My Conscience

In the middle of the night I met him,
tapping his heels against the wall
and taking a drag on his cigarette.

I decided to ask what he was doing:
pondering some meaning behind it all,
or maybe mulling over a past regret?

“Talking to you,” he replied, smiling,
tapping the ash away and staring
somewhere into the distance.

I asked him why, and he waited.
Waited until I turned to leave, before saying:
“perhaps, because I am lonely.”

The Pianist

The pianist sits between the audience and his instrument, his body askew as the piano reaches out to the back of the stage. His back is straight and his hair a thick white crown on a balding head. Black-rimmed glasses frame his half-closed eyes.

His monochrome body sways from the hips, rigid, like a metronome, and the audience is aware he knows something they do not.

No one sees his feet press on the pedals, but they do.

The pianist’s hands – pale, nimble, long-fingered hands – dance on and above the black and white keys. The sounds they make resonate in the auditorium and captivate the audience.

But these are not the only pair of hands. Continue reading “The Pianist”

The Regret Monster

Last night my regret monster came out again. He’s only a couple of inches tall and not intimidating in any way. He is, in fact, exactly like a glow-in-the-dark bookworm I had as a child. He wears an old-fashioned nightcap, a pyjama top, and glows a soft but repulsive green. The only difference between the regret monster and my old bookworm is that, while the bookworm smiled at me, the monster bears a more solemn look. It clenches its little wormy jaw and bears a squidgy little frown that makes it look concerned and reproving most of the time. I’m not sure where he lives but I think it might be in my socks because that’s where I smell him sometimes, all stale and musty.

Continue reading “The Regret Monster”

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The Tree

Part 1

Imagine a tree. A lonely, gnarled specimen that’s knotted and twisted and cloaked in dark brown bark. Bark that is cracked like an old man’s skin, but not dry and not thin.

The tree is not much like an old man at all, in fact. It is big, it is solid, and it is timeless.

There are leaves on the tree. Green leaves that never fall and, for as long as anyone can remember, are said to contain the souls of dead men. They are said to contain the souls of dead women and children too. But no one really knows if any of that is true.

It is a tree, they say, that exists out of normal time. It is part of this world, but also not part of it. Which doesn’t make much sense really. Like saying I have a tooth that is and isn’t part of my mouth. But that is what they say. Continue reading “The Tree”

The Raven – Original Poem

As Edgar Allen Poe clearly had such a big influence on my writing I just wanted to share this classic with you. Or, if you’ve had enough of reading things, I highly recommend watching the The Simpsons version of it.

 

The Raven 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.” Continue reading “The Raven – Original Poem”

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