creative writing – elancharan gunasekaran

fog fills the hollow and the macabre plays tricks on the frail minds of man

press a face of flesh lovingly into the untouched earth and you have made a homunculus

autumn at this rate: pitchforks are mandatory on witch hunts

when the sea beds fall silent even the fishermen wait a moment before speaking

doors closed softly often hide the kindest of souls

memories of distant pastures collected in an old tabacco tin

snagged fishing line: curious the autumn spider strums it gently

dear life: such a bitter lover she is this greying and stubborn haze

little things should never be hurried: a tiny ember clings to the last thread of wig

a piece of your broken soul is saved for kindling on the first cold morning of autumn