Pain-Less

If this hurt of teeth and talons renders numb

Or slashing words and blunt-nosed answers

Tied up with twine, perhaps a handcuff, too

Fails to bring a stinging stimulus

Then what’s the point in pain, my love

If ever there was one, yes, if ever

Has it vanished, upped and left, retracted

Fluttered away on cold breaths and steam

Impaled itself upon a willow strip

Just gone. All gone. Run away forever

Left a soul in need of something suddenly pain-less

The Arrangement

She kept a bowl of flowers on the sideboard I never once saw wilt. Regardless of the time of year, weather, or the close attentions of her ginger cat named — unsurprisingly — Ginger, the flowers thrived. They were pink, pretty even, but never worth more than a cursory glance.

I passed those flowers every day for the three years we lived together. Not once did I water or maintain them, and to my knowledge, neither did she. I prayed they’d keel over just to prove they weren’t plastic, or, at least, not as false as me. Once, I even tugged their petals, but we’ll keep that to ourselves. Obstinate flowers still didn’t fall.

The day I left, I paused at the door. “At least tell me their bloody name, I’ve looked at them all this time and still have no idea what they’re called!”

“Same name as me,” she replied, her eyes wet and weeping.

So, I still don’t know.

50 Word Stories: Concrete Dawn

We waddled to the lakeside like two overstuffed penguins, laughing and joking, discussing the past. There we watched the sunset, a tangerine moment that made us cry. We looked at each other like once lovers, then jumped, or, rather, plunged. Our concrete filled boots did their job. It was bliss.

Surreal Views

Surreal, suggests the fish-headed man

Battling against societal currents, swimming against the tide

He’s getting nowhere fast just as he likes to

Bobbing up on occasion so plastic ears might listen to

A piano with bones instead of keys sounding a glockenspiel salute

That migrating sparrows, pink and proud, nod agreeably to

Whilst carnivorous sunflowers snap them

From the air like feral children with donated candy flosses

This I observe with dispassion, this I see and now believe

As governments say we aren’t dying fast, but slowly

And scientists place hands in back pockets

To withdraw cigars rolled up in green papers

The Queen’s head is on mine. She’s weeping

Ageless Angel

She was that age, that ageless something

Between rose petal cheeks and silver waves of fascination

Where the foundations moved but the plans never changed

Where her eyes only ever shone brighter, more acutely than before

Piercing like twin stars set in her own personal heaven

A girl with a woman’s knowing, woman with a girl’s innocence

The sort of carefree soul who bought coral rings just to remember other people’s dreams

It was easier for her living through the dreams of others, I think

As she had no time to waste on her own

I’ve forgotten what they called her because her name never really mattered

Not to those who shared her timeline, her space, her place

A name, as with the asking her age, was pointless

For whoever took the time to speak to the wind

When the only thing that mattered was feeling it rustling their hair

No, her name was only sought by those determined to tame her

To mould and conform her; they might as well have bottled an ocean

Elemental, unbridled, let loose on us all

An ageless angel without a prayer of surviving, she couldn’t have cared any less

And when I was with her, neither could I

Yet, now, I wished I’d known it

Guessed or made up something to define her soul

To capture the uncapturable even if but for a day

I suppose I will until my own spark fades

And all those dreams with it of her body pressed to mine

The Route

Route 66, East to West

Peddle to the floor

Hair a mess

Driving a daydream

Nightmare or more

Is this forever

Where the road is the law

Passing the steers

Who nod and agree

Each carrying less

Than my mental debris

Faster and faster

Just fumes for a bride

The Pacific, it beckons

Blue seas open wide

For miles and miles

And then countless more

This Vultureless carcass

Beyond nature’s laws

Deserts and mountains

Blue skies, vast and true

My improbable notion

Of a hitch-hiking you

Swamped senses struggling

Unable to cope

They grow worse by the yard

God! Hand me a rope

And suddenly there

As air touches sea

My smiling persona

Now failing on me

The route ends

My velocity… does not


Thank you for reading

Richard

Sometimes

A Writer’s Dream

Is it wrong to wish to write for writing’s sake? Is it wrong to feel the need to write a disclaimer only I’ll ever see?

I sometimes think I was born to the wrong era, that before computers and watches knew your name, I might have been happy. I’d have sat in my room as others scampered about living their lives and smiled at the view beyond the window, written down what I saw without forethought or fear. The clouds would’ve drifted across cerulean fields like mythical beasts and birds would’ve tweeted the minutes. With a quill for a sword and a wooden chair for a colt, I’d have lived out my days as a warrior of words and others would’ve been happy I did. But it isn’t days of yore, and there’s no time for idealism in today’s world of exactitudes and uncompromising rapport. We are. We will. We do as we’re told.

I sometimes wish the curtains to close and never open. Here wrapped in my private night, I’ll live in peace with these hundreds of thousands of words scattered all around; most long forgotten and stashed away in burrows of rabbited nonsenses. The songs I love will play in endless loops through ears with no wish to hear the spouted obscenities and harsh realities — or so they claim — of this, that and the other. Darkness will fold around me like a lover’s kiss, all-encompassing, and I won’t even know if I’m dead, nor care. But then the words will come, white on black, and I’ll feel more alive than ever.

Sometimes a voice calls from deep within that I presume my own but still doubt. This — let’s call it soul — knows my name, my home, my life, wife and circumstance, but even this supposed virgin self is dubious to my needs. What are my needs?

I have absolutely no wish for anyone to read what I write. I have absolutely no desire to be famous. If people happen upon these reams of written words and enjoy them, feel them, I’ll smile and thank them, and expect no thanks in return. If a child picks up one of my books and their eyes light up with wonder, I shouldn’t care if their parent commands them to put it back — not if the spark’s already lit. If? Such a little word. Such a pertinent package. But the cold hard reality, is something has to pay for a coffin and good intentions won’t.

Sometimes I think I’m free. Sometimes, but not often.

Thank you for reading

Richard

August Author Update

August! Really?

Another month has come around the summer almost lost. The prospect of cooler days and darkening nights only entices me further into a world of typed words. A bit of snow is now less of a dream.

I have had a busy couple of months applying dramatic touches to Nimbus — The Theatre of the Moon: Book 1. Coupled with a rewrite of my first foray into novel work, The Snow Lily, which is progressing nicely, I’ve had a lot on my plate. I’m glad to have. There is nothing gives me greater pleasure than writing and I’m doing it all day long, so who am I to complain.

I read somewhere that paperback books are now reasserting themselves over ebooks, which was good to hear. You can’t beat the smell and feel of a good book, luxuriating over its details, deliberating over how it will end at the turn of every page. Perhaps the world isn’t completely digital just yet.

On a different note, (for those of you who are aspiring to write but don’t know where to start,) here are two writing sites/applications I have recently stumbled across. I can’t vouch for either, but they’re free, so it might help you in checking them out. Here are the links.

Penstra

MyStory

I hope the above are of some use.

As regards the next few months? Well, it’ll be a steady balance between hard editing, rewriting and new work. Much as I would love to have a steady line of books appearing on the shelves, I have a gut feeling I’m going to give birth to two or three at once!

Onwards and upwards.

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

June Author Update

Nimbus Takes Shape

Don’t rush.

Take your time.

Enjoy.

I might have these words stencilled to my eyelids because my fingers aren’t listening. No matter how hard I try to rein them in, they’re off. Tip-tap-tip-tap-tip-tap goes the keyboard like hailstones on a tin roof. Must be a storm coming. Perhaps there is?

I have quite literally this very minute, well, a few minutes ago, finished the second revision of my latest work. The Theatre of the Moon, Book 1: Nimbus, is now fully formed. I head into the third revision with detail foremost in my mind. Every word must count towards the overall story and there’s a lot of story to count to.

The advantage and disadvantage of writing fantasy is that it gives you leeway to push the boundaries, but the restriction of knowing you must have them. How far can they be pushed? Well, it’s going to be a loooooong way.

Don’t rush.

Take your time.

Enjoy.

The words are back again, and although I’m typing this so you know what I’m up to, I’m already far away. Best disappear whilst the brain is still working.

I’ll see you all soon.

Richard