Hi, new to this writing lark. feel free to offer pointers, hope you like my stuff, its not in any particular style, its just the stuff in my head in the written word.Im married and I live in Bolton.
Now I hear the gushing wind. Neither hammering nor prying. But gruff, rhythmic and reasuring. In a wind so fresh off the sea you can faintly smell the salt. Hills so high they touch the sky. The tops obscured by mist. Roads enter and leave, serpintine they wend their way Hills folded into hills. The sky, a well stocked armoury casts down bright spears. The sky smells seared. And concussions rock the night.
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Viewed 2834 times since 24 Oct 2008
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