It was a matter of Justice.
It was a matter of Justice.
Six word story
aren't we all fighting for the same? pretty wise
Sock it to 'em, mate!
what happened? Is it all sorted out now or??????
I thought I knew my death.I thought I knew my death. He grabbed my heart one day and squeezed tightly, banded fear wrapping its way around my body and terrorizing the air from my lungs. "Not..Like..This.." I would gasp, thinking that there must be some better way out. I would start to beg but it would soon be over. He'd release me and my body would give up. There would be nothing left to say.
I thought I knew my death. She would slip into the shadows some months before I thought my time was up. She would slowly take my memories for my own, replacing them with child's talk and nonsensical things. "Oh please, won't somebody help me." It would be a rhetoric, although I wouldn't know that then.
I thought I knew my death. He would seep into my skin and beneath my bones. Disease would spread through my veins, shutting me down. My very soul would ache, because cancerous ways could do cancerous things. He would wrap himself around my very voice, my heart, my tissue and my being. "Take me home." I w
The Grey LadyWhen I first saw her, sitting in the middle of a vast armchair, staring out of the window - I was reminded of the Grey Lady. She was Grey. But she couldn't have been more than eight or nine years old. Her hair was long and perfectly straight but it looked dusty. As if she had been sitting there for years, forgotten. Her eyes were sunken, sallow. Her skin was a pallour of grey that I've never seen on a human being before. Dark, damp, but it looked as though if you touched her a cloud would form in front of you. Dusty.
I was one of the unfortunate parents roped into going on a residential school trip to the Lake District. It was my job to tick off the names as people left the reception of the school and clambered into the bus. I ticked my own son off as he stood beside me, nervously reaching to catch my free hand and continued through the list of his classmates one by one. The grey girl didn't move and I hesitated as I ran my finger down the register. I had ticked every name and it was a
Counting BonesTo An Unknown Lady,
They found your remains a few days ago. They speculate that you were buried more than half a decade ago. Yet people have only been looking for seven days. Properly looking I mean. Somebody somewhere must have searched out of love for you the minute you disappeared.
We don't know much about you yet, but the newspapers will begin to piece together fragments of your tragic life and how you came to be lying in the earth without recognition. No gravestone, no testimony to your living and breathing existence, not even an empty vase with the congealed dead particles of flowers to signify grief.
There are flowers there now. Does that make you feel any better? That hundreds and hundreds of people now know of your existence in death? Recognition such as this would never have been craved in life, but if it was all you could claw back once you had died would you have shouted from the hilltops that you lay beneath cold grass?
You're not the only one. You are
Three days of the LastShe spent a lifetime of living in order to prepare for her death but the final steps and the lasting moments were spread out poignantly across just three days.
On the first day of the last, she taught all that she knew to the one who would be left behind. She imparted the final gifts of her wisdom with every ounce of strength that she had left.
On the second day of the last, she said her goodbyes. She visited each of her family in turn and helped them to understand, in her own unique way, that it was finally time to let go.
On the third day of the last, she removed herself from all that she knew and all that knew her and climbed the highest mountain with the bestest view from her dreams.
On that final day, the last of the last, she fell into the deepest of sleeps.
Peaceful, endless and comforting.
I am not myself anymoreDeath lay in the middle of the lawn this morning. There was no frost or early morning dew, instead a cool grey palour explored the sky with fingertips of gruel. There was nothing to suggest that anything else had changed, only the smell of grief and the echo of regret crossed into the morning air.
As Death lay, the sun rose and lit up the curling tips of springtime petals. The leaves on trees crackled and stretched almost imperceptibly. They shook away the yawns of Winter without a backward glance. Hungrily, with two steps to the left and a raunchy shake of boughs they jived into Spring.
Life continued as Death lay. The groans of people as they woke to face another day and shrugged off the idea of somebody else's problem tiptoed out of half open windows and unhinged doorways.
Death didn't change her position in the middle of the lawn. She lay beneath an Oak Tree that they say takes three hundred years to grow, three hundred years to live and three hundred years to die. She tho
TrappedWe were both trapped in a queue of cars, four lanes on the motorway. It was 8am on a Friday and rush hour was creeping forward at a twelfth of the speed that it usually did. People sighed, some moaned, others dipped their hands lazily out of their windows catching the cool morning breeze. We were both there, you and I. My car crept forward almost as if it wasn't moving at all, my eyes focused on the road ahead, concentrating on the car in front - one eye on the van behind. It was one of those roads where the curves dropped away around a bend and into nothing. People craned their necks trying to see what was up ahead, what was keeping everyone back from their mundane mornings at their desks. I didn't want to look. But we were both there, stuck in the queue.
I flicked the radio stations to see if there was a news update, red lights cleared as the crowd inched forward again. Lane one, then two then three merged into four as flashing lights and signs warned them of an obstruction. Brake li
Four Thousand PiecesWe met outside the morgue. You were there with your hair too bright and clothes that we had fought over that very morning. You were crouched, your body looking impossibly small and broken.
You can't wear that out. You look like a prostitute.
I'm eighteen years old Mum, I can wear what I like.
All at once you were the brand new baby that I had held in my arms, sobbing over the tiny miracle that your Father and I had never thought possible. Then, you were five years old, and it was time to begin school. You had looked up at me with big green eyes and a serious smile as you proved over and over that you could fasten the Velcro on your brand new shoes.
You smiled at me now, outside this place that we didn't belong in, and I saw the stabilisers that Gary had taken from your bike. He had watched you cycle down the road, ten years old, the proudest Father at that moment in time. I could tell you that he hid tears from you that day. But I don't.
Instead I ask you how your day wa
A Broken DreamHe was just eight years old when he witnessed death for the first time. They had been moving through staccato traffic for fifteen minutes in the growing dusk before his Mother spoke.
It's beautiful she had said softly, her eyes settling on something caught in the headlight reflection bouncing back from the front window. He had leant forward in his seat, craning his neck to see what had captured her attention. An opaque moth lay helplessly trapped beneath the wiper blades. Touching the cold glass gently he had pleaded with her to set it free.
As they crept forward, inching along the motorway, the traffic on either side grew parrallel with their wing mirrors. People were looking up, pointing. There was somebody stood on the bridge, an inky sillouhette against a blushing sky.
Look Mum, he pointed, but she was already tilting her neck to see above them. I know, Honey she replied, her mouth set in a grim line as they both realised what they had missed before. The f
The Anti GuidebookI don't expect you to understand. Nor do I expect you to believe. I always believed in telling the truth unless I got myself confused in which case I would lie as convincingly as I can for as long as humanely possible. My propensity to begin this guide comes from years of staring at glossy picture perfect photographs of far away places. You know those kind of books, the backpackers guide to wherever.... The kind of books that you take for granted the author has seen and experienced the taste of Africa and the smell of China first hand. When in reality they could have wiki'd or google'd or found the information needed for a bestseller with some quick tickle of fingers.
You see, I stood on a bridge on a balmy summers evening with my back to the moon and my chest braced against the breeze. And then quite simply, I let go. I never expected the August wind to carry me, I had no hopes and no expectations. I had no need for any sort of guidance in that
A Farewell to MoleskineI chose not to water your Oleanders.
There was a reason, but it has dried in
my mind like those magenta petals.
You stopped buying me first editions,
when our friends claimed they made
me seem pretentious.
They didn't know about the ketchup stain
on Catcher in the Rye, or the highlighter
I took to This Side of Paradise.
They didn't know anything about being the oldest
book on a shelf- The fact that dust yearns for the
attentive breath of life to set it free.
Words are not prisoners in a flower pot.
They do not die with ease.
I remember now,
I didn't water your Oleanders
because they made you seem
UnforgettableFive years of us
learning each other,
loving each other,
before we took our vows
and began anew.
Twenty hours of travel
was well worth it.
The paradise we found
in that faraway land
took my breath away.
and a cabin in the rain forest
overlooking a black sand beach.
Our pale skin pinked under the Costa Rican Sun,
the burn soothed under a cloudless sky.
We watched glimmering stars,
brighter in the absence of city lights.
by foreign tongues and familiar arms.
An experience with no parallel.
Taking our commitment
and testing it
making it stronger.
I hiked on slippery rocks
to get to that special place,
to stand underneath that waterfall
To laugh with you,
to take in the wonder of the world
in your company.
To smile just because…
I married you.
The Guardian Wraith of Starlit SmokeOur sitting here by lantern-light together
In the thick of a teeming snowfall;
The final golden glow,
Against the ancient sovereignty of night,
Like the last petal off a flower.
It is turning three hundred years
He never let the lantern drop.
The illimitable dark and cold and storm,
Whose work is to find out God;
And when they came it seemed with a will
To carry me with them to death.
What comes over a man, is it soul or mind-
(The Devil enters like a sapphire wasp)
Twixt what to love and what to hate
To find out how to get away from God?
No one has seen him stumble looking back
From having died
Inaudibly in thought;
The sorrow of having been left behind.
The land was ours before we were the land's
And having it all made over new
From force to matter and back to force,
you losing mefull title: every conversation we ever had about you losing me, and how you almost did
things have shifted,
the slightest tip of the universe
on its infinite axis; into an ocean
of arctic darkness
my peripherals are encased
in caverns of ivory teeth,
slick-back orcas and the ominous
terror of frigid waters pushing
against skin, pressurized like
slivers of glass tracing the rivulets
in my palms like fingertips,
faces carved in windshield cracks,
sails carrying me away like stretchers
on silver wings,
toes poised on the precipice of
what everything really means -
do you know how it feels
to be smaller than those ten letters?
soul in the back of your skull,
the world in one moment,
one fraction of existence,
one shard of luck and beauty
somewhere between the collapsed roof
and the radio skipping in and out.
You And MeYou: I take the knife out of your hand.
I see the blade and I understand.
I toss it aside, the epiphany.
The angels will not take you from me.
Me: What if I hold the knife fast?
I refuse to relinquish it from my grasp.
The devil is my own betrothed.
And by your angels I am loathed.
28 daysthey came over on a boat, i imagine,
(for i was not the there and they do not speak of it)
they came over on a boat i imagine,
just like the rest of them,
from lucerne or bavaria or kaposvar or drywseved
escaping medieval forests, rain playing peat bogs
like organ keyboards,
they were farmers, sown to wheat like arranged marriage,
mike had one ox, two bulls and a chest like stone & mortar,
he was a good man, looked god in the eyes at dawn,
whispered secrets to his bedsheets at night,
ed, ed was a freight train, handlebar moustache & coal-fired cheeks,
when he was eleven, ed built the honesdale canal with nothing except
his hands and the lord as a witness,
don't take my word for it but rumor has it there was a little napoleon
in him after all,
it was after the war,
the one of blue and grey and red
they must've looked up like children do
must've seen her, slow dancing in the harbor,
marveled at the way her arm never grew weary, brow never sweaty,
the way the green brown water smiled up a
Do Not Wake MeDo not wake me from this sleep
For it would disrupt my dream
And do not force me to face
The inevitability of reality
For in this dream I am safe
My fears and stress have been erased
Everything is here as it should
Even the horror has been replaced
Waking me would break the glass
Of the mirror I have forged
That holds this false reality
Of the perfection that I dream
So with a hint of a smile
Resting on my sleeping face
I ask you from behind closed eyes
To not wake me from this dream
Seattle NightsCoffee shops, raindrops,
My heart stops.
Phone calls, shopping malls,
Youve broken down these walls.
Romantic dates, a warm embrace,
Entwined are our fates.
Sinking ships, pressing lips,
The way you move your hips.
Smooth strides, my heart glides,
My nervousness now hides.
On my mind, pain in rewind,
You are the perfect find.
Time to waste, off to space,
Always making my heart race.
WordsWords are such simple things really,
Not crowded or obtuse,
but slender sages
housed in pulpits
of wood and eventide -
graceful and deft
in the hands of children;
brave oaths and praises
among the gentle songs
of those the world forgets.
They should not grow
or boisterous chains.
Just let them be
and they will walk,
tentatively at first -
until they own the sky.
HeresyThe beauty of heresy lies
in the words
withering on the vine
and all those sounds
I hear you
breathing under water.
I wait as
the chysallis of dawn
wears out its welcome,
skips the beating heart offered up
and tries to make a home
between your pages.
RidaYou said your name
was Rita with a "d"
and let me blunder
my way through you.
You said I had charm
(and finesse was for amateurs)
I liked how you were a ladder,
how you could speak
in any accent you wanted;
you liked when I
did not change the sheets
or tie my hair back,
You had dropped
out of art school
where your father
still thought you were a virgin,
and I was bussing tables
on St. Charles.
We lived all that summer
in one room
and a kitchen.
You would fry plantains
and we would wash them down
with purple haze,
watching the musicians
silhouette their souls
against the sky.
you would tell fortunes
in Jackson Square
and men would pay
just to watch your copper hair
spill out their future
across the cards.
The city had never
seemed so clean
so fragrant with rain
and the daze of hibiscus
rioting in the courtyard
followed us in our sleep.
But autumn came too soon,
hooded in chill -
its mood ugly and resentful.
I watched you deadhead someone's roses
in the yard -
SurrenderI remember the colors
that night on the porch
when the fireflies claimed
the air around us -
the bright blue
blazing between your fingers
as you said
breathing was a trick
of the night.
I raised your hand
to touch my face,
feeling the pink trail
of the morning
yet to come
humming on your palm
and the deep pulse
of orchid staining my mouth
in soft surrender.
PhoenixI won't be your phoenix,
your death wish
of maudlin words
stretched across this failing light.
I will not wear
new wings for you
that crimson you
were born with -
a mother's final wish
to keep out the winter
But I will wait,
the flaw and beauty
of your youth
painted across your palms
as you hold up
the moon to meet me.
PoppiesHe dreams of her
and bleeds out -
the secret life of poppies
and visions that
have lost their way;
of cardinals thrashing
in the branches
and the pricking of thumbs
like last rites.
He has forgotten himself
a thousand times -
the soft glint
of bone and skin
bristling behind the thick
where she gathers
the lines of his palms
and leans back into
waiting for a key
to find its fate
in the wrong doorway.
happiness despite tragedyYou clipped your wings that gripped the heavens and the stars that are now far.
And now you're here, to wait to be saved, from a self created predicament.
You enslaved yourself with probabilities of self hate which replicate; becoming real.
And when disaster strikes, you grab a rope? No, you restore yourself.
Lucid dream and fly. Make your own wings and fly away.
To a place with everlasting dreams, where it's always feasible to succeed.
Mind over matter, the notion of happiness despite tragedy.
Success over failure. Trying over quitting.
Follow your dreams. The only thing stopping U is UAwake at night, you feel alone.
But when day comes, the hope unfolds.
Everlasting uncertainties guide you.
They remind you that you must go on.
Build a bridge to the heavens yourself,
using only imagination.
Hell's rivers will burn wood and melt metal,
but your dreams will remain untouched.
Words that don't reachMy hands stretched out to grab you,
My voice crying out sweet words,
But no matter what I do, I can't reach you.
Are you pushing me away?
Or have I closed myself up?
It doesn't matter who, but I can't get closer
To those I care about the most,
It doesn't matter how much I try, but
I feel like my words don't reach you.
My words, full of support, full of care,
They don't reach the frail hearts I want to heal.
Maybe I'm just trying in vain,
To make you and myself happy,
Because I know I will always be
The person everybody knows, but is close to no one.
The person you know is friendly,
But you seek help of those who you know better