The soft smell of autumnal rains, the bitter promise of winter’s approach.

He tastes the change, as poplars bend to the breeze.


An ignoble quest to seize fair maiden’s heart – an artificial dragon to billow smoke, to inspire terror. Advantage, artificer prince.


Pylometrics was his thing, his reflection bulged above the treadmills, his muscles huge.

Still not big enough to fight the past.


Pen and paper sunrise, the birds’ call out and greet the golden face of the morning.

The heavens, lit aflame.


The last piece of wedding cake lay, poignant with pink hearts, defrosting on the kitchen floor.

She was leaving.


Her lips haunted me for days afterward, cherry-red, luscious.

A little black dress, hugging her tight.

Funerals are so poignant.


In the blink of an eye he was upon us, the smell of decay and shadows.

His gaze drifted toward the protective, provocative flames.


The fumet boiled over, she burnt the bottom of the pot.She stared whistfully at the world beyond her kitchen window, a dream made real.


Cloven feet fall, the shadows of the end of days thicken at His approach.

Behold the Prince of Heaven, bathed in mortals’ blood.


@HugoHouse He waits in the park, tired, lonely, bored.

The biting wind a tattered companion.

Mummy said she was coming back.

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