Writing Weekends

I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me; all day I feel it’s feathery turning, it’s malignity-Slyvia Plath The moonlight watched over the luminous lake as the two silhouettes stood under the stars. He was masked for his identity could not be revealed to possible onlookers especially when his companion was a…

Writing Weekends

My Dear Mai, Father has become suspicious of our correspondence again so this will be my last letter for a while. He gives talks of my betrothal to this King Lucas of WiccaWood-for where on earth is that? I certainly haven’t heard of before, Father only names the four kingdoms I am to rule, strangely…

Writing Weekends

She was a mystery wrapped up in the classic novels of the past, buried in books and loaded with coffee. Nobody knew her name, only her favourite book. She dreamed of castle on the clouds, righteous men, hovercars and talking animals. She questioned her purpose in this life, what she would achieve and how everyone…

Writing Weekends :)

“Did you love her?” “Who?” “The girl in the photograph, you look happy, free…what happened?” A distant flash of pain scored his face before returning to the wine. Corked. White. Chardonnay. She mentioned it was her favourite before meeting. He looked across to her darting chocolate eyes over his photos by the table. “Anyway, this…