Author: bleuebelle

John Donne

A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day
 
Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s,
Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks;
         The sun is spent, and now his flasks
         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays;
                The world’s whole sap is sunk;
The general balm th’ hydroptic earth hath drunk,
Whither, as to the bed’s feet, life is shrunk,
Dead and interr’d; yet all these seem to laugh,
Compar’d with me, who am their epitaph. Continue reading “John Donne”

Havisham

They stand, hand in hand, in the fading entrance. Dust spins, twirling gracefully in the weak sunshine; a tarnished chandelier winks lazily above their heads; cobwebs hang listlessly like strips of glimmering gossamer.

‘Wow,’ says Lindsey; her voice echoes unsteadily. She turns, flushed and breathless. ‘Oh it is just perfect. Imagine living here after the wedding…’

‘Hmm’, says Peter, shuffling his feet nervously. ‘How much are they asking for it?’

‘Not sure. But the potential…’ she says. ‘Oh; where did you put the key?’

Peter rummages fretfully in his pocket.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’

He turns; his eyes lock with those of an elderly woman, standing behind them. He shivers; she has a sort of silvery pallor; her eyes are a clear, cold blue.

‘It was on the table,’ she says, holding the key up.

‘Sorry, we let ourselves in…’’ gushes Lindsey, apologetically.

‘Not at all,’ says the woman. ‘Come,’ she says, waving one spidery blue veined, hand. A cold prickle runs down Peter’s back. Continue reading “Havisham”