• Protected: A Simple Forest Green Envelope

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    July 5, 2016 /  Uncategorized

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  • Protected: Giving Up the Ghost

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    June 30, 2016 /  Uncategorized

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  • Protected: Drown

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    March 14, 2015 /  Uncategorized

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  • Protected: The Deepest Scars

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    December 26, 2014 /  Uncategorized

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  • Protected: Pick Your Poison

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    September 26, 2013 /  Rain

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  • Running Wild

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    August 14, 2013 /  Rain

    I was nineteen when I came to town, they called it the Summer of Love
    They were burning babies, burning flags. The hawks against the doves
    I took a job in the steamie down on Cauldrum Street
    And I fell in love with a laundry girl who was working next to me

    Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing
    So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
    She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
    She said “As long as there’s no price on love, I’ll stay.
    And you wouldn’t want me any other way”

    Brown hair zig-zag around her face and a look of half-surprise
    Like a fox caught in the headlights, there was animal in her eyes
    She said “Young man, oh can’t you see I’m not the factory kind
    If you don’t take me out of here I’ll surely lose my mind”

    Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing
    So fine that I might crush her where she lay
    She was a lost child, she was running wild
    She said “As long as there’s no price on love, I’ll stay.
    And you wouldn’t want me any other way”

    We busked around the market towns and picked fruit down in Kent
    And we could tinker lamps and pots and knives wherever we went
    And I said that we might settle down, get a few acres dug
    Fire burning in the hearth and babies on the rug
    She said “Oh man, you foolish man, it surely sounds like hell.
    You might be lord of half the world, you’ll not own me as well”

    Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing
    So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
    She was a lost child, oh she was running wild
    She said “As long as there’s no price on love, I’ll stay.
    And you wouldn’t want me any other way”

    We was camping down the Gower one time, the work was pretty good
    She thought we shouldn’t wait for the frost and I thought maybe we should
    We was drinking more in those days and tempers reached a pitch
    And like a fool I let her run with the rambling itch

    Oh the last I heard she’s sleeping rough back on the Derby beat
    White Horse in her hip pocket and a wolfhound at her feet
    And they say she even married once, a man named Romany Brown
    But even a gypsy caravan was too much settling down
    And they say her flower is faded now, hard weather and hard booze
    But maybe that’s just the price you pay for the chains you refuse

    Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee’s wing
    And I miss her more than ever words could say
    If I could just taste all of her wildness now
    If I could hold her in my arms today
    Well I wouldn’t want her any other way

    Richard Thompson, Beeswing

  • Rain

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    July 2, 2013 /  Rain

    “Just think,” the voice echoed in her head. “I could beat you to death, and he wouldn’t remember anything. He’d just… stare…”

    Just think.

    Just think.

    Commotion. Yelling. Watch out! Is that her voice? There is sweat on her forehead. Tears in her eyes. Pain everywhere. And something is still pulling.

    Just think. Just think. Just…

    Darkness. The smell of upturned earth and rotting vegetation. A storm on the horizon. A presence nearby.

    “You see what you’ve made me do? Now I have to teach you a lesson.”

    “Nn..o… wait..!” Definitely her voice. “‘ve learned it. Please don’t. Please…”

    Two cloaks. The glint of a weapon. More shouting. A name..? There was a name…no, no there wasn’t. Was there? Why can’t I remember? Just think. Just think.

    Alone again. Everything hurts. Her skin, her bones, it all feels so dry and brittle. She is grateful for the drizzle that soaks into her clothing but the sun is dropping lower in the sky and the lengthening shadows are so cold. Why can’t I move? Ah. Ropes. Cold droplets pelt her from above. Her eyes burn, but there’s no moisture left for tears. How does she get out of this?

    Jus’ think, Rain. Jus’ think.

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