to find her again

after all this time

and tell her what

i couldn't

before

I saw the light... and I wish I had never known such pain.

I remember my home- swooping walls of granite, lit by crackling firelight, beautiful forms dancing across the walls.

My friends and I, we'd sit and watch these elusive, fluttering, creatures. Give them names. There were only three of us, but the words that spilled from our lips created an entire world.

We knew this process was only a distraction, from the chains that circled our feet and cut into our wrists. But with each new title we conjured- paperwing, skyreacher, tuskmilion- our chains melted away. Their scorching metal became a distant echo.

We didn't really know how we'd arrived in this place, it seemed that we had been here since the beginning of time itself, unchanging. We had the power to manipulatte and mold this place, because the rest of the world was born from us.

But one day- a click. My chains rattled to the floor, settled in the powdery dust. The other two stared at me. The chains had always been part of our existence, what was I now?

I turned. There was a faint glow on the other end of the cave. I staggered toward it.

The others called out to me. "Don't go! Your world is here, do not leave this place."

But I was deaf to their words. I crawled out, abandoning everything I had grown to love and care for.

In the second the light hit my lids, something changed, shifted.

I knew too much.

she sees

seemingly sinless

souls

stabbed,

slaughtered.

smoke

suffocates

slate shaded

skies.

silver screens

stream

savage scandals,

scenes showing

severed spirits

sounding

skull-shattering screams.

second-sheet screamers

spell sanguinary

sentences so

society’s

silver-spooned

softies

stop supporting

silence;

silence squares stupidity.

His soul was the color

of broken glass

and creaking ice

a moment before

the plunge.

she fell.

His soul was the space

between the fine print-

so when he took her breath away

she didn't know

he wouldn't be giving it back.

she can't breathe.

And when the day ends

she is chained

to the corpse of a man

who never had a soul

to begin with.

so maybe she'll give him hers.

tearing it to ribbons

and pressing the silken fragments to cold lips.

but they flutter to the floor,

like the bloodied bodies of slain doves

and she learns

that love cannot be taught.

why am i

incapable

of finding

words

sufficient

to describe

these feelings?

is it so

impossible

to piece

together

enough to

make you

understand?

does the

lexicon

of my soul

surpass

even that

of my own

tongue?

how could one

spell out

the weight

of a

guilt-ridden

love?

the complex

coexistence

of fear

and

desperate

desire?

the incessant

taunts

and cries

of my mind’s

ever-present

narrator?

i can’t.

so i trudge on,

one heavy

footstep

at a time,

ignoring

the crunch

of my shoulders

beneath

the burden

of my own

being

Oh, good. I'm glad you're here. I knew you'd come. The windows are triple glazed, you see, and no one could hear me. For a moment I thought—no, I knew you'd come.

Sit down, no, not there. Here. I built this chair a long time ago, see how the green velvet has barely faded, how strong these gilded arms are? Sit. I am a furniture maker.

I'm glad you've come. I have been here a long time. No don't give me any news, I'll do the talking. I do not need the world outside. Outside is as it always has been. Look.

White Georgian windows interrupt the monotony of beige brown bricks, grey rooftops accommodate the endless rain. The rain dribbles from slanted windows, splashes in puddles like an infant falling into its own muck. There can be no satisfaction in a world like this. No wonder I went mad in it.

I have worked here, in this office, for over twenty years. There are not many designers who would work as hard as me, who have given as much as I have given. It took me two hundred hours to build the desk the Prime minister now pumps his arse against. I sacrificed everything for work that has worn away my fingernails. There are no pictures of me holding my infant son, for my heart died long ago. I sacrificed everything—you understand—for this office of mine.

So one day, Euan walked in. Alas. poor Euan. With his pale computer-scarred face and nimble hands, everyone underestimated him. But I saw. I saw immediately that what he could do with his hands could be greater, better. I taught him. Covered in sawdust and reeking of dirt, I led him through nights of workmanship, until he reached excellence. Together, we made tables, chairs, sofas, cupboards, wardrobes. He had such a light touch, such a particular, definitive style. Everything he touched was made beautiful. We would have made it all. He was still so young, the age of my son, almost. But I felt that when he was ready, he and I'd enter a partnership, fill every room with our glory.

Inside, you see, is always where it happens. One day, of course, a woman in New York, an agent if you like, saw Euan's website. We all had websites in those days, there's no harm in that. But she wanted Euan to work with her, and she began selling his items to Brooklyn billionaires. He snapped up the interest of the vice-president of American airlines, if you can believe it. Well, Euan was flown to that freedom-fighting-arms-bearing polarised havoc.

I couldn't blame him, of course, for going freelance, for giving up on my modest little shop. I stopped paying him wages, chuckling on a transatlantic phone call: I can't afford you anymore.

Well, he laughed because he knew the day had come, and though he was mine I let him go, watched him appear in magazine mentions. I was pleased for him, you understand. I had my own inside pieces to take care of, to beautify.

I went home to my wife, to my son, and told them the world was their oyster. My son wanted to move to Philadelphia, started singing songs to belong across the pond. He was twenty-five, had a goatee and beads in his hair. He studied music and started organising gigs abroad. Fly-shame hadn't quite reached his boho barbecue tofu generation.

He was the one who showed me the website. A different website, one that Euan and that woman had created it. It was a white bold black lettering scam, most of the pieces were knock offs of everything I had ever achieved, sold as cheap as prostitutes in back alleys.

I called him up, Euan, I mean, asked him what's the meaning of this, turning fine dining into IKEA samples.

Well, Euan was honest where he was not honourable, and he owned up. Said he was sorry, that was just the way of the world, and his agent, that woman, she kept saying—

I told him I didn't give a flying duck what his agent said and hung up. Then I carried on about my business as usual, tried not to wish him wrong. But his business took off, was bought by some Walmart associate. My furniture designs. A Walmart commodity. Made me feel as sick as you expect, but I said nothing, kept it cool, played it off as nothing special.

Well. Those two came round on a UK tour. They called and told me to expect a visit. I told them I didn't want to see either of them, because, I, too, am an honest man. Cruel and callous they showed up, telling no one, not calling my [wife] secretary, not warning a soul.

"We're here on a whim, drove here from Edinburgh, you'll have to let us in," they said.

"I'll do no such thing," I spluttered, but the woman pulled out a gun and teased:

"You'll do as I say."

So I did, and she put the gun away. It was a toy, it turned out, and she was only joking, only messing around.

"Your stuff is cute," she said, gave the place a once-over. Knowing eyes, never trust a woman with those.

"We wanted to warn you," Euan started.

"To inform you before the courts do," said the other.

"We're going to sue you," they said, in unison.

"On what grounds?"

"Copyright. Infringement, can't have anyone accusing us of stealing," the words were lazy but they cut like a thread whipped into flesh. So I nodded my head. They both smelled of money, which is often the law that matters. The lady inspected an unfinished desk and fingered a knife I had left.

Euan came over and offered consolation with the drowning eyes of a dying puppy. I did not forgive him.

"I've never caused you any trouble," I remarked.

He nodded and while his head was down, I took a knife, and stabbed him in the neck. The woman screamed, but my windows are triple glazed, so when she took as her defence a shriek, I kicked her down and pummeled her, took a saw and hacked, killing her till I was sure she was dead.

Well. I had a fridge and some tins here, and at first I didn't ever dare leave. But then, of course, I broke the key, one evening I was shivering and rolling about. So I couldn't get out, so I'm glad you broke in, though there's not much to steal. My son posts me some food from time to time, though I can't him in, he'd tell my wife what I've done. I keep hoping some constable will stop by, but for some reason, the police have never come. No one saw them come in here, on their secret, weak-minded excursion.

I don't notice the smell, though you, dear, look unwell. I'm glad you're here, I've wanted someone to tell. If you look over there, you'll see her decaying. It's been two weeks. I thought her skin would start peeling, but she's almost swelling, there, look how black her mouth and nose are? Her fingertips are dark purple, her teeth still stained with crusts of blackened blood. Euan over there, for a while he looked like an angel, but now he's putrid and his eyeballs creep out of their sockets like wet slugs. Look how he's swollen and blackened and bruised. I've been wondering, what's next, will their flesh tear off, to reveal the bones within? I hope not.

Well, anyway, I'm glad you're here, please take me away, I'd like to give in, go to prison and be surrounded by live people again. I'll plead guilty, won't mention the furniture, don't care for the stories, just want some peace and to get away from these bodies.

words are air,

manipulated wisps

of oxygen

that wreak havoc

on ear drums.

words are ink,

smeared precisely,

exact and vague

all at once.

words are swords,

double edged

and sharpened

to the point

that just the

suggestion

of contact

draws blood.

words are change.

persuasion,

a distortion

of the universe,

of all the opinions

that holds it

together.

words are the soul,

emerging from lips,

slipping out through

cracks in the mind.

words are a reflection.

a disturbance.

a trigger.

everything.