JupiterMoon

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TypeTitleAuthorRepliesLast updated
StoryThis Also Shall Pass JupiterMoon812 years 8 months ago
StorySaturday night/Sunday Morning JupiterMoon312 years 8 months ago
Storyearly sun over Hope Valley JupiterMoon612 years 11 months ago
Storyflutter JupiterMoon313 years 19 hours ago
StoryAbigail Jessiibear1913 years 4 weeks ago
StoryGames People Play MistakenMagic2513 years 1 month ago
StoryStrawberry Red JupiterMoon313 years 2 months ago
Storythe dying of the £1 wasp JupiterMoon113 years 2 months ago
Storystrangers sailing through a breakfast sea JupiterMoon313 years 2 months ago
Storyis this thing on? JupiterMoon213 years 3 months ago
StoryYou Breathe Jessiibear913 years 3 months ago
StoryWhere Butterflies Sleep Sooz0061413 years 3 months ago
Storyfade JupiterMoon213 years 3 months ago
StoryY Unman JupiterMoon313 years 3 months ago
StoryLove in a time of riots lavadis1113 years 3 months ago
StoryKorn lavadis413 years 3 months ago
StoryI am met at the crossroads by a horse of dangerous beauty lavadis713 years 3 months ago
Storysnail JupiterMoon213 years 5 months ago
Storywhy people in Range Rovers always look terrified JupiterMoon313 years 7 months ago
Storythere's few things more tragic than a wasted condom JupiterMoon413 years 10 months ago

My stories

farewell, old black settee

farewell, old black settee your leather had become tired, brought to ribbon corners by determined claws. we pushed you over, and turned away from your dusty belly.

the principal of one lost shoe

the principal of one lost shoe i have lost a good many things in my time: a key, money, good friends, a brown leather jacket, more money, poems on scraps of paper like this one,

heart attack Friday

heart attack Friday something about the nearness of the weekend, moves the hearts of a certain kind of man to frenzied beating, squeezed in the grip of the fading glow of the week:
Cherry

without

without you catch her voice, whispering why within wild waves. your tie still worn black a year gone. each cigarette is seven minutes of forgetting, (or not remembering)

The Elegant Chef

The Elegant Chef Loneliness is like a soup without ingredients. Like a soup without stock; clouded water too deep for its own depth.

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