Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
till we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an ap for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
The Beard of intrigueHis beard was fascinating.
It was a loom, woven with intricate detail and so long it would put any wizard to shame. Each pattern in the coarse mound of hair seemed to share a secret. Perhaps they were memories- I’d heard others collect memories in such ways- etchings on their bodies, collecting objects and even journal writing. Maybe this man was his own journal.
The rest of him seemed positively ordinary. He rested in his chair in a blue business suit- albeit a little outdated for fashion, but suited the character I had begun to form in my head for him. His sorrowful eyes narrowed on a frustrated brow of greying features, illuminating a sense of tiredness. Perhaps the beard in all its might was weighting down. His skin was as rough as sandpaper, blotches and scars etching his hands and face with no revelation to the puzzle of his beard.
I wanted to move closer, debating whether it was rude to ask. The very notion excited me as I built up theories as to why his beard had the
Shopping and Wizards.A thousand bags
shuffle down the high street between
clasped hands, scrunched with new purchase.
They’re buggy-dodging the determined mothers,
the rushed businessmen-- a pinball
machine shopping centre.
A green-robed man, tall with wand and hood
must be a wizard. He’s happily
procuring sushi and sparkling water
whilst his companion;
short with her piercings and jeans treats him
as if he wore the same.
Down the high street,
two track-suited parents
zoom past on their children’s scooters—
half-smoked fags between fingers yell
how fucking amazing this is.
spotted teen raps
his love for Jesus on a muffled
He raps for the Father,
He raps for the Son
and Holy Spirit.
He raps for peace, for hope, for you.
In a corner,
Brown eyes, hefty tears,
a snot-ridden face--
four years old.
A train runs through the mall toot-tooting
as grumpy shoppers move out of the way.
Napo 8- SusanWhy did you lock her out of heaven
and throw the key
into the lions land?
A beautiful girl enjoying
a new fantasy to live.
She'd stopped believing, but
faith stays in a heart longer
than a head.
"She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now,
and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age"
Napo 7- Teen of the 90'sI wanted to be Posh Spice because my
hair was brown bobbed and she dated David
Beckham; I wanted to marry him. I
had no internet and recorded songs
on the radio to tape, daring to
pause and knock out the DJ’s droll. I sang
to S Club and thought I was the coolest
in my smiley faced top and my yingyang
friendship necklaces. You had to know the
Macarena not just for weddings but
school discos too and then every steps routine
to fit in. Slow dances with boys made me
wish again that they were David Beckham
and not greasy teens with bad curtains for
hair. They pressed themselves against you before
travelling to the next girl in leopard
print skirt. Viva forever was merely
a fantasy ; one I’d dream the whole of
the nineties, hoping my teenage self could
find her inner strength, her true girl power.
Napo 6- IreneShe left you a letter
outwitting at last the greatest.
A photograph, filched;
a King’s humiliation.
In your eyes she
holds the highest.
Napo 4- Warrior with painted faceThere’s a warrior with a painted face
and streaks of black across his chest; he stands
wild with pride. His merciless eyes ignited by the
echoes of fallen enemies. He slew
two hundred men and just scars mark their defence.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
who prays to gods mightier than he; he kneels
arms open to implore. He calls upon his army
to pray with him; equals once more. He watches
embers burn before retiring to his tent.
There’s a warrior with a painted face
and inside his heart rests a son and daughter
sleeping. There is a reason he is
Napo 3- Leaving the Train Station
Leaving the train station
alone I watch strangers head home.
The waves for yellow cabs and
stench of fresh-lit cigarettes, I let
the cold cloud white breath.
Even at midnight, a long-coated businessman
hurries past with laptop bag bulging and blackberry to ear. Behind me,
a clip-clack of heels and giggles-
their night hasn’t ended.
Across the road, three youths in hooded
tops kick a can whilst eating chips only stopping
as clip-clacks pass them and swoon
immaturity. Swear words exchange.
In the ice-wind rubbish travels as if taking
a commute, tapa-tapping the concrete.
Exhausted I can only wait with
white breath etching blue hands desperate to be
warmed. Eyes fight; tired and
Pumpkin WifePeter loved pumpkins. He reveled in the squash: the texture, the taste, the smell. Halloween was the time that they were revered, worshiped, receiving the attention he believed they deserved. It was the time when they were everywhere and he relished those moments. To him pumpkins were perfection come to existence.
"Peter, do you love me?"
Her voice strained to overcome the chattering of other couples as they walked through the field.
"No, why would you ask that?" Peter bent down and picked up a pumpkin, his eyes fixated on it.
"It's just that we've--we've been together for a while now. And I-I thought that maybe you'd fallen in love with me?"
"It's been two months," he said setting the pumpkin down in its former place.
"But we're basically living together, you can't tell me that doesn't mean something."
"So what, it's easier for you to stay with me. Right?"
"Maybe, but--you really don't love me?"
Peter's gaze ventured from the pumpkins to her, he scrunched up his nose at the word 'love
The TransferIn recovery after the transfer, surgeons assured me I was alone. Six hours later, the anesthesia is wearing off...and there's something slithering beneath my new skin.
Your Fun Size Horror Story!
Your Fun Size Horror Story!
A 100-word horror story for Halloween
You cannot halt your gluttony!
From their bowl, the Fun Size candies tempt you, “Eat us, Tubby!”
“Leave me alone!” you scream, unable to stop gobbling them down.
“Never, Fatso! Eat!”
“Oh my gawd,” you moan with pleasure, decadent chocolates filling your mouth.
“Soon, you’ll be Fun Size like us,” they chortle.
Your waistline thickens. The candy bowl magically refills. As if possessed, your hands reach for more candies.
“I don’t want to get fat!”
“Fat is fun! Eat up, Chubs!”
Just then, your pants seams split. A shirt button pops off. Your new potbelly bulges obscenely, filled with fun.
PoltercatI always considered myself a person of reason, and of course, at the time I had reasoned that the boxed cat on the passenger's seat of my automobile couldn't possibly be the one I had run over.
It was a common breed, with a common coat. Statistically speaking, the identical hanger on the identical collar could have been a freak occurrence, though wholly explainable by chance, given enough cats with non-matching accessories being run over on a global scale on a daily basis.
Coming home, I had just enough time to unbox the animal and reach for the telephone, before I learned that my great-aunt had died in hospital, and I realised that my 'guest' was now promoted to heirloom and my official property.
-”Auntie's dead,” I told the scraggy thing. It blinked, once and slowly. 'I know' it seemed to imply, somehow smugly.
And that was that – for that day.
I woke up to the smell of coffee – an unfamiliar thing, given my bachelor's life. The brew sat
Eyes Like Gift HorsesLoud clacking as my train rounds the curve. The view of the city shakes. Reading the ad for "Poor Little Rich Girls" raises a lump in my throat. My train roars as highrises take over the windows. The woman on my right slides her arm into my lap. I lift her wrist with my index finger and thumb. I see pores in her whitened skin, cracking at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes look through me, dilated pupils reflecting the fluorescent flicker overhead. She smells old.
The recording announces Chicago and Franklin. I hold the doors with my arm, squint inside the car. Nothing of value left behind. My shoe thuds against the wooden platform. Creaking all the way down the stairs.
Three blocks down, there's a store with my favorite wine. I step around a reclined man. He is looking straight past me into the sun, which is overcooking this city. It was overcast, before. I have my umbrella under one arm. I wish something would wash away the stench. I throw a quarter at the coffee cup lying on the pav
Dearest, ListenListen to me, dearest. I know you can't hear my voice, but my words will be spider's silk and candlelight, and if I whisper them long enough in your ear I know you must one day believe them.
Listen, dearest: I am always with you. You need never fear darkness or loneliness or despair. I am with you, heart and soul. I know you can see me only in your dreams, but I am always at your side. I am always watching over you.
Dearest, I will never leave you.
I will drive out your nightmares and kiss away your tears. Nothing will lurk behind the veil of night to claw at you in your sleep, for I will forever be your shield. I will comfort you when nothing else can.
Listen, dearest – listen. Listen to my gossamer voice, and know that I am with you. Know that I will never, never leave you.
But it is lonely, always watching you unseen, always whispering to you unheard. It is lonely, touching your hair but never feeling.
It is lonely, and it is cold.
Listen – don't you wish you could see m