worLds
half asleep january 4th 2018
how do you reign in an intangible light?
these are the thoughts of the morning
half-formed and melting
through white cotton sheets

could i set you alight for an evening,
candle to candle,
or am i destined to burn alone?
the wax is pooling at my feet
do you like me now?
how many layers must i carve away before you
see that we're the same

standing as a skeleton,
i feel like a picture frame or a cage
i am display and containment
of a stock photo or a stuffed animal,
filler content waiting to be replaced
by the next person who picks me up

snow globe november 24th 2017
The screen warps around your fingertips, steadily engulfing your hands. You figure there is nothing for you to do but continue to push, so you do, until your entire body is lost in the black. Crouching in space, you are illuminated by a non-existent light. Stranger things have happened, you say, to no audience. The statement holds no gravity but you did feel cool saying it.

Shaking your head in dismay at your lack of originality, you stand up and begin walking, somewhere. Without warning, the black is instantaneously replaced by white light. The sudden change leaves you momentarily blinded. Fuck you, you say dispassionately, again to no audience.

The first thing you notice is the snow; there is snow, everywhere. Your choice of shoes- none- is a poor one. Or so you think, until you realise that your socks are still dry and you feel warm. I suppose whoever designed this place forgot some key details about winter. Holding your breath and closing your eyes, you can hear only your heartbeat, and the layers of snow shifting slowly beneath your weight. Skeletal trees frosted generously in snow stand stark against the barren sky. The sunlight filters through with ease, creating a dazzling display of diamond dust around you. Every surface is radiant and glittering.

Icicle-laden headstones surround you in a clearing fenced in by weathered wrought iron. The engravings on the headstones become increasingly illegible the more you strain to read them. You leave the glistening cemetery behind through a conveniently broken gate and search for a pathway through the trees, but there isn't one to be found.

The trees become increasingly sparse as you slowly make your way sunwards through the landscape. The surroundings seem to be getting impossibly whiter, and with no trees ahead you're not certain of what you are heading towards. The muffled crunching of snow and the light from the sun are the only indicators that you are anywhere at all. You instinctively raise your hands in front of you, which is an act of caution you are soon glad to have taken, as they quickly make contact with a smooth glass surface. Like a mime who is not miming, you feel your way around the thick glass, which appears to be curving above you. The glass seems to give a little when you apply more pressure. Aware that this is the end of the journey, you turn around to make a final survey of the world, but like snow, this world has melted away too soon. The cold blank whiteness holds no more promise of wonder, so you push through the glass and return to the beautiful banality of your living room.

It seems you were mistaken; your socks are rather wet after-all.

after the rain march 19th 2017
For no distinguishable reason he leaves home earlier than usual today, armed with a black briefcase and a black hat. And a similarly nondescript umbrella, which he at first forgets but is soon reminded of by the still-wet steps. The familiar cobbled streets he takes so often now look strange and alien bearing the cobalt blue of the twilight sky. One by one, stores turn on their lights and open their doors, and he fancies that they are doing so in his wake. His focus jumps between the various window displays with the clumsiness of a bumbling bee, flitting between flowers in search of nectar. He is not sure what he's looking for, but he hopes that he finds it nonetheless.

Fiercely warm light from one store outshines the rest, gilding the pavement below in a patchwork of gold and blue. Like a moth to a flame, he approaches the window. A dazzling selection of confectionery greets him, with colours so shocking that he feels as if he is being visually assaulted. Crimson-striped candy canes hang suspended above a glittering monochromatic carousel bedecked with marbled lollipops, each one a different, sickeningly saturated hue. Yet the display, in all its grandeur, fails to maintain his interest, and he slinks away from the window and back into the uninterrupted blue of the street.

Failing to find a way to while away his time, he resigns himself to a weathered bench in the centre of the street, parallel to the shops. He examines the weave of his knitted gloves, and makes a feeble attempt to recall who gifted them to him. The attempt is in vain.

His attention is then stolen by something beside his left leg; something small enough that it could easily slip through the slats of the bench. It is a statuette of a deer, standing proudly at the grand height of two inches, as if it has diligently endured century upon century on this dingy bench, waiting to be noticed. His interest now piqued, he picks the trinket up for closer inspection. The deer is almost as weathered as the bench itself: a silvery antler extends from its head; a stub remains where the other once was. Its sculpted fur- once a rich chestnut hue (or so he assumes)- has been eroded to a tawny brown. Emblazoned on its sandy white belly is “Mr. E”, handwritten in black. How strange, he thinks. He would make a more profound observation, but he feels that these two words are all that is needed on the matter. The pomp of this tattered deer- given its circumstances- intrigues and amuses him. He thinks of all the hands this figurine has passed through, and he wonders whose hands were responsible for the handwritten name, and the dappled white spots on its back, which appear to have been a recent addition.

A rush of affinity inspires him to slip it into his breast pocket. He pats it twice, and continues on.

snow dec 28th 2016
snowflakes drinking blood like wine. a cold body embedded in the silhouette of its malformed snow angel; a cold killer lingering over it.
where are we, an alleyway or the arctic?
has man killed man or predator killed prey?
frail snowflakes interacting with bestial savagery.
over and over again, our killer circles its prize.
is mankind both prey and predator, simultaneously? prey to one another, to hopes and fears and divine restitution- predator to one another, predator to the Earth.
crimsoned fur, once cream, lies bedraggled on the crystalline carpet.
eyes glaze over.
snow keeps falling.

sirens dec 23 2016
It had to be any minute now. Aged eyes scoured the waves with anticipation. The soft glow from his gas lamp was the only source of light on this moonless night. His mouth twitched with anticipation as the cacophony of wind and ocean reached a deafening climax.
Silence.
Beneath the fisherman's worn leather boots, the water was still. He leaned towards the edge of the pier and cast his eyes downwards, to be met by his own weary features in the face of the water. His reflection rapidly paled into a nebulous glow. The horizon was now obscured by the fog completely. Any other day this would be discounted as sea mist; today was different. Moisture was collecting into droplets on the lichen-covered planks of wood he sat on.
Many a tale had been told about this night, but the fisherman was aware that nothing could truly prepare him for this moment. The countless warnings and the superstition abundant in the village were not enough to dissuade him from his impulsivity.
Amidst the haze, the silence was broken by a faint chorus of humming. As he clambered away from the edge of the pier, he finally saw what he both sought and feared; amber eyes, diffracted and diffused, rising through the fog.

wisteria jan 18 2016
Barefoot you walked through the meadow, crippling the grass beneath. The still air felt cool upon your skin, and the faint humming of the meadow's drowsy fauna surrounded you. Though the sky was clear, the stars seemed distant, as if they were too shy to distinguish themselves from the dark. The moon however was brave and bulbous, casting her blue glow over the land. Vines of wisteria wrapped around the surrounding trees in an effort to reach the sky. The lilac blooms hung low above your head, and petals lay scattered across the ground, ephemeral in their beauty.

moss nov 1 2015
Warm moisture clings to your skin as you walk through a shroud of misty droplets suspended in the air. Dark, damp, green trees surround you, crowded and struggling for space with intertwined limbs and winding trunks, desperately desiring the elusive sunlight. Dappled light filters through the dense foliage and hits the woodland's floor, highlighting the complex structure of the wiry roots weaving in and out of the ground and crawling beneath your feet.
You trail your hand along a moss-covered tree trunk; the sensation of the green fuzz feels strange beneath your fingertips. Stout branches hover above, twisting and turning towards the light. Stems from a foreign plant wind around the trunk, slowly suffocating it.

weeping willow sep 20th 2015
Silken strands of grass slip through your fingers as you lie on a small hill beneath the shade of a great green willow tree. Dappled sunlight touches your skin and warms it, while a cool breeze wafts through the air, creating ripples in the grass and making the long branches of the willow waver above you.
Leaves cascade down and rest upon the surface of the crystalline water. The still waters weave around the willow tree hills, carving a path which leads to a misty lake amidst the trees.
You watch as a single drop of dew rolls off a leaf and falls into the water, creating calm ripples on the silver surface.