Ghosts by Marina Zrnic ©

Foto de Henry Han: https://www.pexels.com/es-es/foto/ventanas-ventana-habitacion-atico-19542895/

After changing a tenth diaper today,

while all alone in a flat with our son

on our damaged bedroom wall

I saw a piece of universe that looks over

to the other side.

Nothing is more important

than having the ghosts well fed.

When you open the window

on our damaged wall

to dive into the pool

there will be no need to talk to them.

Comments

Wish You Were Here by Frank Jones

They were walking towards the car when Dorothy noticed him. "Isn't he darling, Norah," she said, stopping and pointing. On the way home from Norah's cottage they had made their usual stop at the doughnut shop and, coming out, Dorothy's eye had been caught by an object in the garden centre next door. "Kinda cute," her friend agreed. "If you like that sort of thing." "But I do," said Dorothy. "And I know exactly the place for him. You know that spot alongside the irises in the rockery-sort of an arbor?" Norah nodded. "Well, can't you just see him perched there? Come on, Norah. Let's see how much they want." The sign said "Van Houten", and it wasn't hard to place the ruddy-faced man taking off his leather gloves as a Dutchman. "Can I help you ladies?" The rolling L-sound was a dead giveaway. "I was interested in that gnome," said Dorothy. "How much are you asking?" &

Historical Context It is not easy to enjoy in Victorian Literature. For some of the readers, it is impossible. Nevertheless, literature is not about making yourself enjoy in something, it is about finding where your socket is. Art has to be felt, not forced. Its behaviour is of a butterfly: easily crashed. Literature is a pattern that some simply perceive when others will never be able to get there. In my opinion, it is even more the case with Victorian Literature. Therefore, if you have tried it for a few times and it just didn’t work out, let it be for some time. Maybe a day will come when you too will be able to open your eyes for chimney sweepers, coal miners at the age of 4, white linen, weird illnesses in women and a huge Industrial Revolution that brought amazing changes into the lives and mentality of the 18th and 19th century people. Even though Victorian Literature was born and bred in England, its influence surpasses the frontiers and spreads across Europe and reaches other

Ash-tree by M.R.James (1904)

https://unsplash.com/photos/yellow-pillar-candle-in-black-lantern-S7mAngnWV1A?utm_content=creditShareLink&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strong attraction: with the grey paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the “Grecian” taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the thirteenth century to a Shakespeare quarto. I like the picture

Witchy Magic Circle by Marina Zrnic

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