Of Mirrors and Their Images (100 Word Stories)

Photo by Mateusz Klein on Unsplash
Photo by Mateusz Klein on Unsplash

Lost in a lucid dream, she stirs, unaware of the sleep she sleeps. The darkness beyond the mirror swirls in anticipation.

Outside, trees rustle a surprise, raining dying leaves upon the frozen ground as if desperate to please. Never has a season died so beautiful a death. But this is always her season; life never moves on.

The girl imagines sitting by her window and watching the snow. She loves snowflakes, how they taste the ground. Yet, she knows it a mirror and not a window at all, and still, she sleeps.

When the removal men drop it, she shatters.


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Also Available:
The Eternals Series: The Eternals / Hunter Hunted / Into Eternity

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Dreaming By Design

Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

The alarm clock makes a mess of the morning, drowning out the blackbirds and scaring away the crows. A fire engine charges off to douse angry flames. A police car wails its siren song; attentive thieves stop to listen, whilst I carry on dreaming by design. 

I hold the cosseting darkness close, bathe in its obsidian cool, feel it course through my veins as liquid night. There are no stars, no moon, no higher angels here, just an ever-stretching moment sandwiched between last and next. I squeeze my eyes tight as a shrink-wrapped shroud, but the reason for this preservation slips away. 


There are still brief moments of lucidity where golden dawns merge to cerulean days and the nights are nothing but places to lay one’s head. They are rare, flashes of a past once lived, and most days I turn my back to them. But not today. Today is special. It’s the day I wait for every week. 

I dress in my Sunday best even though it’s a Thursday. The weightless white lilies lay across my outstretched arms like a tightrope walker’s pole, offering a balance I should otherwise lack. In this fashion, foot before foot, I make my way there.

The deserted cemetery mires in a morose nod to the forgotten. How I wish it would laugh and sing, awaken. 

I follow the well-worn path through these winding monuments to other people’s memories in search of one of my own. It is the last stone of the last row of an extension abutting a hedge. Ready for a quick getaway, I tell myself. 

A quick glance and I lay my flowers and leave, passing the same woman who tends her mother’s grave every Thursday. We often smile, nod even, but today she offers some words.

“Back again,” she says. It is not a question. 

I nod, unwilling to risk more. 

“A family member?”

“Yes.”

“Close?”

“Very.”

She pauses as if to say more might offend me, but her desperation for contact wins over. “A parent?”

She looks aghast as I shake my head. 

“A child?”

I repeat the gesture and make to move away, my cheeks reddening. 

“Then who?”

I am already weeping when I turn to say, “Me.”


My eyes rest most mornings, my heart too. I have never loved and never grieved. Some might claim me dead to the world, and the world dead to me. I lay flowers at a grave I have paid for in advance, near a woman who does not know my name. One day, I shall lay there as I have practiced here. One day, she shall do the same. 

I pretend to sleep until the day takes over, testing myself against an overly loud alarm and a window open to the world. This is my ritual, my darkening of the mind. I block out all that would disturb me and ponder the woman in the cemetery, she who the flowers are truly for. It is a meditation of sorts. I dream by design in the hope I’ll be ready when we meet on equal terms. For ghosts may pass and smile and chat, but only in death be together forever. 

The alarm rings. Are my eyes open or closed?


Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Husk

Image courtesy Leandra Rieger on Unsplash.com
Image courtesy Leandra Rieger on Unsplash.com


this cavernous sprawl seeks fulfilment,

a splash of something in the gloom,

no reflection in a cardboard puddle

but something solid, something whole,


then the emptiness shall lick parched lips,

ponder on what it was, is, will become,

and this husk shall gasp an asphyxiation,

as if having swallowed the perfect dream.


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Also Available:
The Eternals Series: The Eternals / Hunter Hunted / Into Eternity

I Dream

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

I dream of a time where the world won’t cry
Of lives where good folk don’t have to try

I dream of a place where we all might breathe
One negligence doesn’t make us leave

I dream of a whisper that tames the rest
Of my darling’s eyes in our little love nest

I dream of this and that and of it all
It’s a nightmare really that masks my fall


Thank you for reading

Richard

Drifting on a Dream

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash
Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash

We drift upon this river called time eyes open, ears listening, fingers grasping, without ever a clue as to what we wish to see, hear, or touch. There is no true understanding of the rising moon, nor of the galaxies spinning. The sun is just a candle in the sky. The wind in the meadows may whisper and the froth-topped waves evoke something embedded from genetic memory, but what remains moot. Rain on the window glass dares closest to an elusive truth. The ghosts of the past confirm this. We cannot understand this dream we drift through, or it world be no dream at all.


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Also Available:
The Eternals Series: The Eternals / Hunter Hunted / Into Eternity

Celeste

Author’s Note: A poem written in the haiku style but very much not.

Born of the starways
From most glorious midnight
Celeste fills these dreams

Eyes like forever
And infinite in their depth
They stir this lost soul

Will she ever know
Could she ever love this ghost
He who drifts through all

Eternity dares
What reality disputes
I’ve always been hers


Thank you for reading

Richard

Without Purpose – The Dreamer

Photo by Batuhan Doğan on Unsplash
Photo by Batuhan Doğan on Unsplash

The purposeless are, by their very definition, without purpose. And, they say a man without purpose is a man without life. But what of dreams?

There is no purpose to a dream other than to release the mind of the burden of memory. A dream collates the recent past and merges it with the distant to form an almost reality. This reality is lived through on fast-forward to cram as much new experience into as few minutes as possible, or else what was the point?

My father said dreams existed to fill in a blank, one he preferred, which also accounted for his claims of not having them. Perhaps this meant he was a man of purpose, for whom dreams therefore served no purpose.

I, however, am proud to have no purpose. I am purposeless. This is a state I revel in. In truth, I sometimes wish I’d never wake up. Often, I’m uncertain whether I have.

This dreamer will continue to dream.


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Also Available:
The Eternals Series: The Eternals / Hunter Hunted / Into Eternity

Rose Petal Dreams

Photo by Meiying Ng on Unsplash
Photo by Meiying Ng on Unsplash

Laid hearts open, revealed and revered
Our eyes tug towards the moon
Always the moon
As we dream of rose petal skies

There are no stars to guide us
No cloudburst tears to wet our roots
They’re not needed
For we are dreamers of rose petal moments

Silver and gold may flow in our veins
Stain the ground in ventricular bursts
It’s never crimson
Not for dreamers of rose petal lies

There’s a chill upon him
And a heat upon you
Always so warm
Perhaps, from my rose petal dreams


Thank you for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Also Available:
The Eternals Series: The Eternals / Hunter Hunted / Into Eternity