I am Death to you who’ll meet me. I am life to those who have.
So that’s his game! The old man sat there with a brick for a phone pressed to his hairy ear. He squinted, strained to hear whoever he talked with, mouthed spittle-infused words. Oh, he was good. Really good. But it was an obvious ruse. He turned and gave me that glassy-eyed look only the elderly […]
When loving ghosts, one must make allowances, for their intangible nature prohibits touch, physical warmth, passion. They mire in sadness regardless of kind words, a warming sun, a lover’s wistful look. To struggle is in their make-up, their very essence. Like drifters on a highway, they patrol the ley lines you may not tread. Not […]
There once was a boy who lived in a hole. There in the warm, musty darkness where roots embraced him, he hid from the bright world outside. He hid from the loud, the violent and crude. He hid from the harm they’d done. They found him cringing that meekest of creatures, pushed in a corner […]
They say a scream is a scream is a scream. Hurt is hurt. Pain is pain. That both subside with every unfulfilled second. They say many things. But what do they know? What do they really know? The mind is a curious container, delicate even. If the mind were glass, one might shatter it with […]
“I write… Stop… Write again… This is my way and ever has been. Why change it for the sake of supplicating demons?” The Ghost Writer
“I have fallen so far, yet it was the not making a sound when I landed that hurt the most. If ever I landed at all?” The Ghost Writer
The Birds and the Bees The leaves hung like hummingbirds hovering for food. In swarms of suspended metals, autumn’s glinting deposits waited to settle on the scorched ground. Next came the wind. Warmer than a lover’s kiss, colder than a refusal, it took me in its swirling embrace unsure whether to throttle or enfold. Me […]
“Watching the lonely grow lonelier, I grow lonely too.” The Ghost Writer
It was an idea, a fanciful dream. I packed nothing and left everything. The plantations were green, not brown. A prevailing wind filtered out the sounds of humanity’s pickers but the life I had wished for never existed. I returned home deflated. My mum smiled and offered me a coffee.