I see the sun through the fog.
I'm on a train.
I have never been on a train before.
The train's motion feels like I'm swaying on the rocking chair in my room.
I now know why so many stories have a baby being lulled to sleep by the movement of a train.
I see the sun through the fog.
The sun is beautiful.
The is stripped of its shine by the mist, to be transformed into a circle ringed with black.
It looks as if it isn't the sun, but a hole made in the sky with a paper punch.
What if the sun does go round the earth?
I imagine it on a train, carried round, sitting on its own at a table seat.
I imagine the sun being lulled to sleep.
Like a baby on a train in a book.
It is always asked of me
Why I do not find love and claim that
I never will.
It is because of this
Simple truth.
Many have fooled into disregarding it, but it always holds sway
In this world.
It is this.
Love can be sore
But heartbreak kills.
Take this unto your being, friend, and live by it
When threatening to have love for a human.
The roar of the tornado was immense, almost seeming to manifest itself in the funnel that was twisting and turning like a bull under a bronco. The cloud of dust snaked after its master, stifling the ground below. Illuminating the whole scene was the rising sun, eerily highlighting its strengths and my weaknesses.
Panicked, scattered cattle were trampling the grass in the face of the twister, bellowing. Their appearance was of leaves being blown about by a blower as they galloped wildly to the other end of the field, before cautiously edging forwards until they were spooked again, repeating the short cycle. In the early morning dew, human tracks formed paths that showed me the way to safety, seamlessly weaving among one another, testaments to other's fear.
In the next field West, my Land-rover shook in the twisting gale, accompanied by a whiff of petrol, carried by a momentary gust. A solitary strand of sinister barbed wire snapped free of the fence at one post far enough away to be pushed away by the wind rather than pulled towards it. As it flailed and whipped itself in the wind, it narrowly missed the car and swept threateningly in my direction. I held my breath... SNAP... my guts twisted into a game of Cat's Cradle as the wire flew past me, the barbs avoiding me by a hand's width.
The twister even cast a shadow, the dust that blocked the light constantly swirling, giving the shade a moving depth. More lengths of wire waved freely in the wind, snake-like in their flexibility and speed. The mighty thunder of the tornado drew ever closer, threatening to hurl me into the sky. The car was too far away to reach safely. I turned and sprinted away, along the trail left by the souls that had departed before me.
Oblivion
I lean over the side of the bottomless well, watching the murk disappear into oblivion.
The well extends beneath a crumbling castle, rising above me in an array of crenellations and loopholes.
The castle surveys from the top of a hill, gathering fallen chunks from the walls.
Surrounding the hill is a forest, standing on it's carpet of leaves being woven by the wind's skill.
The forest lives on an island, an island that takes a day for a raven to fly across.
The island is in the middle of the sea, forgotten by all but the waves and the gulls.
The ocean is enclosed by a tent with starlight for thread and the sky for fabric.
The stars are all that is left in the world, and I am one of them.
Blood Moon
As the thump of staffs rises to fever pitch around me, as the chanting weaves its way through the air in a beautiful crescendo, the blood moon rises.
It is full, as waxed as it can be, and after this, it will never cast the same light on Earth again. The rite is done.
Almost.
"Mages! Listen to me!" Sorcerer Deus faces us, a silhouette against the scarlet moon as he faces us mages. "There is but one simple component until we - not the Dark Ones of Stars- we shall become GODS!"
We cheer, howling to the sky, stamping our feet on the dew-spattered grass until the sorcerer raises his staff.
"I am sure you all know what that component is?" We nod in assent, eager.
He throws his face to the stars, a lonely figure on the altar standing in the empty plain. "THE NAMING!"
"THE NAMING!"
"Glosbe! Come up here!"
My jaw drops like a felled tree, for surely i, of all people, should not be the first. "I, I, O Sorcerer, I am the one least in power, why should it me me?"
Deus chortles in his deep tones. "Why, Glosbe, you are the most loyal among us, for otherwise you would have seized the opportunity instead of saying you should be last! Come forwards.
Marching forwards to the altar, I gaze at it. It is laced with many colours, gold and scarlet and silver and green and blue and bronze, but it isn't bright. Indeed, it seems faint, as if it almost isn't there, trying to hide. Nevertheless, I walk up the stairs and onto the surface, going round the white fire to join Deus as the other mages whisper with envy. But I feel no prise, only like I have usurped them.
"Now, Glosbe, I sense that you long to fly with the birds, to be with nature. Glosbe, you shall be the god of the wind and the natural. You shall be..."
Strange thumps come from behind me, and Deus spins me round to see all the mages dead on the ground.
"Glosbe, you shall be dead."
I see the crow overhead, predicting my doom. i hear the Sorcerer's murmur in my ear, I feel the diamond blade of his knife piercing my back and coming out the other side, I smell the death on the air, I taste the blood in my mouth.
Glasses
16/11/2016
Dear Diary,
Tomorrow I have to go to the opticians and get glasses. I don't want to get glasses.
Everyone will laugh at me because I'm short-sighted, and it will be SO embarrassing. I'm already bullied for being a crybaby and now I have to have spectacles, as mum calls them. They'll be spectacles and I'll be one too. No one else in my year has glasses.
I would pretend to be ill tomorrow, but mum will know that it's because of the glasses, because I've told her over and over and over again that I can't wear them, because I'll be a laughing stock.
It's bedtime. See you, whoever is reading my diary when they're not supposed to, Michael.I'm talking to you.
18/11/2016
Dear Diary,
Wish me luck.
18/11/2016 #2
Dear Diary,
Guess what - no one cares! I just walked around with my glasses on and the worst thing anyone said to me was that they didn't think glasses suited me, but that was it. I guess I did make a big fuss of it all, but it's fine now.
Oh come on - I have to go do the chores. Well, GO AWAY MICHAEL!
I miss you.
Mama, where are you?
I'm so glad that I learnt to write. I never liked school, but now I do. I'm writing this letter in the dust of our barracks, because I want you to know what's happening to me. I'm sure you're in somewhere lovely, as you're so nice and friendly and good. But I'm somewhere horrible, a place full of mean people in uniforms and sad people in blue and white striped clothes.
Every now and then, some people get taken away. I made a kind of friend once, and he was taken away by the mean people in uniforms and didn't come back. No one did. I don't think anyone comes back from being taken away, it's just I noticed him because we were friends.
And it's so uncomfortable. Did I spell that right? I hope I did. Anyway, the mattresses are made of straw and really not nice, and my wooden clogs are far too small for me. At first I tried to ask a man in a uniform why they were tiny, but he hit me. He actually hit me. It didn't hurt as much as some of the other things they do to us though.
We don't get out clothes washed, and it's so disgusting wearing something that hasn't been washed since I don't know when. Mama, you should come and be the wash lady like you used to be, then we would have clean clothes.
I miss you.
Oh no, I think a man in a uniform is outside. If he sees me or my writing, he'll be angry. I have to go.
See you soon. Maybe we're being taken to you.
The Night Crow
Ingrid backed away, knife up, while the swordsman fought to pull his weapon out of the tree it was stuck in. The tree groaned as he finally got it out, the base covered in sap that was wiped onto the ground. He was taking his time. No need to rush.
She was hopelessly over matched. One skinny 13 year old girl with a knife against a huge, muscled adult with a broadsword, in a Norwegian forest in the middle of winter.
They came to fighting again, for the last time. He shoved her against a tree with his brute strength, before breaking her arm. She screamed at the break of bone, hearing the crack as snow fell around her, indifferent, like the tree she was leaning on, too stunned by the agony do do anything as the man pushed her onto the ground. As his sword was raised above his head, ready to come down, she pushed herself away through the snowdrift as the wrapping around his face fell down to reveal a woman's face gazing down at her. She shoved one last time, dragging her injured arm.
And woke up.