50 Word Stories – In Hallowed Halls

In hallowed halls we found them cowering like the frightened mice they were. Dark shapes with white-flecked collars, the clergy crumbled as our ravaged world burned.

“Where’s your God now!” bellowed one unruly bystander.

I would never forget their reply.

As one, they stood and said, “He’s already here.”


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.

50 Word Stories: The Second Coming

We swept into the garden of no return like the spring tide, a relentless wave of humanity. Elliot had taken my hand and asked if this was Eden like the one taught in Sunday School. Better, I’d said. Why? he’d pressed. I smiled, “Because this time God wants us here.”

The Problem With Ronald

The problem with Ronald was everything. You told him to do something, he did the opposite. You asked for help, he’d fall asleep on the job. It wasn’t that he was bad or evil or any stereotypical resolution, he just couldn’t help himself. I often thought when God made him, he forgot one of his batteries, or wired him wrong, or did it on purpose just to get a reaction.

The aforementioned issues led to no one having high expectations of Ronald. You knew he was no astronaut, no great thinker, no Priest with words of kindness, in truth, you never expected much.

When Ronald emerged from the fire with my daughter in his arms, his jacket burning and a lopsided grin on his face, I forgot all the things he wasn’t and thought only of what he was: a hero. I wouldn’t judge him again, but then I never should have.

In The End, There Is Only The End.


“Beyond the ocean where time stands still, beyond the starlit night and echoes of what was, lies a curtain. If one is brave enough, one can lift the fabric of existence and sneak underneath it into the unknown. I say if, for it is no sight for the weak-minded or those of no belief. There are treasures, my friend, those that await the dead.”

“Really?” replied the old man.

“Yes. This is the realm of he who imagined creation. There are no laws, no physical properties that one would recognise. In this space full of wonderment and exquisite beauty, there is enough perfection to make one weep, lower one’s head in shame, mourn one’s insignificance.”

“You don’t say!” The old man took off his cap and scratched his balding head, the wind making a mess of all that remained.

“Oh, but I do. Scholars have told of it, preachers have preached of it and the enlightened have visited it in dreams. This is the place I desire above all else. This is the place I shall one-day call home.”

The old man gestured to the young idealist, a simple two flicks of a beckoning finger. His companion hitched closer on their shared park bench.

“I shall tell you this, young man, for I have seen much in my life, things one should never have seen. I have witnessed death: associates; friends; family, and even a wife. So, I say this with a little more certainty than you who expound’s a possible truth, for I see in your eyes what your tongue exaggerates as hope. At the end, my friend, there is only the end.”

The old man patted the younger’s shoulder, creaked to his feet, then paused. It was with eyes as wet as autumn dew that he turned back once more and said, “Though, I wish you was right.” He then meandered away.

The Easiest Struggle

Life churns, drains, pulls at the fabric of self

Made madness by elemental forces and even

The planet itself tugging you down, down

Gravity unwilling to relinquish its devastating grip

Before time and age and furrowed lines show

To tell the short history of you and who you’ve touched

With tender kindnesses born of woman, mother

That slowly drained from the moment you

Sprung forth into this sharp and jagged world

So unlike the peaceful calm of lulling water

That cradled and cared, cosseted your burgeoning soul

Just like God shall the day you pass from here

To there; that easiest place to reach called death

50 Word Stories: Fate

We never saw it coming, the day the world paused. If God’s work, who could say? The long breath, we waited without exhaling as snowed ash proliferated. They came. We wept regrets, the skies afire, world aflame, everything igniting as one. The Apocalypse, some called it. I called it fate.