He watched the light of hope fade into the night sky as it took its place with the stars and planets. The domed backset to a picturesque evening felt free and the light breeze felt cool and inviting, but he felt nothing but captivity and exclusion – the need to be part of something larger than himself, but also the incapability of achieving freedom. Continue reading “and the light was hope”
i’m only eight when i first go to the circus.
there he is, the balloon man, selling sugar-sweet balloons full of breathy voices clamouring to escape to the sky or to the sea. the sky is the sea, though. they both just describe the far-away.
as a cynical child, i never meant to become ensnared by any trappings, mortal or immortal, at the circus. but the balloon man has an entirely different aura, and even the most cynical child can’t deny its draw.
in a city full of lights and sounds
why is it so quiet?
did the wind just sing that note –
or did it sigh it?
oh you look so beautiful tonight
in the city
of blinding lights
The atmosphere is electric with excitement. The lights flash and flash and the audience unknowingly holds its breath, as if baiting the thunder they know to be coming. You can almost smell it. Like the child playing God under the blanket at night, whispering his fingertips across the textured fabric, making storms of lightning and thunder only he can see and hear.
He sits in the empty casino in the death-dry desert.
Drinks aren’t proper drinks without someone to share them with, but at this point, whiskey is whiskey.
Millions of bottles of whiskey, and not one proper drink.
But he drinks anyway. Continue reading “whiskey”
The campfire at the end of the day usually has the boys talking about cars, girls, and sports, but tonight is different. An older gentleman, looking old enough to have lived through the years before cars and sports were even invented, is going to tell a story tonight.
it’s all over
The War had ended. The nuclear strikes and endless wars had long since finished. The dust had settled. Gunshots didn’t monopolise the global soundscape any more now than they did in the peace before the War. The Premier and the President, for all their petty difference, had each passed on to the next life, whether Inferno or Paradiso. There was no one left. Not anyone. Except her. But she didn’t count, did she. She’d be gone in a matter of time anyway.
In a different time and a different place, there was a small boy in a boat, traveling down a river, catching fish from the side, when he came upon two figures, walking along the banks of the river.
The dust of shattered stars hung heavy on the air and in his soul. He glanced up towards the unforgiving heavens and their unfeeling ruler, the sun. He pondered subconsciously how something so hot could be so cold. He looked down at his broken feet, bare, bruised, and bloodied red from miles upon miles of fruitless pilgrimage. His blood had been golden once, a remnant of a different time in his life. But now even that was gone, replaced with the crimson red of the dirt and the brutal sun overhead.
i wrote my way out
It’s a dark stage, even for a night like tonight. A glimpse at the hunched over back of a dedicated and focused writer sitting at a desk on the northern wall of the room reveals that he is scribbling something on a piece of paper with his right hand, while keeping his canvas in steady place with his left. He pushes the paper out from under his pen and gets another from the dwindling pile to his left, all in one smooth motion.