Prague is far enough away.

Jacob Noon can do magic, sometimes.

Icharus, an angel, and Arend, an assassin, fight to save their tattered and dangerous world.

Stream of consciousness written in rhyme. Turned out to be more meaningful than intended.

Musing on the phrase "Nothing lasts forever."

A comparison of my three biggest inspirations to acts in the three rings of a circus.

A love poem using the Greek characters Penelope and Philomel.

First draft. A speculative piece on Demeter wasting away at her temple in Eleusis, grieving for Persephone.

Eros is the Greek equivalent of Cupid, the only difference being that Eros is usually not depicted as a child; at least, not in this context . An extended metaphor about love in prose form.

Considering the ideas of James Joyce, particularly those in A Painful Case from The Dubliners.

The image clung to her, and when she awoke in a hospital bed bearing fractures, breaks, punctures and her own fleshy stumps, her mind burned with paintings. [Draft. Constructive criticism is very much welcomed.]

Disjointed thoughts in unfamiliar free verse.

Her hand is most familiar with the cursive letters “please”.

She was a wayward soul, in long denim skirts.

His unhinged screams rebounded from wall to stone wall, echoing in the Labyrinth like the myth, Narcissus in the flowers, Echo in the canyons.

In the unfamiliar snow, and only because she can.

After a long writing hiatus, I find myself very proud of this one.

She dances on point to the cathedral silence, eyes closed, breathing through the small cracks in the walls.

"His sweet breath fogged the window. Outside, it was raining."

A fiendish therapist plays Puppetmaster with her patients. [Please feel free to suggest title]

Thank you to Bragi for the title! A shot in the dark after a long writing hiatus.

The fireflies were in perfect sync with the crackling of the fireworks that I couldn't see. A perfect substitute.

A work of my father's, written when he was a teenager. Accmopanied by a companion poem by me.

The most horrible predicament anyone could hope to come across.

The disjointed but beautiful sentences that plague you before sleep...

Hoof and horn, hoof and horn, all that dies will be reborn

Your only solace is in the echo of their souls...

And it's never too late to turn back/but my heart will not take up my slack

What truly happened to my beloved Icharus/who fell that day behind his father's back?

It snowed, and it was perfect against the brightening blackness...perfect enough to bring you to tears

In these Crystalline Silences, my mind is far blown...In the deepness of shadows, where mine is alone