scanners

Primary tabs

TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryD: Wallaby and Dogs scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryChildren's Python scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryC: Ah, Lady scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryBlack Kite scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryBattered Children scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryArtists scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryAfter the Ball scanners012 years 2 months ago
CollectionLamma Island scanners012 years 2 months ago
CollectionTrue North scanners012 years 2 months ago
CollectionSad Pilgrimage scanners012 years 2 months ago
StoryWild Dogs scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryThe Nuns of Shwedagon scanners012 years 3 months ago
StorySilence scanners112 years 3 months ago
StoryOn Temple Street scanners112 years 3 months ago
StorySelf Portrait scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryThe Queen of Hennessy Road scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryThe Cuvu Villagers take Communion scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryRain at Gunn Point scanners012 years 3 months ago
StorySnow Leopard scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryLanguage lesson scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryMountain Temple, Bali scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryK:Forest Kingfisher scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryThe Sun Bear scanners012 years 3 months ago
StorySad Pilgrimage scanners012 years 3 months ago
StoryPhoenix scanners012 years 3 months ago

My stories

The Nuns of Shwedagon

The Nuns of Shwedagon A clipping: from Shwedagon pagoda young Buddhist nuns file past the camera out into the heat and chaos of Rangoon. Their robes are palest coral and deep amber;

Silence

Silence In this clattering city, where the head swirls in the constant surf of sound – raised voices, the hollow rattle of heels on escalators, car-horns clamouring in demented chorus -

From Po Wah Yuen

From Po Wah Yuen On the other side of the world, on the other side of the day my black-haired love is sleeping. In a city without a name, in a house without a number

In the dark on the end of the line

In the dark on the end of the line my woman is softly sobbing, like a child lost alone in darkness, wounded and comfortless. I have cut her with my casual anger and cannot withdraw the words,
Cherry

Evening Ferry

Evening Ferry I watch her board, my black-haired girl, leaving me once more for the family that is not hers, but swallows her youth in their service. When she leaves me

Pages