rask_balavoine
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My stories
Lying in Lissadell.
There's an old log that lies rotting on the shore at Lissadell, right where the shingle meets the fields. It's lain there for as long as I've been...
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- 141 reads
November graveyard with a robin.
The sun shone on the snow-covered graveyard this afternoon, a place where the atmosphere was heavy with memories, sadness, longing and hope. Beside...
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- 162 reads
My spot.
A man with unruly blond hair and a ginger beard was sitting in my spot when I entered the cafe today. Moreover, the lout had his feet up on the seat...
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- 106 reads
Novemberly thinking.
As this short, sad November day begins to draw quietly to an unremarkable close, the sun comes out and fills the garden with a strange, wet, yellow...
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- 121 reads
Red, red wine.
A mollitious warmth stole through my inward parts this evening as I directed a river of red Italian wine down my throat. Although it was an...
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- 172 reads