ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts. [January 2008]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17) Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History] Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words] Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance] Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words] Consciousness Stream 1 (Poetry) A relatively lengthy piece I simply spit out one day whilst feeling inexplicably intoxicated (for I was under no influence). [300 words] [Mind] I Should Think It Like A Fist (Non-Fiction) A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day. [493 words] [Psychology] I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance] Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words] Moments, A Lamentation (Non-Fiction) - [500 words] [Romance] Of Art, Pt. 1 (Non-Fiction) An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words] [Psychology] Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction] Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable] Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller] Sunday Morning (Short Stories) Memories. Just... memories. [458 words] [Literary Fiction] The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror] The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical] Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
How She Stirs Not At All Gregory Novak
She feels like a sunset. Fool of a thing. So bright, beautiful, and reaching the peak of her brilliance near the day's end.
Never too close. Never close enough. Speeding westward over ocean, mountain and valley in some desperate bid to come within striking distance of that warm copperine glow, only to find that rather day is an illusion, as is night. Time flies like an arrow. A dagger into my own heart. And so she sets on me, as she rises on another.
Canary yellow - the colour of my dreams. I awaken to grey, then blues, and slowly into hues of green and brown. Violet for my soul. Rose for my heart, all tipped in crimson. Golden in the dusk, but never yellow. Yellow is for my dreams and dreams alone.
Counted by the bones beneath my own withered flesh, coloured by the world outside; shaded by the world within.
She touches me, still in sleep. Stiller in the dawning light. I feel her fingers firmly against my flesh, exquisitely real like a needle softly puncturing its tattoo unto my world. Her splayed shoulders rise and fall as if by some latent tide. Her hair, velveteen ribbons of onyx by the sepiatic halflight of the fading moon, ashen now in the morning light with strands matted damply to the small of her delicate neck. Somewhere beneath the tussled sheets her feet lay twined against my shin in a somnambulistic crucifixion. Her breath rolls warm across my cheek, laquered into a mulled wine overnight.
Errant clothing trails toward the bed from the bedroom door still ajar in a sordid breadcrumb trail, a deflated summer dress pointing suggestively from the floor beside the lower right bedpost.
Somewhere on the floor below, a hearth smoulders whistfully, its roaring fire the night previous having peaked and troughed along with the exhaltant act of love it had echoed in both heat and intensity.
There is no sleep here.
Only peace.
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