Writer of words. Builder of worlds.

Category: Stories and Poems Page 1 of 6

Where Does It Hurt?

Where does it hurt?
Where should we start?
Below the surface,
down in the dark.

There’s scars in the heart
and cuts in the bone.
Yet the skin remains smooth
and the face appears whole.

Point to the pain?
But the pain’s buried deep.
Far down beneath
where nobody can see.

Where do we start?
How do we heal?
Shine a light in the dark
and lay bare what we feel.

Memories After Death

She opens her eyes to the darkness, and finds that she can see.

Not well, but then there’s not much to see in this cramped wooden box. There is something she has to do, if only she can remember what it is — and who she is. She searches her memories but finds only fragments, slipping away like the last moments of a bad dream.

Time to wake up.

The Space Between Us: A Villanelle

The space between us spans such endless miles
And though I seek to soldier on each day
Without you, all the days ahead are trials

’Twas long ago I first fell for your wiles
And almost just as long you’ve been away
The space between us spans such endless miles

Ghostly Machinations

The ghosts watch me from the shadowy corners of my workroom. I work better unattended. I told them this when we struck our bargain, but they said they would rather I not forget they were here. That I not dismiss our bargain as some dream.

Welcome to Survival

Welcome to Survival, the text adventure game to end all text adventure games!

You are in a bunker. The apocalypse is nigh.

You have: ten companions, a knife, and a fluffy teddy bear.

There is food, water, medicine; enough for a year or more.

What do you wish to do?

Uncle Stanley’s Facebook

We got home from the funeral and there was a Facebook post from Uncle Stanley. Whose funeral we had just come from. The post read, Thanks for coming to my funeral. Really enjoyed the music.

Your Mind, Mine: A Poem

Your mind is not your mind
You gave it to me long ago
Slowly, in small pieces
And as I grew and learned you gave me more

At Witching Hour: A Poem

At witching hour, in deep of night
The magic creatures take their flight
As banshees scream and sirens sing
The silent bells of Faerie ring

Returning Home

Blue fire burns in my hand and I know I have the magic again. After all this time, hiking across the barren desert, watching those sent with me die along the way.

Well. We can fix that.

Danger

They say it’s dangerous to live near the forest where the elves are. They say the elves rob and kill unwary travellers, that they steal children and replace them with their own. I know that’s not so. I live near the forest and the elves are safe.

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