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 like old fruit in a shopping bag. He mouldered. It was their duty to save him. Everyone wanted saving, didn’t they?
The men with their silver badges glittering, their colleagues in white all wide smiles and soft words, tore the boy from the roots he clung to; he screamed for them to stop. They carted him away like a stray dog to a pound and placed him in the knowledgable care of strangers. But they had no knowledge of him, this child from deeper regions.
He woke to crimson, some his, most theirs. Its stickiness reminded him of tree sap back when there were trees to weep. And he remembered. And he wept. The memory of those lost forests stung like the syringes thrown in his hole. His nice safe hole. He ran. They ran, too, those who still could.
Out in the savage daylight, he made a decision. The little lost boy with pain in his eyes made a promise. He’d dig deeper. He’d burrow like a mole. No one would find him again. Once upon a time was one once too many, his mother used to say. Before they took her and all that was green and blue, too.
Surreal, suggests the fish-headed man
Battling against societal currents, swimming against the tide
He’s getting nowhere fast just as he likes to
Bobbing up on occasion so plastic ears might listen to
A piano with bones instead of keys sounding a glockenspiel salute
That migrating sparrows, pink and proud, nod agreeably to
Whilst carnivorous sunflowers snap them
From the air like feral children with donated candy flosses
This I observe with dispassion, this I see and now believe
As governments say we aren’t dying fast, but slowly
And scientists place hands in back pockets
To withdraw cigars rolled up in green papers
The Queen’s head is on mine. She’s weeping
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 and that last of all trees in that last of all places.
Those leaves that remained whipped about like bees stinging at my skin, my throat, my everything. In beauty, I died.
We all did.
Pastels in the sky
A new day born of pinched cheeks
Author’s note: It’s amazing what you can find hiding amongst the sheep and guinea fowl on a cold English day.
This Andean visitor
Thinks he is a sheep
Photo frame moments
Snapshots of life without us
Startled horses gaze
Robin on the fence
Breast aflame with red passion
Lost Summer sunsets
The world is blue.
Although life can be defined by the colours in which we parade, the earth itself lies resplendent under an emerald green jacket. For most people, a copse of trees or lush meadow define the idyllic. But not all.
For some, those identifiable dreamers, blue is the colour they aspire to be it ultramarine sea or cerulean sky.
Blue will fold around us when the green dies away.
Blue will be there when needed until our dying day.
A rippling reassurance when troubled. A turbulent chastisement when persuasion fails. Our droplet of universe.
The world is blue.
These uncertain smiles
Drawn over frosted jackets
Revealing red lips
50 Word Stories – Another Day Won
The sun broke over a winter’s morning like crashing waves a cold, dark shore. It was more than a change of perspective, more than light versus night, rather, a reversal of fortunes, a gauntlet run and won. All it took was everything, and everything’s what it gave. Another day won.