spartarcad

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I have 85 stories published in 0 collections on the site.
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Peter James Jackson

 

My stories

I am Dancing this Morning

Masquerading in underpants Beside the dry cold fire place My feet are damp, upon the wood My blood is gravel I am - Incredulity dancing today Singing a riposte to Jonah "I saw the child burn I saw the river dry

A Space For Shadows

Upon the brink of dry stone falling I sit, and dream too sad to dream To gaze far off, into the spreading Torch light stars too weak to gleam A wretched squalor to dwell in horror Hidden things of time come to sing...

A Butterfly Swooning into the Grave

When the great gone speak Who dare not tremble Although it be a dusty voice? To settle upon the stage And no foot tread the board To creak the memories settled Upon the page and in the air He is beaten and forlorn

Jehovah, Chess, and Knee Cancer!

...shadows that were possibly people hustled and hurried to no place in particular, as the rain fell forming torrents and gurgling sadly along road side gutters; through the cold streets and away to some subterranean mystery. A bright green light shone in the distance, a sign hung belatedly on a wall, swinging softly in the breeze and rain. Inside the café Iskra, jazz music humbled softly through the air, sweet lounge jazz that nobody heard and nobody disliked; there was very little room, old chairs and old tables stood shouldering each other for levity, in the far corner there stood a stout wooden bar, tended by a stout mahogany faced women; she was ageless and silently wiped the bar top with a dirty old rag; she smiled at the musty old men in their decrepit lowness and forgotten limbs go creaking to the bar, and smoke curls and curious artist girls, making portraits with their denizen eyes, two tall, pallid men sat not playing chess in front of a chess board, one scratching his knee, the other smoking a grand meerschaum pipe....

The Long Walks of Arises MacLiad

Arises knelt down respectfully in front of his wife and put his now weather beaten flowers in a small white vase that Victoria had fashioned herself when she had been alive, for if truth be told she was the real craftsmen when it came to clay, and all that Arises knew had come from her. The clouds darkened and a few specks of rain splattered softly against Arises dry, vain ridden cheek. A spectator may well have been moved by the poignant solemnity of the scene, caught so wistfully in the sensitive heart of a passer by. And moved to a pity the saints themselves would envy, the spectator would approach stealthily and bash Arises suddenly on the head with a slab of marble and so put the old chap out of his long weary journey of ache and remorse. Yet Arises felt neither sorrow nor solemnity, for indeed he knew well the dead were only gone if you forgot them. 'How are you my love? (asked Arises McLliad sadly, a reply seemed forthcoming and indeed he nodded his head thankfully) it has been a lonely week without you (suddenly Arises checked himself mentally, prompted by the gently correction of a departed one) indeed twenty years have elapsed (this brought a tear to Arises heart and ever present grief welled up in his throat, he seemed to nuzzle his cheek against some invisible hand that had come to rest upon his shoulder) I am not blabbering like a school boy (retorted Arises) what? Oh yes I hoped you would not hear about that (said Arises shyly, suddenly the appearance of a naughty school boy seemed best to fit his countenance) Now do not be angry my love, I forgot completely about Stanley Woddington, I did not intend to abandon him upon the doorstep for so long a period, he was not on speaking terms with me for a long time (there was a thoughtful pause as Arises thought about that troublesome cat) what do you mean I deserve it? (Complained Arises bitterly) no I am not angry, yes I have been turning of the kiln, no your son has not visited, I do not know where Mr Woddington is right now, last I saw of him was from out of the bathroom window this morning, skulking over the back field he went,

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