She plays his bones like a glockenspiel
He likes how it tickles
He grins at how her skull echoes
She just glad he’s talking in her ear
Theirs is a musical marriage
Hollow notes and ricochets
A tickle of the ivories, they say
But who ever played their own
Such skeletal explanations multiply
As their symphony develops
How grateful are the moles and worms
Now they’ve taken it below
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
The first sign came in the form of migrating crows. Not in the least bit odd, apart from the fact they don’t. They poured from the fields like a great Black Plague, out over the basalt cliffs and away.
The second sign was subtle: A grasshopper dead in the snow.
The third sign was less so. An earthquake hit the city, shaking every brick from its neighbour and every bottle from the fridge. I lost my milk in the event, which annoyed me greatly.
The fourth sign was as easy as breathing. The wind changed colour from nothing to lots. Crimson particles filled the air.
Sign five was my personal favourite. A dove flew over and sat upon my shoulder. There, the creature cooed for all it was worth, until I stroked its head. This seemed to settle my avian friend. Perhaps the crows sensed this.
Sign six, the final one, was given a name: The Return. The crows streamed back over the ocean like a black fog. They coagulated, poured down like an open vein, ignoring everybody except one, me. They pecked and cawed, scratched with sharpened talons, refused to stop. It woke me from my slumber, that which all else had not.
I awoke from my dream to the dove at my feet and a snowing of black feathers. I looked from one to the other and wept, for I was no longer bound by disdain. The wind, having returned to clarity, only emphasised my own crimson nature. The steadiness of the earth only served to highlight my volatile self. Mephistopheles had returned from his sojourn, and thanks to the six signs sent by my father, Death, would make sure the world knew. Well, everyone has to have something to do.
The End
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
what once ran so clear
divides this world from the next
green is the colour
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Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
There’s something about the cello that ruins the soul. It’s as if whoever first built one had fallen from grace, and in so doing, torn their heart from their chest and strung it from ear to toe. Before bleeding into the land, into history, into nothingness, they’d picked up a twig and begun to play. Death was not an option. Only a life of unending sorrow remained.
I recite this story to my secretary as I sit here and play. The notes rise and fall with her breaths. My fingers rest only when she blinks. I pour my everything into this most personal performance, not to impress, but to explain.
She smiles when I desperately wish her to weep.
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Richard
Falling like feathers through each other’s mind,
this is our way, these delicate descents.
But not always.
Our hearts once rose like rocks, forced from Vesuvius by tectonic immensity.
As gold-plated angels, we ascended.
As false gods, we looked down on them all.
Sparks extinguish.
Lights go out.
Coatings tarnish.
Heights are made from which to fall.
I see her, feel her, think of her as a rainbow does the sky.
One without the other is pointless,
as only one gleams.
She sees me, hears me, thinks of me as a star does the endless night.
Such pinprick pomposity!
Blink and it’s gone.
We tumble like feathers in an indelicate descent.
We tumble.
Fall.
Another dream soured.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
New fish kingdoms: forests and cities.
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Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Indefinite, she rises
A sombre shade of grey
Melancholy by her movements
Spectral by the day
Licking at the sunset
She pokes the dawn away
This ghost is acting strangely
This ghost of Anna-May
–
A charcoal wash, her paintbrush
In gloaming, she will pray
To those willing to hear her
To listen to what she’ll say
For screaming’s not so fearsome
In a misting winter bay
Where she leads the dead from water
As they set their feet on clay
–
To fear her, is to see her
Unadulterated fay
She who walked amongst us
Now drifts here to betray
The ones who marked her passing
The ones who sparked foul play
But most of all once lovers
This man who writes to pay
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Hours pass in endless judgements
Arguments of self
There is no winner
Can be no winner
Just the ticking from the shelf
Reminders from the mantle
Motioning of time
That I’m a sinner
Soul’s growing thinner
‘Cross this solitary line
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Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed
…and though the world fell all about like tarnished snowflakes shaved from an iron sky, I walked on. My father’s words rang through my ears in those moments, loud and true. How, when he’d lain there on his deathbed with nothing, having been nothing, having proven nothing, he’d still dared to influence my butterfly future. He’d pursed his lips together as though having eaten a lemon, his eyes squinting, and hissed, “Make do, son. It’s all you’re good for.” I’d closed his curtains and walked away. I never stopped.
…there was a truth in the recalled memory, but not my own. Mankind had made do and then panicked when realising themselves having stagnated. I, on the other hand, would never stagnate, for light always reaches the horizon, and then the next, and then another, until finally touching the shore. I would break upon hers, even if I walked through a thousand such chaotic nightmares. What other choice had I? That’s what lost souls were for.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
I wake. I weep. My blackbird alarm clock chirps all the louder, only adding to this hell.
I dress. I fall. The belt I wrap twice about me fails to secure. Will I ever learn!
I eat. I drink. The race to the toilet is a mismatch, and I’m the loser.
I dress… partly. For once, I use my head and don’t bother with pants. Take that fate! Yeah, take that.
I mow. I rake. Several women and a few giggling schoolgirls shout or point or scream or jeer.
I work. I slave. There’s always a distraction, but never a distraction enough.
I avoid. I blur. My beat-up Volvo hovers on the periphery, catching the light in concave shadows and rusting browns.
I vacate. I climb. The shower beckons a sweat-stealing pleasure. But I don’t deserve pleasure, so head to my room, instead.
I undress. I collapse. My eyes close like shutters this evening, midnight filling the void.
I dream. I scream. They are here, as always, unblemished by blood or glass or broken bones, or my drunken incompetence.
I hope. I pray. Perhaps this time that blackbird named Death will let me die in peace.
Chirrup! Chirrup! No release today.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Author of the brand new steampunk extravaganza Britannia Unleashed.
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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