anger

I’m Fine Thanks

I’m not OK
Not within the weeping of trees,
Or inside wailing caverns,
Nor whilst walking home,
alone,
on a Saturday night
after the fight we had under the opaque moon.
 
I’m not OK in the vast open spaces,
of myself.
When I come to the end of my time
as a host, as a lover,
as a child,
as a friend.

I’m not OK
in my forced role of parent, or therapist.
Nor am I a sturdy shoulder,
a prop, a raft: left to hold others afloat.
 
After the day is through and the walls become silent
Hours left to my own devices,
my own thoughts, feelings even
Here – I’m not OK.
 
You cannot see,
yet in me lies a detonator
waiting for sanity to finally give in.
Silently mocking – willing me to explode
so that every bit of me is opened up to scrutiny,
and judgement.
Disappointment,
for both you and me.
 
And only then,
when my body is wiped from the walls,
and scarlet pools around their shoes
will they claim –
 
She seemed OK
She was always OK

Living without passion

..

Without conflict could we still survive, would we still want to live in our ever revolving faceless world of placation? Would we miss having fire in our bellies? Miss having passion and love and anger? Without emotion are we even really living or merely existing?

If you were able to live forever without the fresh breeze on your face, or the spray of the waves of the sea falling in mists on your skin, or without ever hearing the rising call of the lark or feel the warmth on the skin of your cheek: would this be living?

The Harpy Upstairs

The high pitched shrill, the clog of feet
Signs of neighbours home
Try as I might, I just can’t write
For bristling at her tone
She squeaks and screams just like a child
That’s tickled constantly
The nasal sound, heard through the ground
Instills a chill in me
I cringe to hear her loud fake laugh
The shrieking makes me growl
I wonder if she’d carry on
If she could see my scowl

A Poor Cure

If asked to jump
She would reply, how low?

When told to proceed
Her heels would delve into the mud
Held back by pride
A stubbornness really

It wasn’t until her first day at school
They realised that laughing at her

Wasn’t the best way to cure indignation

A glimpse into Darkside Thursday

It lay before him

The charred remains of a hollowed out corpse. He looked down in bewilderment, eyes wide and frantic and he turned to see the empty auditorium.
I watched him in the dim light, his face awash with confusion. I almost felt sorry for him as he sunk to his knees and placed his head in his hands……almost.

If I hold my breath and strain my ears I can just about hear the low sobs. The slow gulps of realisation catching in his throat, the raspy whisper of his voice repeatedly stating ‘what have I done, what have I done’. Like a mantra he repeats this to himself, rocking back and forth as if this will somehow force him to regain his memory. Clearly this is not going to work for him, I chuckle to myself as I push up the lever.
With a click and a whirring the spotlight hits the stage highlighting the mutilated corpse and forcing him to spring to his feet.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

His face drained of colour as he frantically looked around. Searching for an answer, searching for the spotlight’s operator…searching for me

Something for Darkside Thursday – To catch up with Andy’s latest darkside then click HERE

Darkside Thursday – Flash fiction

I think of him sometimes, late at night when the world falls silent.

The day he turned up in his new yellow soft top sporting a leather jacket, and the after effects of just for men. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he informed me of his lottery win, and sudden acknowledgement of our ‘relationship issues’.

I’m sure you thought that young Stacey would help you work those through…

You got your fame though, when they pulled your car from the riverbed, they said you should have paid a mechanic to check the new car, that the brakes had failed, they were sorry.

I was sorry too.

Sorry that I didn’t heed your brother’s warnings sooner.

Still the money will come in handy as we take the around the world trip in your memory.

And you are still in my memory, I do think of you sometimes.

The car etched in memory, like a canary, being pulled underwater bobbing for a second and taking its last frantic gasp of air.

The smell of brake fluid still lingers.

My contribution for Darkside Thursday