Geertje Jong

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThe stranger at our table-Part Two Geertje Jong1314 years 10 months ago
StoryPostcard Home Silver Spun Sand2414 years 10 months ago
StoryKnowledge Geertje Jong914 years 10 months ago
StoryThe stranger at our table - Part One Geertje Jong1114 years 10 months ago
StoryChalk And Cheese -(I.P.) luigi_pagano1214 years 10 months ago
StoryHE'D ALREADY DISAPPEARED kheldar614 years 10 months ago
StoryOut of the Dolls House Whatsername214 years 10 months ago
Forum topicClassical music Lem814 years 10 months ago
StoryBig Carlo's Women luigi_pagano614 years 10 months ago
StoryFor Better For Worse Silver Spun Sand814 years 10 months ago
StoryHoly Communion Geertje Jong614 years 10 months ago
StoryMy boy Geertje Jong514 years 10 months ago
StoryHad it With You! Silver Spun Sand1714 years 10 months ago
StoryOrigami Geertje Jong814 years 10 months ago
StoryWhat would you do if you had your Life all over again? prettypolly514 years 10 months ago
StoryWhat I'd love to say to the wife d.best314 years 10 months ago
StoryNo Name Joe Silver Spun Sand3114 years 10 months ago
StoryStorm Geertje Jong414 years 10 months ago
StoryMissing You seashore2214 years 10 months ago
StorySearching Beeme1714 years 10 months ago
StorySilt Geertje Jong814 years 10 months ago
StoryThe hunter Geertje Jong914 years 10 months ago
StoryBoy in Green Beret Silver Spun Sand2614 years 10 months ago
StoryHorrid Horace Geertje Jong214 years 10 months ago
Forum topiccreative writing Teacher needed writer98314 years 10 months ago

My stories

Maiko

An eastern promise

ZYX (IP)

Zeal is not a virtue, unless you are a missionary. Yesterday is not for regretting. Xavier is my cousins name. Waifs and strays need looking after. Very pious people are usually liars.

The Crypt

The day of the funeral the sky is thick with fat woolly clouds, like a herd of pregnant sheep huddled together on the brow of the hill.

The Mole hill gatherers

The mole hill gatherers come, with bucket and spade and barrow. At the early arrival of dusk. The fine milled soil gently lifted. To heap the bucket full. This crumbled earth, damp scented.
Cherry

The stranger at our table-Part Two

You used to shout at me like thunder. Now you just attack me with a look. You watch me black and blue. When the milk is cold or when there aren't enough Oates in your porridge.

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