Ghost Writer (24)

“Where have I been? I’ll write it on a whisper and mail it in a dream.”

The Ghost Writer

The Philosopher’s Voice

The Philosopher’s Voice

“It’s a dream, an endless looping dream. We evolve from their template into something else, and when we reach maturity of mind, that certain level of science, they end us. By hook or by crook, we’re done for. There’s no hope. No happy ending. No golden tomorrow. We discover the undiscoverable then have the answer snatched away.”

“After that?”

“It starts all over again just somewhere else. Like I said, an endless looping dream.”

“So you’ve got it all worked out.”

“I have.”

“Not much point in living when you’ve nothing to live for.”


“So final.”


“No point watching the sunrise, sniffing the dawn, watching the snowdrops awaken.”


The younger man sipped his wine and stroked the wooden tabletop lingering perhaps longer than he should on the tactile texture of an intricate knot.

“Am I dreaming now?” he asked.


“And I’m dreaming you.”

“Yes!” said the philosopher with aplomb. 

“Without doubt?”


“Then please, God, let me wake up.”

In Silhouette

img-alternative-textAnd though the world be silhouette, the definition of thy lines holds more power than any vibrant memory. In each stroke I remember, each molecule of ink I feel. This is no random symmetry, no desperate thought reformed, but all I was and am and wish. Brush strokes on a canvas to you and she and them, but not to me. In silhouette, I remain here: Japan.

Author’s Note: I drew this picture and wrote these words after watching a BBC series on the art of Japan. I wasn’t going to post it, but hope you like it. This piece means more to me than most as it’s a place I dream of someday visiting.



Scattered, we roamed the lowlands like seeds in the wind

waiting for a smattering of soil and our roots to take hold;

there was never nearly enough.

Lifted from the homes we would have built, we searched

the skies for memories of that which we’d lost,

that which we’d forgotten: Home.

The word echoed through the valleys

to smash upon highest crags, only to cascade as shaled truths.

The wind grew bitter then, cold even.

Birds of unsure feathers pecked at our shared epidermis,

a people made one by necessity; we bled for each other.

Higher we rose through gathered wills, a pact made true,

until the clouds were left in our wake and heaven beckoned.

There on highest dreams where the air was thin and

our dreams were set to fail, HE came for us in glowing

anticipation of repentance; and we did, as did HE.

Windblown, he called us, children of the unsettled pastures,

born to ride the winds of independence:

we ride them still, but always on a golden tether.

A Dream So Real

Author’s Note: I’ve just spent five hours editing. It may have affected me.


I floated in amniotic fluids, life bursting all around. Creatures of all kinds and all descriptions, some of which beggared belief, swam and dipped before me. Above, a sun ten times that of which I knew blazed down as I fought to stay afloat. Tropical, one might have said, Caribbean, at least, I batted at beasts no larger than my fist hoping to stave off this madness. I would’ve called them fish, but fish, they were not.

I spluttered as the sweet liquid entered my mouth and spat it out twice as quick. Undulating waves of turquoise clarity heaved my weightless form up and down, side to side, over and over, around and around as I searched for a shore in the churning maelstrom. But there was no shore in this place out of history. Alone, I surged against time’s tides desperate to return.

“Damn you!” I raged with a venom spawned from hate. “Damn you, science!” I shouted as the liquid entered my throat. “This is not, London! This is not the Thames!”

“Oh, I don’t know?” said a half-lizard, half-squid that floated on by. “Still better than Berlin.”

When it winked, I panicked. When it doffed its cap, I screamed.


The universe rippled sending cascades of forever rolling across my soul. I was lost. I was found. The stars made sea spray splashed across my face like some cosmic aftershave, and I wept. I’m not ashamed to admit it, I wept. A perfect dream, I sought to wake, to emerge from my revelations into a life revitalised, a corporeality I understood, at last. But I couldn’t. You probably know this now. I was the dream and always would be.