http://slow.writerscafe.org/livspen The original writings of author livspen en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776070285 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 ***When we looked up, it was there. The blind moon, hanging, a white silk blaze.We had never walked so far before and time was irrelevant. Her skin was stone blue. The road was painted with silence. Alison. Could she hear her name in my head? Somewhere, his body was growing gre.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/622757/ Phoenix Feathers It’s the most beautiful thing, to see the leaves on trees burn gold and stiff and drift down to their death. Among the glistening green, there they are, wilted but more perfect than the others, because they are ready to fall. I stroll along the road, ‘The Reflex&.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/615013/ And I said she was too skinny, always too skinny.Even when she was eating a cream cake and smiling painfully.She looked ever so nice in that red velvet dress, though, said mother. Oh, she did.She did as well. It had an open back, and the shallow cut of her skin and her spine were exquisite between t.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/613564/ That night, after dinner, my sister and I sat on the old leather settee and she asked me for the first time:“What do think of Wilf, then?”It might have been ‘Wilf’ or ‘Wilfred’; it escapes me which she used to call him. She had a little hidden look about h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/611230/ The lipstick left on your mugThe one with Homer Simpson on the frontWhich says “Mmmmm, Doughnuts” when you pick it upThat lipstickCould have been forged by watercoloursMixed pink and red smudged over the rimLeft over a period of days.The deep twist of your voice, the sarc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/611117/ Paradox.That’s exactly what this is.His eyes and lips and hands and legs are everything theyAren’t…  I picture him on horsebackBare-chestedEyes wondrous darkHeart burningGallant, mysterious But in reality He’s grammatically inept.He lives a life of cultur.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/605548/ Alison was playing music through the wall on the morning of Wilfred’s funeral. It beat loud at me like someone knocking their fist, knocking it almost right through the paper and wood of the wall separating our rooms. I sat on the edge of my bed. I imagined the monsters of hell raging round in.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/603677/ A young man remembers how friendship and love became entangled after a boy named Wilfred entered his and his sister's life. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/603675/ I had a dream I'd somehow met this womanAt a party. A summer barbecue on a windless day.But how could that be?She hung about the apple trees and then stood In the centre of the picnic blanket, gesturing and foolingIn raspy, warm French. Accusing people. Grinning.Like a kid.No one asked her.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/587461/ She looked down at her bald knees, soft and brown from months of sun. Her eyes were glittered gold and she wore a large, black ring, like a bloated scarab beetle, on her wedding finger. Tiny, shivering dandelion heads bobbed all over the grass. And she tried to remember them. The first one carr.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/586813/ Oscar was my father’s younger, more personable brother. A graphic designer who wore trousers with pockets in. He liked Radio One. He wore embarrassing glasses under the pretence that objects from the seventies are 'cool'.  He was one for favoritism, however; he adored Ellis, fawned over.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/583924/ The edge of the moonIs not jagged tonightAnd the skin on your handsIs a startling whiteYour smile is a daggerAnd your black eyes are wetWith a heart in your pocketAnd a blank silhouetteScissors slash at the pageDown it falls like dead snowAnd I cry for you, dear,As it drifts to and froI look closer .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/583608/ Ellis was born into this world five minutes after me. My mother says she never cried, while I wailed endlessly. Our eyes matched, cornflower blue, with the same long, blonde lashes. Some months later, hers faded grey and mine bloomed green. Unusual for twins. But we were encouraged to differentiate.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/576591/ I found my sister reading a Kingsley Amis novel on Christmas Day. She was sitting cross-legged on the centre of her bed in her syrup-pink sock slippers, her brow furrowed, flicking the pages through her fingers. It smelt of roses and dust in there. “Go away,” she muttered. Her steel .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/576589/ The story of Edward and Ellis, twins moving from childhood into adulthood. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/576582/ Possessed I like having sex with Tom. I think I soothe him, when I am around him. On top of him. I feel helpful. His early life, you see, was a wine glass left out on the grass, speckled with dew and then stepped on by an unsuspecting gardener.  “I have my little pile of you... .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/575597/ Once the first week of the summer holidays was over, and I was tired of sitting in the window getting acquainted with Virginia Woolf, Mum decided she and Anthony were going to Paris for ten days. The news was welcomed by myself and the cats. Mum had bought a ridiculous hat for the occasion; enormo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/572439/ Little Lillian. She slept so soundly. Perhaps it was the spin of her mobile, with its little plastic clouds and pink elephants pirouetting round in the air. Was she able to dream?  The light of the television at night danced on the balls of her eyes. I bounced her on my knee, holding h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/572403/ The doomed love story in a future where age affects no one and beauty is God. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/569932/ An ageing man with papery yellow skin was sitting at the back of the barber's. His large, round eyes were glazed over, his fingers slowly tap-tap-tapping the edge of the table in front of him. The clock above his head ticked softly and dust fell gently around him. He seemed fixed on a solitary black.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/565812/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/565416/ http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/554676/ It's just past 7 am.The bone-rattling jingle of the phoneHas melted through my sleep.Mum picks it up after 3 rings, from somewhere deep in the house.The echo of her voice is bright, sad, reassuring.....I lollop out of my bed, flailing my shanky legs, stumbling overText books gathering morose dust.Su.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/554174/ I found him in a draughty houseReading a book by Stephen King,One I'd actually lent him a few years ago.He looked like an accidental moirologist.I squatted down next to him and sawHe was on the last chapter. Then I Tried to talk to him about the past;Some kind of cold comfort.Regret: a dish bes.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/553806/ He caught his breath back on his way down the stairs. He would go for a drive now, right now. He needed his hair cutting. Well, it was the perfect excuse.I LOVE YOU, PLEASE---He could go to the Three Lions, even, if he fancied it, get some lunch... Get away. Alfrinton. The little village tha.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/553328/ Gregory went into the bathroom first, looked at his unshaven and slightly haggard young face in the mirror. The morning light gave the bathroom a dull green glow. A bought-in, untouched tube of toothpaste sat in the glass, snuggled up next to a bought-in toothbrush. A bright red one.I know your .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/553323/ The question of her return People call it a resurrection, Gregory. was now clear and burning boldly on his brain. These dreams had never been so strong. They're almost real in every way, Gregory thought with a dull thrill. He began walking back on himself. The thin layer of sn.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/552654/ Had to write something about her at some point. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/552609/ The opening of a novella about twin sisters. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/551189/ Prepare yourselves for the often disturbing story of a pair of twin sisters. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/551146/ Everything seemed clearer to him now, lying there. He had only just realised he'd lost the torch somewhere, dropped in the heat of the moment, perhaps relying at last on primal instincts... the inner chase of all creatures....The biting, cold sensation of ice on his skull did not stop him falling .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/551145/ His mother did not come down to clear the table for a good while. Gregory sat, looking at the darkness beyond the old bay window, feeling the stew rumble inside his body. Disintegrating. With those hideous, pitiful moans in his ears, echoing like a foghorn round the house, he could think of.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/550550/ * * * *A waft of stewing meat had permeated every room by 6 o'clock. Gregory had been sleeping in erratic, dreamless intervals. Each time he woke, he expected to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her marble blue eyes resting on him inquisitively. My word, he's aged, she'd be thi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/550165/ Tiffany and Robert return from their walk. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/549265/ His mouth was dry. His eyes itched but he could not close them.She seemed to him like an afterthought on the landscape, etched in with biro. She cast no shadow on the short, white grass. She could have been a spectre. Gregory could see the detail of her blue eyes. The shine on her bottle black h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/548979/ His mother insisted on taking him round the downstairs rooms.Everything was the same. Not a speck of dust had fallen since the day he left. His mother had this horrible pride as she showed him round. The same bleak landscapes hung everywhere. All the ugly decor remained, all the dark c.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/548596/ My eyes tattooed wideTwo ghosts in the mistI see them go insideMy insides twist.They kissed.They're smiles are white starsThat float on their lips,Their kiss deep and long.They're two sinking ships.Wet lips.Regard her facadeThe blank message she sendsI'd rather be withMy imaginary friends than with .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/548013/ Weird little poem I edited from an old bit of poetry I did years ago. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/548007/ 10 years laterThe windscreen wipers shifted the thin layer of snow back and forth with rhythmic thuds. It drowned out the almost inaudible rendition of 'O Little Town Of Bethlehem' that had snuck on to the radio station.The green, rust-laden Ford trundled along with unexpected skil.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547497/ Short story I did for school contest; we had to include an Egyptian curse. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547043/ In the second chapter of the novel, Tiff finds out more about Robert Grey and his life. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547032/ “Greg, come here. I’ve got something to tell you.” Gregory’s mother motioned to the plastic blue chair next to her own. After a few seconds of cold hesitation, Gregory sat. His swamp green eyes remained clamped to the floor. His mother searched for some words to begin wi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547020/ Gregory Beier's past, and the his first love's tragic death, begins to haunt him more and more violently after he returns to his home town. But not everything is as it seems. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547016/ Semi-autobiographical novella about becoming an adult, the suffering we all go through, and about , well, my life so far, I guess. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547010/ Opening chapter of DITW, mysteries begin to wind themselves into the narrative. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547009/ One of my most dark, disturbing ideas for a novel. Pyschological and supernatural thrills and chills, but it's also about the real horrors of broken homes and family hardships. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/547007/ First part of a novel I'm writing, Fragments. Semi-autobiographical, mostly just a mad mixture of reality and fiction. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/544489/ This is part of a short story I wrote for a school competition on Turner. I decided to create Turner as a 21st century art student. I may update this with the ending later. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/543839/ This originally was going to be part of some prose I'm writing, and still is, but I thought it made a nice poem too. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/543837/ I don't really like this poem, I'm not sure why. I think poetry as a whole has to be a certain way for me or I get frustrated with the way it hinders stories. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/livspen/543819/