“Mornings are great for delaying afternoons.”
“It’s just something my da used to say.”
“Sounds like a wise man… not!”
“Wiser than you might think. He was a miner, my da. There were no mornings or afternoons down the pit. That’s why he said what he said. Mornings grow lighter, whilst afternoons only ever grow dark. Him and his mates never knew if they’d see the morning’s light again. The same each and every day. Makes you think.”
“Geez! And here’s you making candles for a living.”
“For da. Out of respect for him and his mates.”
“So those who fear the dark will always have a bit of morning with them.”
“Sometimes you’re deeper than I give you credit for.”
“Never as deep as them, John. Never as deep as them.”
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.
50 Word Stories – Breathing in Unison
There are ever moments in lives made from many that demand savouring more than others. Every second should share the same values, the same high regard, and yet they don’t. For me, it’s those moments in the still of night when hearts collide and you realise you’re breathing in unison.
In an extended world
Where circles are warped
Full of peaks and troughs
How do we know
How do we feel
When the journey
We once started
Has come full circle
An inflexible foe,
You natter at my sensibilities,
A permanent companion
Whether wanted or not.
I despise you
Though I do not say it.
I revile you
Though my secret’s safe.
For to voice such concerns
Are to air them
And aired thoughts
Can be shattered.
I have no wish for such a splintering,
Such a fragmentation of me,
For time is precious.
We circle creation
In endless loops.
We, me, you and I are nothing,
Which worries me most
When I fear it soon shall
Their ferocity mirrored our own. Man for man, pound for pound, we tore into each other with a reckless abandon balanced only by the immovability of both. Stalemate.
Like deadlocked chess pieces all we had fought for had achieved nothing. Nothing!
Was this war at its worse were armies died without purpose? Or was that the purpose of war itself, to serve no purpose other than death? And for what? A field of lost flowers.
I walked away.
Sometimes their shouts of coward haunted me. Mostly not. It takes a braver man to see sense in the senseless than a fool to expound it.
From atoms, we sprung,
Carelessly drifting through space and time,
Light in the night,
This darkness ascending.
Shared, that’s what we are,
Shared pieces of a greater whole:
A little of you, a sprinkle of me,
A dash of remembrance
Without ever remembering
The one thing we should.
Assembled, I think, or hope, or pray,
Like toys on a production line
Just waiting for a child to choose us,
The atoms we spawned from
Seeking someone to steer them,
Point them in the right direction;
The direction we had,
From atoms assembled,
We make purpose
Where none is required.
From atoms assembled,
50 Word Stories: Last Thoughts
The cliffs, sheer to the point of vertiginous madness, met the waves in a crescendo of nature at its most powerful. Like a boxer on the ropes, the granite took a pummelling. How many years the liquid versus solid war had waged, who knew? She wondered how bones would fair?
The world rocks, I rock with it. A disproportionate wind shivers these bones and rattles these teeth, though the world beyond my seclusion appears calm. Life in a hammock I call it, suspended between birth and death, a precarious situation. Yet despite my reservations, I’ve no desire to climb off.
And though we welcomed them with arms open, a smile creasing our desperate faces, they shunned us.
And though we offered food, lodgings, the comforts of home, they spurned our genuine invitations.
And we regretted our recklessness, our hopes and shared loves.
Were they our children? What had we made?