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Paeans for Eons

This kind of prompt entertains me immensely, and so, in the tradition of a similar prompt from 2017 , please enjoy ... Your Dystopian YA author name is your last initial + your first initial + the first kind of tree you can think of. The title of your book series is The + the color of your shirt + the first object to your right. — tiny snek comics (@TinySnekComics) September 7, 2019 Your Dystopian YA author name is your last initial + your first initial + the first kind of tree you can think of. The title of your book series is The + the color of your shirt + the first object to your right. #CB BC Willow defines the generation with her opus The Grey Bed Following the stories of multiple couples through their first and last sexual acts in their lovingly shared beds, it is a potent refutation of the 50 Shades generation. #RM M R Oak with their thrilling YA debut "Cream Windows" Claire: the fans can be called Creamies! Claire: oh hai. I am coming back up to the first comments b
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World Poetry Day

The excellent Duc proposed that we compose some poems together, line by line, for World Poetry Day. This is the Age of C19 however, so we had a live thread in my Facebook Writing Group, and it worked surprisingly well. Devoted readers and Facebook friends alike will know that I love a good live thread, whether that is for The Voice , the Jubilee or Q&A. The first poem was pleasingly symmetrical, the second quite melancholy ... they started out as Follows - -1- how precarious the life of the tree by the road precarious and precious, said the poet the poet with the last roll of TP precarious and precious, said the poet The TP from the tree by the side of the road -2- Hands made to touch, cannot touch, cannot be touched, but must wash, be washed, wash, be washed, wash Birthdays unmarked, But we sing, sing the song, the birthday song when we wash, washed, wept, wash Claire: Emily would be prouder of us if we added some capitalisation and dashes, but otherwise, I like it

Writing at a Social Distance

I have a writing group that I started specifically so writers could spend some hours in each other’s company. We’d write in silence for an hour, stop for tea and chat, and then write for another hour if that suited everyone. I loved every moment of facilitating those groups, and I got some really excellent writing done in those times, along with making treasured new friends . I had a modest private group on Facebook that supported everyone inbetween the writing groups with announcements of writing competitions. All was going well until the Age of C19 was upon us, and writers retreated to their garrets again. So the writing group went online, and the decision to go online in full was sealed when I went to see my sister, and one of her housemates was a writer. I invited her to join me in a long-running online writing group - The Writing Race by the Australian Writer’s Marketplace . It was lovely to sit on the sofa, participate in a Writing Race, and hear the steady tap of another

Islamic Hospitality: Family

On a street in Covent Garden my heart overflows with love and I stop and tell Ozy and Ely that I feel like they are my sisters. They hug me in the middle of the wintery rush hour and tell me in chorus that I am their sister. They then look me straight in the eye and remind me that this is a serious moment, becoming part of a Persian family. At that moment I could not think of any other way of entering the future. The side-splitting and brain-melting delight of my sisters and their family and friends hold my life up in ways that shape much of my chosen family. Hamida and I spoke about the importance of politics, faith and life all over the UWA campus over a cool decade, and I will be forever grateful for the invitation to a weekday Ramadan dinner that meant this extraordinary woman became a friend. My head overflows with love when I see Hamida, because each time she stops to speak to me, she changes the course of my life for the better. So much of my intellectual life is stronger


Just a reminder that I wrote my History Thesis on Science Fiction and Fantasy, so I am a bit of a fan of the genre ... Your fantasy novel name is your name, but with the letters in alphabetical order. Hi, I'm Aeln. — Lena 🌑 (@DeaExLena) August 7, 2017 Hi, I’m Aeln.   As the column broke out of the forest cover, they found the ranks of the cavalry under General Aceilr Adeeeilmn waiting patiently on the plain. Ace rested her hands on her pommel and smiled down at the Captain, 'what fun we're going to have today, now you've finally arrived.' #Aadm Kkooosstuu sends his highest honours to General Ace. Claire: General Ace thanks the pre-eminent Aadm of the Kkooosstuu for both the honours from the groves and that crate of particularly lethal warrior bees, used to great effect in the last campaign. #Aadm Kkooosstuu: Our bees are always at your service, General. Claire: You are a scholar and a gentleman. #Achilno Claire: Achilno was the most famous bard in all the l

When asked, will write

Originally published here by a dear friend I’ll let you in on a secret – I keep all kinds of tissue products long after the use they were provided for has passed, and some tissue products I have kept for over a decade now. And no, I am not a hoarder or a collector, but a storyteller and traveller who has been gifted art on the nearest easy canvas from all manner of artists. These beautiful sheets have been treasured for the many memories they carry, and their longevity speaks to the enduring power of paper to persevere. Along with most people, I dispose of used toilet paper, tissues and kitchen paper rolls in my day-to-day life as they wipe clean and dispense comfort, and are then discarded. But every now and again a piece of paper becomes the canvas for something innovative or evocative that I wish to keep, and they form a beautiful tapestry of tissue from across the world. I have an intricate rose made of a paper napkin given to me in Greece on the last night of a two-day rom


#MakeAGreatAlbum1997 Honey, bring it close to my lips The sun will shine from time to time You can't make no money if you can't keep an artist Mingle with the good people we meet, yeah ! See me I'm all about my money mane Peeping your steelo I could never spend my life with a man like you People hold on, we've got to be strong A quarter past eleven on a Saturday in 1999 You know you cannot hide, from what's inside So I chose freedom A light still shining Remember me, I'm the one who had your babies addict-insane, come play my game, inhale inhale you're the firestarter, twisted firestarter high density random blond boy blond country I have run away, run away Heaven on earth, paradise for a price Sexism, baptism and wisdom will this deja vu never end ? I wish I could turn back time fools begin to open up their eyes oh I know what you're thinking paint it black and white and easy They don't like the game we play and i&#