The Readying

Out of the closet
Webs hanging like silver shawls
Preparing for Fall


Never The End

Never The End


The darkness surrounds us a thick, unctuous soup of warm nothingness. I nuzzle into the night, deeper and deeper, until it coats my every sinew, every atom, every thought. The girl’s hand is clammy, even slippery to one with a lesser grip; I am not one with a lesser grip. We push on between the dreams, the pitch-black imaginings, the harsh reality of monotonous life.
Dawn is reluctant to rise in this place. It’s as if we tromp through gigantic caverns of moist night air with such a crust of earth between us and it that the sunlight will come to us only in our nightmares. I apologise, to the girl it would come as a dream. I forget these things. It has been so long.
A fury of fluttering wings sends sparks of sensory awareness echoing around this place I call home; the bats have returned and with them my children. I hear their chittering as though eager to be told another tale of eternity and the cosmos. I would, but my heart lies elsewhere this eve, stone-cold though it is.
We ascend, or descend, I forget which? The unmistakable clip-clop of feet on stone stairs echoes around the tight confines of the tower. It is a good job I do not suffer from claustrophobia, not that this is the tightest realm of my daily routine.
A sharp slap to the face as of cold air, a gust from the outside world, brings a smile from me and a gasp from my companion. I am almost home, I smile, as a sliver of pinprick stars filters through the absolute obsidian. The girl sees it too; I feel her fingers contract.
It is light here, almost too much so for one with eyes as sensitive as mine. My companion releases my hand and rushes to the window to gaze out across eternity. I did so too the first time I saw it.
“It’s so high!” she gasps. “Is this heaven?”
“Not quite,” I say, as I hold her close and look out at the moon. I love La Luna, as some call her, her austere perfection, milk-white skin; her reliable interactions with my evenings.
The girl’s neck glows with a luminescence only my kind can see, if any others still exist, that is? I allow dagger talons to caress her jugular; the girl purrs in response.
“So beautiful,” she coos.
“Yes, you are,” I reply.
I hear her smile, the upturning of her lips creaking in the still air. I enjoy these small details in a way I would never have before… before it happened. A brief flash of what might have been sunlight flickers across a centuries old memory as something trickles down my cheek.
“Can we stay like this forever just you and I?”
“Yes,” I say, drawing back, then striking forward to the shlep of punctured skin. I drink and weep, drink and weep, then drink some more. I finish with a sigh allowing her body to tumble from my mirador home to the valley floor so far, far below. It must be two miles or more but the sounds of her dead bones cracking on the granite rocks still gives me a migraine.
“Time to sleep,” I say to myself for no apparent reason, and turn to my bed.
The ruby velour squeezes me like a second skin. It provokes a slight diminishing of the guilt, but not much. And, as I close eyes that have closed an infinite amount of times already, I breathe out for what seems the first time in hours. I do not need to, but somehow it feels apt.
I hear the flittering of my children as they enter the room to hang from the window frames, curtains and more. I smile. Perhaps, I am not as alone as I think? Perhaps, more so? One day the truth will come to me. One day. But not yet. I still have so much to do.

Never The End.

50 Word Stories: The Dividing Kiss

We played together, lived together, battled through life together. We were each the crutch the other needed when the pain of living grew too severe, the open ear when life’s words grew harsh. We were inseparable, one made two, and then you came along and broke us, the dividing kiss.

Under a Fledging Moon

The darkness twitched like a startled rabbit, a sudden and brief event. Almost as though a portrait had shifted in a breeze only for the gallery’s curator to quickly straighten it before anyone noticed, the world realigned.
I stopped walking and scratched my head. There didn’t appear any change although a copious covering of cloud precluded confirmation. I rubbed my eyes just to be sure. No, still the same. Or was it?
As the clouds parted like a drawn back duvet, heaven changed. What was at best a glittering sky, as seen on a clear, winter’s night, instead gleamed silver. The whole universe had taken on a burnished sheen. The last of the cloud fizzled away to reveal the cause. The Moon had changed.
No longer an aerial afterthought, the Moon was reborn. A glowing, pulsing pool of pure white, the Moon grew, expanded, and retook the sky for its own. Speechless, I marvelled as like a fledging swan the moon shook off its downy coat to take on the form it would for the rest of its days. In the night, it shone. In awe, I bowed.
Under that fledgling moon, I at last knew peace. It was time to go home.

50 Word Stories: The Loneliness of Time

There’s a coffee steaming on the table. I hate drinking alone, but you’ve got to do something to stay warm. Curlicues of dispersed heat rise like ghosts departing the dawn; I’m sure one winks. Another day begins with a slurp and a cough. This is my mantra. I’m crying again.

Elsewhere / Somewhere / Nowhere

Time cascades

Where once it streamed

Life pouring over the precipice

In torrents of me

A most magical tumbling

If one accepts it

Of liquid and light

A return to the womb

Cocooned in a separate reality

This curtain of creation falls

Upon a rock-strewn stage

There is no avoiding it

I await the last connection

The hardest landing

Before the water

Washes me away




Or all