Kissing Eternity

Photo by serjan midili on Unsplash

We flourished beside the pool like two happy frogs waiting to take a joyous dip. Lotus flowers floated there atop the becalmed water, like the reflections of perfectly captured stars. A dragonfly, apparently unaware of the twilight, zipped about like an army helicopter, downing as many enemies as his mandibles-for-bullets could bite. A breaching moon threatened one horizon as a submerging sun teased the other. A swan’s neck rose from the reeds like an elegant white snake and then dipped away. The universe hung on her next breath, as did I.

“I love this pool. Don’t you?” she breathed. But my mouth did that thing where some old hag had stitched up my lips, so I just nodded. “There’s something about how it captures everything, from those tiny, stray dandelion seeds to entire eternities. That’s what I think, anyway.” Again, I nodded. “You don’t say much for a man so keen for a date.” I smiled and shrugged. “Meh! Probably for the best. You wouldn’t want to spoil the moment.” As if on queue, she leaned in. I didn’t have to move anything but my lips.

Years later, and the television presenter claimed the police to have found them. All of them. Those dive-bombing children, so obese as to flatten the bullrushes, who had disturbed the pond one last time. They’d stamped on the frogs and stolen the swan’s eggs before they’d even hatched. The presenter looked disgusted, but he was smiling on the inside at the dramatic news story now attached to his name. They were to close the whole area off to ‘re-establish the ecosystem.’ I wanted to cry. It wasn’t that I was an eco-warrior or anything, just that I’d kissed eternity there once, and now I’d never see those stars again.

The End

Thank you for reading


Richard M. Ankers. Author: The Eternals Series and Britannia Unleashed



Photo by Ryoji Iwata on Unsplash

They differ to us substantially. The most apparent of these is their appearance. We stand upon two legs, make our way through a tactile world with two hands and regard our universe through two eyes. In a more direct description, we are paired. This pairing navigates beyond the physical into the realms of belief. We believe we should live our lives in pairs, couples, if you will, so we do. We are a species who thrive in the plural. A species must thrive if it wishes to endure.

They exist in the singular, derived from a singular entity, one that split to spawn many. Wherever possible, they refrain from interaction and keep to themselves. They live alone, talk alone and enjoy doing so. Physically, we are comparable, but they do not see it this way. They look through two eyes, but act as though looking through none. They have two legs, but refuse to use them unless necessary. Their paired arms and hands have become so conjoined with technology, they have become indistinguishable from the greater whole.

Their name? They have many names and many subsets. They dislike being classified as many and prefer singular — as is their way — identification. My colleagues term them vermin, but the correct and almost forgotten genus is human. They are a strange lot, yet as a scientist, I find them intriguing. Though at their present rate, I suspect I shall not for much longer.

Thank you for reading

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.

At Least the Wind

Courtesy Juan Felipe
Courtesy Juan Felipe

There are no cerise sunrises, no vermillion sunsets,
the tangerine tinges of summer warmth
dispelled like the bone-white winters of old.
The stars are diminished, wiped from the sky,
no longer the moon has good friends.
Now, all is remembered, read of, imagined,
the false, flattened televisions’ vivid colours
too bright for eyes meant for gentle views.
We have taken this from ourselves,
convinced our souls we need nothing else:
No seasons, no change, no rain on glass rooftops,
Not now we’ve the certainty, the assuredness
of knowing exactly what, when, and where,
at what time, with what force, like clockwork.
Hermetically sealed, nothing in, nothing out,
I turn away from my son and speak to the window:
‘At least the wind, my son.’
‘At least… the wind…’
A lie for his future, and a disgrace to our past.

Thank you for reading

Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.

November Mists

November mists descend as a widow’s shawl

The Summer long gone, hidden

Tossing aside the fallen leaves

Snapping branches heavy with sorrow

Easing flocks into the sky, departing

Securing the waters to prevent their return

This is how Winter arrives uninvited, unannounced

Emerging from beyond this gloom

From Gaia’s last deep, clearing breath

And a possible sparkling future

It is welcomed in an unwelcoming way

Postponed only by our own interventions

Obscure Cathedrals – 100 Word Stories

Photo by Ananya Bilimale on Unsplash

There were towers of cockeyed proportions springing from the ground at spasmodic intervals. Where the sun caught them sharpest, they glinted like stained glass windows, a most unnatural woodland. They swamped even the once-great mountains as if them just undulations.

Animals had taken advantage of this place, making squalid homes for no other reason than having nowhere else to live. A molehill shone with its tin dome. An owl’s oil drum echoed.

This was the world humanity had gifted them, our legacy to Mother Earth, obscure cathedrals of dumped filth. At least they no longer had us to deal with.

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