In Silhouette

img-alternative-textAnd though the world be silhouette, the definition of thy lines holds more power than any vibrant memory. In each stroke I remember, each molecule of ink I feel. This is no random symmetry, no desperate thought reformed, but all I was and am and wish. Brush strokes on a canvas to you and she and them, but not to me. In silhouette, I remain here: Japan.

Author’s Note: I drew this picture and wrote these words after watching a BBC series on the art of Japan. I wasn’t going to post it, but hope you like it. This piece means more to me than most as it’s a place I dream of someday visiting.


The In-between

We were tired, so tired. The trip by train across two continents and seventeen nations had worn at our souls if not our eyes. Each new day had offered experience, adventure, and a test of not falling asleep. Yet in all those hours, those moments in time, the one view I’d savoured most was the last. Home was a sight for sore eyes and the one place to rest them. Home was a beginning, an end and everything in-between.

50 Word Stories: Small Town Summers

“I’m chasing the Summer.”

“But it’s Winter?”

“Gotta be Summer somewhere.”


He leapt on his Hog.

“No plan, then?”


“Never coming back?”


“Not even when Summer returns?”

He lowered his shades.

“Summer ain’t ever returning, not here.”

He left in a cloud of dust; it never settled.

50 Word Stories: Passing Through


Another town,

another day,

another view,

I never stay.

I hum the same song. The words chug out with the same repetition as the tracks, a beat only I appreciate. It’s no life, mum claimed, travelling without a destination. She never understood. No one does. Only the songwriter and me.