The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

To Do (poem)


Things that I’m supposed to do:
I drink a cup of tea

Make My Morning


Fushimi’s morning didn’t start off well. He’d never been a morning person, and someone drank the last of the readily available coffee. But then he was off on a morning assignment to retrieve something for the Captain–”a parcel of great import”, he said, but most likely no more important than coffee–so it’s not like he had time to raid his backup stash.

He was scowling when he left and by all rights, that should have been the start of a terrible day.

Instead, he bumped into Misaki. Literally.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

A few grumpy words turns into a halfhearted wrestling match, that nonetheless leaves Misaki flushed and breathless and staring right at Fushimi for the longest few moments of Fushimi’s week.

By mutual agreement, they brush themselves off and go their separate ways without much in the way of further comment, but the warmth stays with Fushimi for hours afterward, and it’s not such a terrible day after all.

sunbeam (poem)


drink down the sun, like a golden
beam seeping into my heart
play it again in the morning
draw it back up and restart

upon us (poem)


new days come upon us and find us waiting
hope springs anew within our beating hearts
that today, the daylight finds us saving
all our dreams, and promises come through

wake (poem)


wake me now, open my eyes—
my heart and mind feel locked inside,
and somewhere where my dreams are kept
is also where my light has slept
so wake me up, just as the sun
right before the day’s begun

my dreams (poem)


morning wakes my dreams again
can’t I take the world by storm?
I ache to be more, fluttering hard
against this silk cocoon

Morning Touch


Skylight pulled the sleepshirt over her head and eyed her remaining clothes not in the laundry. With her habit of shoving in extra training sessions wherever they would fit, she had a bad tendency to sweat through shirts almost faster than she could wash them.

Math chuckled behind her, as if he could see the speculative look on her face (he could not). There must have been something about her stance that gave her away.

“Wash tomorrow,” she commented. Her spare supply was justified.

“Yes.” He got out of the bed behind her and fished down her second to last tank top. He paused, hand tracing over her back gently then over the line of her sports bra.

Skylight breathed evenly, slow and steady, but she felt warm all over.

He carefully lifted the shirt over her head and tugged it down over her shoulders, let her fit her own arms through the holes, but smoothed it carefully into place after.

She didn’t let him go for the overshirt before she dragged him close and kissed him good morning.

(haiku for morning)


morning breaks the night
in fractured pieces—mirrored
dreams give way to light