Empty by Isabel Caves #writephoto

“It’s empty.”

“No it’s not,” I snapped.

We were trekking through my mind, for crying out loud.

It was not empty.

“The transporter’s faulty,” I grumbled. “It probably sent us into your mind instead. That’s always been empty.”

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Taking It On The Chin #writephoto #flashfiction


The Pacific Basin

For three days, the coasts of eastern Australia, New Zealand and all the Pacific islands were inundated with a strange matted fibrous material, unlike any seaweed or plant life ever seen before. Samples were rushed to laboratories to analyse its composition. Its DNA was sequenced. Rumours began that it contained mystical healing properties and a market soon flourished in pastes and unguents that could be applied to the skin or added to a kale smoothie to protect against all known diseases. Other groups, based in remote wooden huts situated on mountains above tree-lines communed over the web and speculated what dastardly chemical weapon had somehow been released into the Pacific causing the inevitably deadly fibres to gather on the world’s beaches.

Meanwhile, far above the earth, Atlas sank onto his throne and accepted the tea from Athena. She gave him a quizzical look. ‘So why are you…

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Passion and Pathos: Spirit of the Dance by Jan Malique

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The dancers moved intuitively to the sound of their hearts as the music swelled and sobbed. It finally paused, waiting for the lovers to catch their breath. This was more than an interlude in a cafe that had seen glory and laughter in a bygone age. Few tourists ventured into the old quarter of the city, much less enter through the portal of this place. The ones that did manage to find this near mythical establishment were fated to come. Their souls were infused with the elixir of passion and pathos. Forever rising on the swell of the rhythm and then slumbering in the arms of the silence that followed.


A woman sitting at a table in the corner of the room stared intently at the dancers. They presented a magnificent picture; gentleness, poetic beauty in the lines of their faces and a certain melancholy in the embrace. Her dark eyes glittered, mirroring the luminosity of the stars and moon. They mirrored hope in a world that appeared to have embraced shadow and pain. The spirit and soul of humanity was being sorely tested, falling prey to the excesses of materialism and naked cynicism. Was she being naive now? A laugh escaped her blood red lips. She was present in this space set apart from time, present during day and night.

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#writephoto – Darcy’s Shack from Morpeth Road.


There wasn’t much left of Darcy’s old fishing shack after the storm. The shack had sat on the edge of the beachhead for as long as I could remember and Darcy was just a name my father told me about.

He recalled Darcy as an old man who spent his days fishing at the water’s edge and was forever happy to tell tales of his seafaring days.

A few times over the years I had ventured into Darcy’s old place. There wasn’t much to say that it was a home or anything, more a shelter from the storms and weather was how I looked at it.

Continue reading: Empty #writephoto – Darcy’s Shack.

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Image by Darren MS

There is a single thread,

That runs through every life,

And binds us at the heart.

A web of life so intricate and fine,

A spider silk of spirit

With tensile strength to carry any grief

And share all joy.

Holding us with love

As we journey…

Together and alone,

Momentary touches

Woven and interweaving

Many and One

In a single dance.

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Empty by Ritu #writephoto

It wasn’t often that she got to the beach ahead of the rest of the crowds, but today was one of those days. The morning mists were just clearing, and the sun was starting to shine.

Looking at the empty run of golden sand, with the tufts of green grass inviting her to sit, she took a step forward.

Then stopped.

Those shadows.

Glancing to her right, she expected to see other standing there. Drat, she wasn’t the first after all.

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The Day I Killed Mom #MothersDay #humor #SundayBlogShare

I can’t resist reblogging this one 🙂

Barb Taub

The day I Killed Mom—a (mostly) true story

When she turned fifty, my mother took up a new career: dying. It was a family tradition, she explained. “People in my family don’t make it out of their fifties. So we have to be ready to go.”

Each Christmas, she announced, would probably be her last—no point in a real tree or all that decorating. Her grandchildren would nod, and go right on dragging in and decorating a huge tree, around which our even more huge family would celebrate as usual, with Mother baking, making up beds, passing around Baileys Irish Cream, and loving every second of the noise and mess and confusion.

After pursuing dying for a few decades, it was time for her to think about retiring. But since there were really only two ways (ruling out vampires and/or zombies) to move on from that career choice—a coffin, or…

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