leviathanslover

The north is a harsh land. Ragged boughs thrust from tangled copses across its landscape, drooping arches held high. The year had turned, and turned on itself as a dour winter swept across the land.  The sparse, scattered villages were enveloped in a tempest of fresh snowfall and when it ended, the world would be a gleaming white; an ivory landscape gilt in silver. Here and there jagged streaks of green pierced the flurry of snow, distant flickers prophesising the spring to come. There was once a woman heavy with child who longed to the point of death for the rampions from a walled garden on the outskirts of the village. The garden belonged

Re: Manuscript 'A   MIGHTY   PSYCHOLOGICAL JOURNEY   OF CONSEQUENCE' Ms Martin, We would like to thank you for the submission of your manuscript "A Mighty Journey of Psychological Consequence'. In order to further progress your manuscript, we suggest you consider the following assessment. The narrative follows the course of the protagonist Mir-el's physical and psychological development. The plot centralises on the concepts of self actualisation and the journey to enlightenment.  The Mir-el's gradual loss of naivety and consequent growing awareness and desire for knowledge propels the narrative. The crux of the narrative is reached as Mi

The dragonfly lay before her on the grass. The girl's wide-eyed gaze could not comprehend the wholeness of the situation; something had been taken from her, but nothing was given back. The nature of things as she had come to understand them seemed suddenly incomplete, or perhaps some fundamental truth had become very wrong. The sunlight glittered on the crushed wings; somehow they seemed more frail than before, as though her intense focus could disintegrate the insect completely.      Her gaze trailed over the swollen thorax; intact, but somehow empty. The metallic shine had somehow tarnished, and the girl knew that something essential was

Looking out from the porch, the hulking barn predominates the landscape; a struggling reminder of a past long dead. The familiar beaten weatherboards bear the scars of drought, floods and hard years etched into the surrounding countryside. If you listen, the wind whispers to you through the peeling rafters, a light swirl of snow drifting along with it. The high arching supports groan in resistance after too long spent bearing their burden. The icy carpet of the fields hesitates at the doors, lingering in its advance. The light spotting of pure white is barely noticeable amongst the straw, and you choose to leave its presence unacknowledged.

Life seems to make sense through the train window. The world lifts and falls, sweeping along in the wind. It undulates. I am adrift in vast sea of existence. My life is a ripple; skimming- no, rushing! over its surface. I bump, I collide. I stream. Like the landscape, I am hurtling, crest over crest. We are all hurtling, towards the rocks. The train slides into the station and she slides into view like a yuurei ghost. She is grotesquely animated, inconstant.        Horrible.        Lovely.        She seems to flicker…in and out, in and out. When we collide the rhythm of the world seems to break. Suddenly, the ripples do not has

Patrick turned to face the window. The cellophane rustled as he stood, and the bruised daisies slid, forgotten, to the floor.  The ceramic dove on the sill transfixed him; its diminutive wings perpetually spread, cradling the remnants of the months of sleepless nights behind him. Nicotine-stained fingers caressed the little bird in his palm. They brushed over the contours, circled the hollow in its back. The part of her he knew best had been dead for a long time. She had told him this when the time came. The part of her he knew crumbled under his fingertips; he crushed it at night when it spread across the pillows. It's the way you touch

The world is thick with heat. The overwhelming pressure of the viscous smog weighs down on us, it chokes our throats, fouls our lungs, dizzies our heads. This is not the future we had imagined for ourselves. We creep along the earth’s broken back. What is not orange is grey. The heat strangles me, and the bitter tang of asphalt and dank earth mingles with my own scent. My body has closed itself down; I am impervious. I am deadflesh. The world is thick with heat. Heat, and Darkness. It was a Wednesday. The city was quiet, it had only begun to whir to life in the early hours of the morning. I had stood waiting, basking in the weak sunli