Drops

Words that once burst with colour

At the height of our sunlight blaze,

Turn grey in my mouth

As my head bends south;

The letters blur and haze.

Memories lose their edge.

Flashbacks come and go.

Photos curl and fade. 

Pages scatter and tear.

Time will find the cracks,

Seep through to chill the bone. 

A steady drip, 

A tear, 

An inky river, 

A stream to my fear.

Frantic I am to remember;

Futile my attempts remain.

A memory lost 

in an ocean's despair.

Today I may remember,

You will not be there.

Trash

Flyers strewn across the street

A night's ideas dispersed 

The morning breeze

The winter's freeze

The trashman coughs and croaks

A scattershot of paper waste

Nothing of value here

Stabbing trash to turn to ash

Just waiting to reappear

Collecting thoughts 

The trashman laughs 

Oh what wisdom to be found

While behind his back 

He senses that

A presence lurks on the ground

But when he braced to face a foe

A flyer was staring from below

The trashman, through broken teeth

showed relief and a bitter smile

Then deigned to kneel and tell the soul

Rest there a little while

Yet flyers are a fickle bunch

and this one more than most

Without the wind to lift the page 

The flyer broke from the gravel host

Whipping and weaving 

Cutting, deceiving

The flyer flew with force and grace

Frozen in time, this trashman of mine, 

felt the flyer cover his face

He gripped and ripped with all his might 

but the flyer clung to his nose

Losing his breath, seeing the light

His eyes began to close

The fight is at an end my friend 

This thought won't die alone

You gave life to me, your fecundity

Now both will turn into stone

Nethermost

Shadows crawl and shivers creep. 

Find your way into the deep. 

Seek the one the darkness hides. 

Ignite his lamp before he dies.

Offer the spark.

Cover your eyes.

The father of fear.

The lord of lies.

More grotesque could not be found;

Down the spiral,

Round and 

Round.

Now you taste the breath of plague.

In the dark he's been remade.

Will you climb?

Will you fall?

In the Nether,

Fear is all.

Tommy

Once upon a time there was a boy named Tommy. He lived in a house, wore clothes and ate food, not unlike his peers. However, he was a focused young lad with a special interest and an unyielding will to pursue it. The childish running and jumping and chasing and bouncing of the other youths, that inevitably led to falling and crying, did not appeal to this particular whippersnapper.  Oh no. This was a boy with a purpose. A boy who knew the meaning of discipline. A boy who had experienced the pride that followed diligence. This boy had talent. This boy threw sticks.

As sure as his father beat his mother, Tommy threw sticks in the park. Every day after school he would walk the same path home. This was not the shortest or even the most comfortable of routes, but it did wind through the only park in town. The park where Tommy perfected his art.

It was Monday morning and Tommy methodically worked his way through his bowl of bran flakes. The ones shaped like the object of his obsession. As he was taking his last few mouthfuls of fairy sticks (as he liked to call them), Tommy's favourite TV program came on. The Weather. The Weather made the call. It just wasn't the same in the rain and wind would ruin it all. Tommy needed the skies to be clear and the sun to shine bright for his friends to take flight. The weatherman came on screen and Tommy moved to the edge of his seat. That four-letter word would make it all work out. The suit-and-tie prophet shifted his hand to Tommy's town and did not let the lad down. He described the day as fine. A fine day. A fine day for making arcs in the sky. A fine day for making sticks fly.

The boy's excitement grew throughout the day and when the school's final bell rang Tommy was away. You would expect a youngster as excited as he to run and jump along his path to greet the park as soon as can be. But Tommy walked in silence with a determined step and an arm tingling to loose that first stick. Along the way Tommy observed his usual routine. He would scout beside the path for any promising contenders, for only one stick would be chosen, only one stick worthy of the ritual rhymes.

Countless candidates were cast aside. Some were bent and some were bruised. A few were too short or too long. Others were too weak or too strong. He found a number that seemed to be just great, but turned out to be a branch or a twig, a stem or a stake. But Tommy was unfazed by the paltry talent, for fine days always delivered what the weatherman promised.

Tommy was almost at the end of his walk and could see the park clearing through the last of the forest's trees. He went down on his knees to continue the hunt for the elusive wooden projectile when he spotted a beckoning tip poking out from under the dead leaves. Tommy grasped the protruding end of the contender. This is it. He gently pulled the stick from its leafy bedroll, sat up on his haunches and caressed it in both hands, admiring the even distribution of weight and smooth, almost shiny exterior. Tommy stood up and held out his hands palm-up in front of him, allowing the stick to rest evenly on both as he started a slow march past the trees and onto the park's greens.

As he walked out into the warm embrace of the sun, Tommy recited his liberation rhyme. 

The Chosen is freed

The worms will not feed

Take heart, I have spoken

Your bonds are now broken

Tommy stood on the park's soft grass and surveyed the surroundings. He only saw a few souls strolling around aimlessly. This pleased the boy. The others would only distract him from his task. Tommy took his throwing position, leading with his left foot and gripping the end of the stick with his right hand. He closed his eyes and seared his focus onto a single point in his mind, cutting a hole through the center of those nasty black sheets of doubt.

With his mind clear and ready for the throw, Tommy recited his maiden flight rhyme.

Shame the bird's feathers

Mock the bat's wings

You are the king of the sky 

You are the stick who will fly

Look up to the sun

Sprout wings of light

Burn an arc in the heavens

Take your first flight

As the last word was loosed from his lips, his arm sent the stick on a familiar trajectory perfected by hours of training. Tommy observed the glorious flight as the stick toppled end over end with the sun glistening off the surface in a string of bright winks, and contentment tickled the corners of his mouth. 

In the last few moments of the stick's descent Tommy saw movement in his left periphery. A dark shape was speeding towards the chosen one's estimated drop zone. Tommy tried to enjoy the fleeting seconds of flight right up to the end, but the blur broke his meditative state as it leaped at the stick. Tommy heard a snap, shook his head and tried to make out what had happened. He saw the shape turn and surge back from whence it came. Tommy followed its movement, spotted a bald man wearing glasses and a beige pullover and realised what had occurred. The young boy turned towards the man and started that purposeful walk in his direction. 

When Tommy came within 10 feet of the man, he stopped and stood staring at the sun's gleam on the stranger's forehead. The youngster then glanced down at the dog with the chosen one between its jagged teeth, slobbering all over it while the man stood there smiling at his beast. Tommy waited patiently until the man turned to him, then pounced and said: 

"Leash your fucking dog, asshole!"

Click here for Tommy: Executioner