the more people run away

the less there is to escape to

 

the more  beauty we buy

the less room we have for truth

 

we fuel our vehicles with tomorrows

trying to find somewhere like yesterday

 

 

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Features

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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