Tiny Tales

Hello all. My name is Laura Morley. I like to take showers, stretch my back and write about myself a lot. One day I hope to be the kind of cool person who can order a soy chai latte without being frowned at.

April 18, 2014 at 7:15am
201 notes
Reblogged from zeroing

Niall McClelland


Niall McClelland

(via pantheonbooks)

November 22, 2013 at 7:55pm
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Living + Breathing

living and breathing
what else can you do?
between living and breathing
there’s not much to do

clutching at fingers
and straws that aren’t there
stars in your eyes
and stars in the air

tied down to one thing
and two things and four
holding on tightly
palms so red and raw

blinking and stirring
a thought that you know
it’s just out of reach
but oh that’s how it goes

slipping and sliding
further away
living and breathing
from day
to day

2 notes

Not Even Close.

you are never more beautiful
than when you’re sad
when your face is so tired
and your eyes blink so slowly
blearily, once, twice

you are never more of nothing 
than when you are silent
you feel so tiny that
people see right through you
"this will teach them" you think
but it doesn’t

you are never more sad
than when you are alive
because you are always trying
in your own small ways
but it is never enough
not quite
not even close

November 10, 2013 at 2:10am
2 notes

Boy & Girl

Dappled with light, so heavy and lidded
Strung on together, strung out and withered
Hands clasped so tightly, fingers all furled
The shell of a boy, the husk of a girl

Breathing and breathing, holding on tight
The heat of the morning, and the warmth of the night
Things put together in crooked old ways
Under sheets, under blankets, huddled for days

Sighing and teeming, a glimpse of our heart
of an ocean, a river, two lips that part
A finger of time, a favour, a handshake
and two small bodies cast out in its wake

Things put together in crooked old ways
Under sheets, under blankets, huddled for days

October 30, 2013 at 1:30am
1 note

The Big & The Small

I’ve forgotten much more than you’ll ever know
more than I say and more than I show
More than I care to admit to at all
I’ve forgotten the big, I’ve forgotten the small

I’ve forgotten the moments that made me smile
that made me feel happy, made my life so worthwhile
I’ve forgotten the moments that made me feel tall
like all the bad in the world wasn’t that bad at all

I’ve forgotten the stories my grandfather shared

The way that he sneezed or parted his hair
I think back so often but I find that they’re gone
That I have no more memories or moments to call on

I’ve even forgotten the times I was sad
The times that I lost and mourned love that I had
The times where it seemed to be world verses me
Where my eyes felt so tired and my heart so tiny

And yet there are moments that stick to my skin
find their way deep inside and bury within
They rest in my heart, in my eyes and my hands
They find feet of their own and on shaky legs stand

These moments, I think, matter most of all
Because they are not quite big and they are not quite small
They are things that I’ve done and things that I’ve seen
Times of laughter and joy and all things in between

The times where I smiled and reached for a hand
Where we all sang together or made stars in the sand
Where I sat on my verandah and looked at the moon
The bright heat of summer or the hard cold of June

And yes, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll  know
more than I say and more than I show
But this handful of memories will see me on my way
I’ll keep them close to my heart and I’ll be okay

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A lull had settled over the city, it was late. Sitting there, with my feet on the table and a cigarette dangling from my fingertips I felt overwhelmingly small, but so very content. It was a perfect view of the city from my veranda; I could see it all. On a clear night, if I squinted just so I could read the time from the Suncorp clock. It was 10:59pm, as it happened. Houses and trees, churches and roads, they all sloped down from the point where my house stood, high on a hill with a gentle breeze and panoramic views. Down, down, down the hill they stretched, to the city, to the crux of it all, and there they kissed the horizon; a beautiful union. The city blossomed where these two touched, at night there was a glow permeating the thin clouds and haze of smog that hung about the tops of buildings. Even from where I sat, a good five kilometres from the heart of it all, I could hear it humming and I felt that it was alive.

This same hum pervaded the walls of my own home. It was as though they were living things, soaking it in, each grain, each dash of paint, each scratch was a memory. The front steps creaked when I walked up them, like whispers, and the curtains billowed in the breeze as if the house was breathing, taking in a great lungful of air. It was the old saying “if walls could talk”. If walls could talk indeed, I thought. These walls would have a lot to say, though none of it would be as sinister or noble as those kinds of stories often tended to be.

September 18, 2013 at 4:33am
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Reblogged from ihatethistree


Thoughts slowed in the heat of the day; a sticky river of insecurities, trickling through the tiniest window of light in my mind. 

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The Water.

It was more glorious than anything he had ever seen; more perfect than any of the images his mind had ever weakly conjured. What struck him first was the colour of it all - bands of blue and green and the darkest of greys, tied together, swirling down into the deep. In the sun, it could have been thousands upon thousands of crudely cut diamonds, glittering, shining. It frothed and foamed and disappeared into the horizon for days. Salt and brine filled his nostrils and coursed through his veins. When he closed his eyes he fancied that it was whispering to him, that it murmured old secrets as it rolled onto the shore and shifted the sands. 

September 17, 2013 at 10:11am
4 notes


The verandah steps on a warm night; what a beautiful place to be. It is the kind of place where you fall in love with someone. “Look at the moths,” one will murmur. It’s true, the moths are there, haloed around the streetlight in an orange haze. “Look at the stars,” says the other. What a beautiful, romantic thing to say. You look at the stars, drink them in and it doesn’t feel like a pretence at all. “I’m cold,” says one, whispered through a stutter. Bodies move closer, grow warmer again. There is a nervous cough and a giddy laugh. The moon casts a mottled shadow on the grass, glowing through the leaves of the trees. The air is still rich and heavy with the scents of the day, not yet settled into cool night. Everything is so still. “Today was nice,” is the comment. Then a smile, an arm around a shoulder and a kiss, ever so lightly on the tip of a nose. The verandah steps on a warm night; what a beautiful place to be.

52 notes
Reblogged from 7moths

Untitled on We Heart It. https://weheartit.com/entry/77192267/via/suchfragilebrokenthings


Untitled on We Heart It. https://weheartit.com/entry/77192267/via/suchfragilebrokenthings