It was not that I was exempt from fear. No, it was not this at all. Neither was it that fear had such a hold as to addle my mind, to disturb and disrupt. Not one bit. I had faced my fears and throttled them. Now, as I stood before the Devil, it was his turn to fear, for exempt from fear he’d find he was not. We would see whose eyes blinked first. I knew for sure, it would not be mine.

Never Back Down

Positivity flows between us like electric eels swimming upstream through unctuous sweat: electric, and hard earned. We blast away the toil in excessive bursts never before seen or expected. Loud is our keyword. Youth is our slogan. We wink and nod and laugh and scream. We’re ready. Bring it on. Turn up the music and to hell with them all. Then the bomb hits and we’re covered in glass. Well, it was good whilst it lasted and we’ve still a few minutes to go. 

50 Word Stories: In Rubble Found

They sought to break us, hurt, strike deep. Yet we found something in the wreckage of so many broken hearts, strewn rubble and buildings lost, a determination and unity that till then we’d lost. That rubble made us, not broke us, wherever in the world we watched the towers fall. 

Never Forget


Memories form at the end of cold fingers,

Skin on skin, but not the same.

Where eyes once looked up defiant at heaven,

Below in retrospect, they now creep.

This is not how it was supposed to be.

This is not what he promised.

Being touched on the skin is as nothing

To being touched on the heart.

She pauses. She thinks.

The tears won’t lubricate her skin,

But their tactile passing is a reassure.

Tears won’t wash away the pain

But they will clear the view.

50 Word Stories: Revolution

We'd taken the pain, the heartache, and secured them in vaults so dark they'd never discover them. We waited. Like minnows in a reeded stream, we hid in life's shallows our emotional unrest simmering. When we unleashed our hurt, they capitulated. We had purpose, whilst they were only ever bullies.

Dripping Away

A dripping faucet marks the seconds in accumulating mercury pools,

slatted silver flashing through Venetian blinds

to stripe those huddling globules in divisions of time;

they won’t be divided, won’t be categorised for convenience.

Every dashing, steel behemoth shakes this pool,

every footfall of every thing sends shivers,

judders of reality from this grouped liquidity.

One might call them family how they strive to be,

or, perhaps, just droplets of water caught in a sink.

Never Look Back

Tears on the table

Pooled on the floor

Droplets of the past

Made meaningful

The only things left

The only things spared

From a determined glare

A chin set

Mind made

The bag pre-packed

So very long ago

Reached for

Unlock the door

It’s hard

The key cold in hand

Fresh air

Makes the rest easy

Don’t look back

Never look back


The Fear I Know

Author’s Note: This is my latest post on Medium. I hope you enjoy it and the message it’s supposed to convey.


Fear, an understated word. A topic for discussion when the nights are dark and the Small Ones still wait beneath the bed, fear manifests with relentless persistence. They’re here. I know, but they don’t know I know. Not this time.

I curl my fingers, ball my fists and await them as I do each night: They won’t take me! They won’t get me without a fight! They scurry under the floorboards scritch-scratching, teasing out the nails with long twisted talons, undoing the screws. A squeak. A scrape. They’re out.

Midnight, always midnight. My clock radio signals their arrival in flickering green like minions of the Riddler, or miniature children of the Hulk, or the swamp devils they are. They don’t know I know, but I do.

I know where they came from, and one day, when they least expect it, I’ll follow them home like they did me. They won’t like it. They won’t want it. But it’s what they’re going to get. One day, when I’m better, when I’m able to run again that’s just what I’ll do. One day.

I slip my arm over my head and collect the crutch propped against my bed like an anorexic Tower of Pisa. The cold handle slips into my sweating palm and I lift it clear of the floor in silence. They stop. I stop. A pause, then the scritch-scratching starts again. They suspect but they still don’t know I know.

The first of them creeps out across my bedroom floor skittish, afraid of the giants that patrol during the day. They’re such cowards! How I despise these marauders of the night, these underfloor pirates, these life drainers. I pretend to be asleep and he passes me by signalling to his army of tiny, green scum.

I wait, I’ve waited so long, until they pool in their glowing transparency, a bacterial slime to inhibit and restrict. Like lightning, I strike with all my might.

Mum rushes in first and flings herself around me, dad next flipping on the light switch with a click.

“They’re back,” I say calmly, measured, in full control this time.

“There’s nothing to fear, my love. There’s nothing.” Mum weeps into my shoulder as dad collects my broken crutch from the floor. Placing every piece regardless of size in the corner of the room, Dad then sits on the end of the bed away from my feet. He tries not to look at my legs but can’t help it. He never can.

“There’s nothing here son,” he says checking under the bed as though he knows what he’s looking for. I know, but I don’t let on.

“When will this stop, Tim? When will you accept it’s just a disease? Anyone can get a disease. Anyone!”

I smile at mum as best I can, but I know the truth. She fears for me, but I don’t fear them: the germs; the bacteria; the illness, none of them. I’ll fight them until they take me. I’ll fight them until I’m dead.

The End