The Art of Tripping

She stood and stared out at the world, debilitated and hopeful, all the same. One by one, lights snapped into existence above and below her as the horizon began to slowly fade into the darkening violet curtain. "Oh, 'scuse me," an old man chuckled as he nearly tripped into her, "It's getting pretty dark, miss, might want to head down soon."

Create a website or blog at WordPress.com

Up ↑

As For Me

Hi. We're a band or whatever.

Rusted Honey

Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry

Constance Bourg

Poetry and Flash Fiction

Fiddleheads & Floss

: : : i paint with words : : :

Stories From Honduras

Lena Kvigne // Missionary

%d bloggers like this: