jonahs cough

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryTOO LATE FOR GOODBYES skinner_jennifer209 months 2 days ago
StoryAN IDYLLIC AFTERNOON skinner_jennifer188 years 7 months ago
StoryCigarette jonahs cough612 years 11 months ago
StoryBefore you weren't jonahs cough912 years 11 months ago
StoryAt Eternity's Gate jonahs cough1212 years 11 months ago
StoryApollo in his cottons jonahs cough1312 years 11 months ago
StoryAngels write in poetry, Demons write in prose jonahs cough1012 years 11 months ago
StoryA Thief in the Country jonahs cough512 years 11 months ago
CollectionResistant Literature jonahs cough012 years 11 months ago
CollectionAnd so on... jonahs cough012 years 11 months ago
StoryName thanksforthepar...815 years 3 weeks ago
StoryBrave New World Silver Spun Sand1215 years 3 months ago
StoryTwenty Million Five Hundred Eleven Thousand One Hundred Forty-nine thanksforthepar...715 years 3 months ago
StorySulphur sun-rise Beeme1515 years 4 months ago
Story( I.P.) Oxymoronically Speaking Silver Spun Sand1315 years 4 months ago
StorySunny Silver Spun Sand1215 years 4 months ago
StorySchneider's First Rank jonahs cough815 years 4 months ago
StoryLover's Game shoe1015 years 4 months ago
Story'Can't Let Maggie Go' Silver Spun Sand1415 years 4 months ago
StoryIt needs a Dragon camilla615 years 4 months ago
StoryPictures flickering over skin Beeme1015 years 4 months ago
Forum topicSmall Pieces of England camilla415 years 4 months ago
StoryGod grants sleep to those whom He loves jonahs cough1215 years 4 months ago
StorySmall pieces of England jonahs cough815 years 4 months ago
StoryOutback Beeme1215 years 4 months ago

My stories

Cherry

A Thief in the Country

They keep them hidden Within those rolling hills Their dirty little things That not even the hoarding Claws of Magpies will touch
Cherry

At Eternity's Gate

In a pool Of sweat and dark memories A lone swimmer Carves out lengths On the quivering surface

Cigarette

It is the smell that takes you first, That gentle odour of dry tobacco, That whispers into the air And tiptoes into your nose,

Angels write in poetry, Demons write in prose

As I lie beneath the blanket Of a heavy Devon sky That has breached its secret contract With the local weatherman And begun to bleed
Cherry

Apollo in his cottons

His imagination was crushed to a pulp, Between the pages of a GCSE maths book, And his eyes were dug out of his face, By lines and lines of twisting jargon,

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