The Wordkillers

We kill the cure
Condemn the curse
We shout and spit
As though it fashion
Is it!
The words we use
No smiles, all eyes
And fingers pointing
‘That’s what they’re for’
Are they!
A reckless adventure
Inferno in waiting
Made for decay
Meant to delay
Does it!
Prefabricated values
Shoved down throats
Gagging, we choke
For the wordkilkers
It hurts!
And I sit, write
Hide and worry
Wondering, just wondering
Have they won?
Lord no!
Please no
Cant have
I’m begging

50 Word Stories – Birds of Hope

They did not fly, nor move more than but a few inches, even then just beak to beak. Twisting coils of white-feathered, serpentine necks, they adored each other with a perfection mastered over generations. Beautiful, they were, in a world gone mad, two cranes preening where children once played.

50 Word Stories: Hope

Darkness held sway over the world, a cold an unyielding grip of frozen streams and frosted bluebells. Nothing stirred. Nothing breathed. Nothing! 

Darkness smiled a perfect cosmic smile of dead stars and tumbling debris, an unseen epitaph to everything that wished to try.

Then, the dawn came. With it, hope.

In The Event of Love Please Resuscitate

In The Event Of Love Please Resuscitate

My chest ticked like the engine of my first car, irregular and just barely. I had struggled through life gasping for air for forty years and had last decided enough was enough. Whilst alone, I would do what I had dreamt of doing so often, and feared far more. It was my time to go, and I wasn’t too disappointed.

I rested my hand on the oxygen bottle, my finger poised over the release valve. A single, swift flick of conviction whilst the sky reflected my mood and all my troubles would be over. My hesitation was my salvation.

She was new, well-dressed and bore a smile that steadied my breathing. Her eyes were brown, her hair black as oil, her skin like polished mahogany.

“Hello, I’m Francesca,” she said, busying into my room. “I’m your new nurse.”

Francesca offered a hand. I released the valve.

“Any last words before you get sick of me?” she giggled like a Caribbean tide tickling the sand.

“Please resuscitate,” my reply. And for the first time in forever, I meant it.



I saw it in a map, one without borders, walls, or rules. Escape was the name my family gave it, a thing we’d only dreamt of, the wind in our faces without ever looking back, the sun without windows and sky without ceilings, hope. Although our lives were rubble and ruin, they’d never taken that hope form us. One had to hope even when one had no hope to hope for. And then that map dug from the sand by my very own fingers. My map. Our map. My family called it escape. I called it freedom.

50 Word Stories: Like Lichen

The night sparkled with star stuff, the colours of possibility like lichen on a cosmic rock. Creation manifested before my eyes, all those endless suns and endless worlds spinning through the universal vastness of space. Somewhere in that void a girl looked back, I just had to go find her.