rask_balavoine
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My stories
Writing with a cigarette.
He is a man standing alone in front of the whole world dressed only in his words and the ash from a thousand cigarettes, judged by seas and mountains...
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- 363 reads
Silly nonsense.
Footsteps on a gravel path after midnight are generally associated with intruders of malevolent intent. The crunch rings out clearly in an otherwise...
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- 359 reads
Overnight bus to Delhi.
I got on a bus. Light was already draining from the late, wet afternoon sky. The seats were wooden with no padding and I just knew that the moving...
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- 285 reads
Between this and that.
My corner of Ireland lies smart with frost this morning, all ready for either war or a picnic. The brash, noisy sun calls forest and fields to...
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- 282 reads
Goa, 1976 with buffaloes.
The guest house was cool and quiet. From under its thatched roof and high ceilings I stepped into a stale morning. It was like walking into a warm,...
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- 323 reads