Don't go wandering, now...
To beware anything but the Witch would be wise.
Up ahead a house.
Air burns a fever, Come in.
Take a sip; mud tracks...
About the Creator
Ángel Sierra
Rhymes, riddles, and occasionally, she giggles.
Every-writer, it's all in me... DO LOOK DOWN!
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More stories from Ángel Sierra and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Bird Nest
Downy tufts puff out, Warmth inside a house of hair, Drowsiness abounds. A/N: I sometimes imagine what it would be like to sleep in a bird nest, provided I can be bird-sized in the fantasy of course. I think it would be cosy! More longer stories to come! -TWW
By ThatWriterWoman5 days ago in Poets
Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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