Life
Morning Prayer
This is what morning prayer means to me. Morning prayer is the time that gives me time to reflect on various things and ideas and lets me think through whatever. It's a time to listen to one's heart and soul and mind. It is a time just to breathe and listen to the birds sing, watch the sunrise, enjoy taking a walk with a friend or two for my two friends are named Pokey and Rusty who like to sniff just about everything they come across. Again, morning prayer means to me it's a time of soul searching for me.
By Mark Grahama day ago in Writers
The Masterpiece of Gabin Lemaire
We were foolish to think Paris would hold us. At the first sound of chains being cut at the gate, I jerked upright. Gabin was smeared in red clay and ash, thrashing across the canvas with an artist’s exertion, somewhere between running a marathon and having an orgasm. He recoiled from his trance and swayed with angelic beauty. His bare chest rose and fell, and he staggered away from the canvas that towered above him. The studio was in disarray. Candles flickered in a staccato across the floor like a Catholic altar, and I crawled among them to snuff them out as Gabin kicked the articles of his craft under 16th Century tables. He dumped oils and charcoals down the neck of an ancient Roman wine amphora as he swore in his native French. Both of us considered hiding, hoping against hope that Rembrandt and Caravaggio might have stretched the canvas far enough to conceal us.
By M.C. Finch 3 days ago in Writers
Notes from the Mind Palace.
I don’t want a hero for the sake of having one. I don’t need saving, and I don’t want someone who thinks I do. I’ve carried myself through storms that would have drowned softer hearts. I’ve rebuilt myself more times than I care to admit. Strength has been my armor, my identity, my survival.
By Syl De'Vil5 days ago in Writers
Notes from the Mind Palace
I am a woman made of words, but don’t mistake that for someone who can be won with them. Words are my playground, my refuge, my rebellion — but they are not my currency. I’ve heard too many promises spoken with honeyed tongues and hollow hearts. I’ve watched too many men decorate their intentions with poetry while their actions whispered the truth.
By Syl De'Vil5 days ago in Writers
If Only
There are women who learned love the hard way, women who stitched themselves back together with stubborn hope and quiet magic. Women who walk through the world with a softness that looks effortless but was carved from storms. Women who survived what should have broken them and still somehow learned to laugh again.
By Syl De'Vil5 days ago in Writers
