Here was a hole, very pale, shapely, a most comely hole. It was a hole we enjoyed for it was always moist. This was a sipping hole, an oft tasted delight. We flew down, we sipped, tasted, and we were refreshed. Our conversation was vital, sparkly, like the water; vibrant. Our nests we set all around in the gentle arms of white stone. The cliffs appeared to form a temple, all delight and all beauty, our voices funnelled into one chorus, the warm air buoyed the small crescents of our wings. Here was gentle living. It was home. Continue reading “Yet These Birds Do Fly by Nick Norton”
Right now, I’m sitting in a queue about to have my memories erased, and soon they’ll be lost forever – such things are inevitable, I suppose, or so they tell me; but in these last few minutes, while I still can, I want to recall the day I first saw her, before it’s all gone; and when it’s all gone, as a common courtesy, maybe for the time being, you could remember it for me, on my behalf – at least until the moment comes when you have your memories erased too. Continue reading “Wake Up To Yourself by Aviva Treger”
As a baby, he babbled early. Once he started to talk, he kept on going. His parents wondered if he was precocious. This was in the boom after World War II, when any child might turn out to be an Einstein.
As a toddler, Glott got into everything. Caregivers learned not to fret. His running monologue told them where he was, what he was doing, and what he had found. When the flow of words stopped, they rushed to the scene to remove whatever he had crammed in his mouth. Continue reading “Glott by Robert Boucheron”