My Flower

Where pinks and blues once
painted the scene, now
a set of greys have moved
in to silence the mood.

The evidence no longer exists,
unless science and meticulous
scrutiny set to work in this place.

When the flowers bloomed,
the life came back to this place
and the bloom in her cheeks was
the shade of soft sunflowers.

The evidence of her existence
lives in my mind alone;
her beauty will forever remain unchanged by time,
for I killed her in this place, and I buried
her many pieces in amongst the different flowers;

she will forever be my
many-flowered girl,
and I will cherish the love
we will always share.

The Apparition

A string of pearls decorate her neck, fall past her chest, and create the illusion of length. 

Before the mirror, she holds a brush with a geometrical pattern in blue, silver and white; this precious brush holds sentimental value money cannot buy.

What is the sadness she feels darkening the patches of light from the overly rectangular windows?

Cassandra sits on the bed looking at the beauty in front of the mirror and the brush in her lovely hand, yet she does not know what to do; when she reaches out to touch the beauty, her hand moves straight through the pearls, her chest and nothing makes sense.

Then, without warning, the apparition looks at Cassandra with a longing so sad. Her mouth moves as she says, “Come to me so that I can brush your hair. It is so beautiful.“.

The words grip Cassandra, and she feels an overwhelming urge to be with this beautiful, familiar lady. The feeling intensifies, then it is unclear what happens next; One moment, she was longing for this beauty, and then she felt the brush running through her hair.

No longer feeling herself, she says to the apparition, “Why are you so familiar to me?

The apparition says, “Cassandra, I have been watching you brush your hair for so long. I’ve grown very fond of you.

Who are you?

Don’t you know?

Confused, Cassandra looks around. Her body lays deathly still on the floor. Her lips of blue and her eyes of cloudy nothingness frighten her so much, yet she must ask a question. “What is your name?

Cassandra, I am Rebecca.

Something jolts Cassandra’s memory as she remembers the mansion her husband refused to live in, for his wife died down by the cliffs. Her husband gave her that brush and sometimes watched her brush her hair. Something about the way he watched her seems relevant now, as she says, “Were you my husband’s first wife? Did he kill you?

Yes, he pushed me off the cliffs and into the sea.

Why am I dead?

You have been poisoned over many months. Perhaps it is a cleaner way to die.

I can do nothing now.

Perhaps you can come with me, and we can make things right.” 

They walk from the room together.

Knife and Fork


The roast lamb is carved, the potatoes are golden, and the vegetables steam happiness, which curls and weaves a path to the chandelier of crystal so bright. 

What a delightful sight amongst the candles on this moonless night.

I think of your body and the way you used to say, “Let’s die with all the money!” or how you took my body in your hands and tried to squeeze out all of my light.

Scraping my fork and knife on the dinner plate sends shivers down my spine.

I am reminded of that time you squealed like a piglet when I stuck a knife into your heart.