รɦคᛕﻉร
@theshakes72.bsky.social
Trees, landscapes & the backs of people's heads. 🌎 citizen.
Don’t worry, it’s only a story.
Don’t worry, it’s only a story.
We played board games for a while last night, and we're having a traditional roast lunch at 2pm today. 2026 is about slowing the pace and remembering what matters.
January 11, 2026 at 1:03 PM
We played board games for a while last night, and we're having a traditional roast lunch at 2pm today. 2026 is about slowing the pace and remembering what matters.
The snow brings things with it.
Not tracks. Other arrivals.
They wait where sight thins,
behave if you look straight on.
By morning the snow is clean again.
You call it winter tricks.
They wait for the next fall.
Not tracks. Other arrivals.
They wait where sight thins,
behave if you look straight on.
By morning the snow is clean again.
You call it winter tricks.
They wait for the next fall.
January 5, 2026 at 9:21 PM
The snow brings things with it.
Not tracks. Other arrivals.
They wait where sight thins,
behave if you look straight on.
By morning the snow is clean again.
You call it winter tricks.
They wait for the next fall.
Not tracks. Other arrivals.
They wait where sight thins,
behave if you look straight on.
By morning the snow is clean again.
You call it winter tricks.
They wait for the next fall.
London held still for a moment.
Sunshine, coffee, the river doing its work.
This will stay.
Later, a quiet pub.
A board game, an excellent sour beer,
time chose not to hurry.
Sunshine, coffee, the river doing its work.
This will stay.
Later, a quiet pub.
A board game, an excellent sour beer,
time chose not to hurry.
January 4, 2026 at 7:19 PM
London held still for a moment.
Sunshine, coffee, the river doing its work.
This will stay.
Later, a quiet pub.
A board game, an excellent sour beer,
time chose not to hurry.
Sunshine, coffee, the river doing its work.
This will stay.
Later, a quiet pub.
A board game, an excellent sour beer,
time chose not to hurry.
Reposted by รɦคᛕﻉร
"Things Move" by David Shakes @TheShakes72.bsky.social is today's 75-word #story on Paragraph Planet paragraphplanet.com #writingcommunity #amwriting
Creative writing website for authors and readers. 75 words, changing daily. Submit your
paragraph today.
A flash fiction website for writers and readers. One 75 word tale published daily. Plus author interviews and writing group map
paragraphplanet.com
January 4, 2026 at 3:11 PM
"Things Move" by David Shakes @TheShakes72.bsky.social is today's 75-word #story on Paragraph Planet paragraphplanet.com #writingcommunity #amwriting
The latch won’t bite. I pass through the door like mist.
Inside, the rug is a desert. I see your shadow, grief-heavy.
I bark. I scratch. Nothing answers.
The door is open. I cannot find my way in.
#poetry
Inside, the rug is a desert. I see your shadow, grief-heavy.
I bark. I scratch. Nothing answers.
The door is open. I cannot find my way in.
#poetry
January 2, 2026 at 11:13 AM
The latch won’t bite. I pass through the door like mist.
Inside, the rug is a desert. I see your shadow, grief-heavy.
I bark. I scratch. Nothing answers.
The door is open. I cannot find my way in.
#poetry
Inside, the rug is a desert. I see your shadow, grief-heavy.
I bark. I scratch. Nothing answers.
The door is open. I cannot find my way in.
#poetry
Time wore a hole
in the pocket where I kept my keys.
Everything drifted out,
settled in the grass.
I stand with empty hands.
The wind touches my skin.
It’s cold,
and it feels like air for the first time in years.
#poetry
in the pocket where I kept my keys.
Everything drifted out,
settled in the grass.
I stand with empty hands.
The wind touches my skin.
It’s cold,
and it feels like air for the first time in years.
#poetry
December 30, 2025 at 3:07 PM
Time wore a hole
in the pocket where I kept my keys.
Everything drifted out,
settled in the grass.
I stand with empty hands.
The wind touches my skin.
It’s cold,
and it feels like air for the first time in years.
#poetry
in the pocket where I kept my keys.
Everything drifted out,
settled in the grass.
I stand with empty hands.
The wind touches my skin.
It’s cold,
and it feels like air for the first time in years.
#poetry
It’s easier to be a statue
to keep the jaw set
the grievances polished
and the history carved in stone
where it can’t move
and can’t hurt me.
1/5
to keep the jaw set
the grievances polished
and the history carved in stone
where it can’t move
and can’t hurt me.
1/5
December 30, 2025 at 12:56 PM
It’s easier to be a statue
to keep the jaw set
the grievances polished
and the history carved in stone
where it can’t move
and can’t hurt me.
1/5
to keep the jaw set
the grievances polished
and the history carved in stone
where it can’t move
and can’t hurt me.
1/5
Well, I've gone from a two year creative drought to posting leadership lessons for work, poetry on here, and mapping out a novella in a folk horror vein.
December 30, 2025 at 12:00 PM
Well, I've gone from a two year creative drought to posting leadership lessons for work, poetry on here, and mapping out a novella in a folk horror vein.
Expanded poem:
The traffic murmurs outside,
a current of motion running through still air.
Somewhere a bus sighs as it slows,
a voice drifts apart
into distance, weather,
the click of doors closing.
1/3
The traffic murmurs outside,
a current of motion running through still air.
Somewhere a bus sighs as it slows,
a voice drifts apart
into distance, weather,
the click of doors closing.
1/3
December 30, 2025 at 11:44 AM
Expanded poem:
The traffic murmurs outside,
a current of motion running through still air.
Somewhere a bus sighs as it slows,
a voice drifts apart
into distance, weather,
the click of doors closing.
1/3
The traffic murmurs outside,
a current of motion running through still air.
Somewhere a bus sighs as it slows,
a voice drifts apart
into distance, weather,
the click of doors closing.
1/3
Traffic murmurs, a bus sighs, voices drift.
The dog leans into me. Morning asks for nothing more.
I do not move, I do not speak.
I just listen, until listening feels like living.
#poetry
The dog leans into me. Morning asks for nothing more.
I do not move, I do not speak.
I just listen, until listening feels like living.
#poetry
December 30, 2025 at 11:40 AM
Traffic murmurs, a bus sighs, voices drift.
The dog leans into me. Morning asks for nothing more.
I do not move, I do not speak.
I just listen, until listening feels like living.
#poetry
The dog leans into me. Morning asks for nothing more.
I do not move, I do not speak.
I just listen, until listening feels like living.
#poetry
I am the thing the monsters in the dark are afraid of;
the quiet turning of the key,
the breath that never shakes,
the light that does not ask permission to burn.
#poetry
the quiet turning of the key,
the breath that never shakes,
the light that does not ask permission to burn.
#poetry
December 29, 2025 at 8:18 PM
I am the thing the monsters in the dark are afraid of;
the quiet turning of the key,
the breath that never shakes,
the light that does not ask permission to burn.
#poetry
the quiet turning of the key,
the breath that never shakes,
the light that does not ask permission to burn.
#poetry
We are specks of dust in our own solar system.
In the universe, barely a rounding error.
Yet the dust looks back, names the dark, boils kettles, waits with dogs.
The miracle isn’t scale.
It’s awareness.
#poetry
In the universe, barely a rounding error.
Yet the dust looks back, names the dark, boils kettles, waits with dogs.
The miracle isn’t scale.
It’s awareness.
#poetry
December 29, 2025 at 1:39 PM
We are specks of dust in our own solar system.
In the universe, barely a rounding error.
Yet the dust looks back, names the dark, boils kettles, waits with dogs.
The miracle isn’t scale.
It’s awareness.
#poetry
In the universe, barely a rounding error.
Yet the dust looks back, names the dark, boils kettles, waits with dogs.
The miracle isn’t scale.
It’s awareness.
#poetry
It’s Christmas again.
Dad’s in your armchair, dog at his leg,
telly loud.
The room’s warm but something’s missing.
Four years, they say.
Dad’s here. The dog’s here.
You aren’t.
And the night carries on like that’s normal.
Dad’s in your armchair, dog at his leg,
telly loud.
The room’s warm but something’s missing.
Four years, they say.
Dad’s here. The dog’s here.
You aren’t.
And the night carries on like that’s normal.
December 28, 2025 at 8:55 PM
It’s Christmas again.
Dad’s in your armchair, dog at his leg,
telly loud.
The room’s warm but something’s missing.
Four years, they say.
Dad’s here. The dog’s here.
You aren’t.
And the night carries on like that’s normal.
Dad’s in your armchair, dog at his leg,
telly loud.
The room’s warm but something’s missing.
Four years, they say.
Dad’s here. The dog’s here.
You aren’t.
And the night carries on like that’s normal.
The dog knows. She watches the moments you step past yourself, the small turns you don’t notice, the habits you defend without noticing. She sees where you soften too late, where you harden too early. She smells the fear before the words, the apology forming after the damage. 1/2
December 28, 2025 at 12:44 PM
The dog knows. She watches the moments you step past yourself, the small turns you don’t notice, the habits you defend without noticing. She sees where you soften too late, where you harden too early. She smells the fear before the words, the apology forming after the damage. 1/2
Voices from the past
do not rest politely.
They tap the glass of now,
clear their throats,
say we are still here.
Some truths
never learn
how to whisper.
#poetry
do not rest politely.
They tap the glass of now,
clear their throats,
say we are still here.
Some truths
never learn
how to whisper.
#poetry
December 28, 2025 at 12:01 PM
Voices from the past
do not rest politely.
They tap the glass of now,
clear their throats,
say we are still here.
Some truths
never learn
how to whisper.
#poetry
do not rest politely.
They tap the glass of now,
clear their throats,
say we are still here.
Some truths
never learn
how to whisper.
#poetry
I cross the borders into @hookland.bsky.social. There is a shade of grey that only exists in the eyes of the sheep here. It’s the colour of a TV tuned to a dead channel. They often stand in a perfect circle. I think they’re waiting for the hum, or perhaps for me to stop watching.
December 27, 2025 at 8:01 PM
I cross the borders into @hookland.bsky.social. There is a shade of grey that only exists in the eyes of the sheep here. It’s the colour of a TV tuned to a dead channel. They often stand in a perfect circle. I think they’re waiting for the hum, or perhaps for me to stop watching.
The floorboards don't just creak;
they remember the weight of him.
I scrub the salt from the threshold
until my knuckles bleed white,
but some stains aren't on the wood.
They are stitched into the quiet
between my own heartbeats.
they remember the weight of him.
I scrub the salt from the threshold
until my knuckles bleed white,
but some stains aren't on the wood.
They are stitched into the quiet
between my own heartbeats.
December 27, 2025 at 7:52 PM
The floorboards don't just creak;
they remember the weight of him.
I scrub the salt from the threshold
until my knuckles bleed white,
but some stains aren't on the wood.
They are stitched into the quiet
between my own heartbeats.
they remember the weight of him.
I scrub the salt from the threshold
until my knuckles bleed white,
but some stains aren't on the wood.
They are stitched into the quiet
between my own heartbeats.
Night comes fast
and lingers.
Things within
shift and breathe,
a hush of wings,
a pulse beneath
the garden’s skin.
The air forgets
its warmth, its name,
and what was still
wakes again.
#poetry
and lingers.
Things within
shift and breathe,
a hush of wings,
a pulse beneath
the garden’s skin.
The air forgets
its warmth, its name,
and what was still
wakes again.
#poetry
December 27, 2025 at 4:30 PM
Night comes fast
and lingers.
Things within
shift and breathe,
a hush of wings,
a pulse beneath
the garden’s skin.
The air forgets
its warmth, its name,
and what was still
wakes again.
#poetry
and lingers.
Things within
shift and breathe,
a hush of wings,
a pulse beneath
the garden’s skin.
The air forgets
its warmth, its name,
and what was still
wakes again.
#poetry
Rain crawls across the mill roofs like it knows our names.
The hills lean in, listening.
Every light in this village flickers at once,
and I swear something out there just breathed. 1/3
The hills lean in, listening.
Every light in this village flickers at once,
and I swear something out there just breathed. 1/3
December 27, 2025 at 2:40 PM
Rain crawls across the mill roofs like it knows our names.
The hills lean in, listening.
Every light in this village flickers at once,
and I swear something out there just breathed. 1/3
The hills lean in, listening.
Every light in this village flickers at once,
and I swear something out there just breathed. 1/3
