JupiterMoon

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
Storyfoolproof JupiterMoon312 years 11 months ago
Storyfather, son and white lightning JupiterMoon012 years 11 months ago
StoryElias and the King JupiterMoon012 years 11 months ago
StoryThis Also Shall Pass JupiterMoon713 years 1 month ago
StorySaturday night/Sunday Morning JupiterMoon313 years 1 month ago
Storyearly sun over Hope Valley JupiterMoon613 years 4 months ago
Storyflutter JupiterMoon313 years 5 months ago
StoryAbigail Jessiibear1913 years 6 months ago
StoryGames People Play MistakenMagic2513 years 7 months ago
StoryStrawberry Red JupiterMoon313 years 8 months ago
Storythe dying of the £1 wasp JupiterMoon113 years 8 months ago
Storystrangers sailing through a breakfast sea JupiterMoon313 years 8 months ago
Storyis this thing on? JupiterMoon213 years 9 months ago
StoryYou Breathe Jessiibear913 years 9 months ago
StoryWhere Butterflies Sleep Sooz0061313 years 9 months ago
Storyfade JupiterMoon213 years 9 months ago
StoryY Unman JupiterMoon313 years 9 months ago
StoryLove in a time of riots lavadis1113 years 9 months ago
StoryKorn lavadis413 years 9 months ago
StoryI am met at the crossroads by a horse of dangerous beauty lavadis713 years 9 months ago
Storysnail JupiterMoon213 years 11 months ago
Storywhy people in Range Rovers always look terrified JupiterMoon314 years 1 month ago
Storythere's few things more tragic than a wasted condom JupiterMoon414 years 4 months ago

My stories

the lovers of Boulevard Saint-Germain

the lovers of Boulevard Saint-Germain there is permanence, woven into the way you hold one another; delicate, yet insistent, speaking of love found...

care

care the liveried care worker smokes on the threshold, furiously spitting her own drama, into the face of an old woman who peeps fearful from...

ladies and gentlemen, the Trafford Centre is now open...

Ladies & Gentleman, the Trafford Centre is Now Open the snaking lines of German automation simmer in the baking weekend sun, resentment clogging the interiors like a drowning gruel.

margins

margins i am becoming like a series of pencil strokes; an addendum. squeezed in without thought whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. just a name, left to curl and fray
Cherry

my fallen owl

my fallen owl thrown to the gutter, in a spluttered thunderstorm of progress, my owl lies cold in an open grave. an ill fitting shroud, patched together from sodden litter.

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