Tag: short story

Death in the Snow

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In the snow, the seat is bare, except for you and a few tidy possessions.

You’ve been down this road before: broken and broke.

There’s nothing like poverty to make you feel like you’ve made the wrong choices. Yet, you are liberated now: free on this bench in the snow.

You think, “How beautiful the snow is as it falls. If I had a poet’s heart, and I was more familiar with words, I would articulate this scene with more purpose and beauty, but I cannot convey this; this is a photograph or a painting…“

You sit still in the snow, and you don’t notice the gun against your head until the jolt ends the falling snow for you.

Your last moments were broke and broken, beautiful and sad, as you thought of the falling snow.

What beauty in your death. Death on the bench in the snow as you sat full of a fading glow until the light turns to darkness.

Now you get the chance to do it all differently.

Australien Sun

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My childhood home for a time in Mareeba.

Sometimes, when she sits on the step, she thinks about places and how they connect us to memories, as does music and scent.

Her mind drifts back to the cool water of Nelson Bay and the pretty lighthouse on the hill; Connected to her sister deep in thought.

Thoughts of grey days with coffee on every corner, a European feel, and a charm only Melbourne emits; Connected to her childhood home.

Thinking about younger days with a hammer for macadamia nuts and corkscrews for coconut eyes in Mareeba; Connected to her origins.

The memories play behind her eyes as she looks at the red dirt full of cracks under the Australien sun.

Imaginary Drug

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You’re like a drug when
I watch you on the screen.

You make me believe I
could fall in love with a block
of unkempt cheese.

Dude, how did you do it
to yourself and me?

Unattainable folks with cash
and bad haircuts,
but you’re a bit nonplussed.

My feet tingle as you hold
that piece of plastic in your
hand, but how old are you?

You’re fucking the cardboard box
of my life with a blunt knife,
yet I don’t care how you do it.

Continuing to undress in irony
or act like you are the ultimate corporation as you place your name on every plaque.

Whatever the case, Dude, you’ll be using a walker soon enough, and I’ll be wishing I’d said something nice to the lady down the road before she died from a pinprick.

The Kyle

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The hills of green are visible far and wide, although, down here forever is blind.

The sky is shy today, as he decides that we all need a decent dose of grey without rain.

Winds flow through the castle which once housed our family and our loving hearts.

The sky knows what my heart feels, but he’s always been good at knowing my heart.

I travelled far and wide to try and escape the pain sitting heavily upon my heart as I miss you, yet I cannot keep going forever.

The sky tells the rain to hold off, and the rain orders the sky not to interfere; the sky and the rain grumble like a married couple in love.

Walking along the Kyle, I know the time is near; how wonderful it will be, after over one hundred years of your moods, you and I will meet again.

As the rain begins to fall, it seems the rain won the argument; perhaps I will win with you too.

Tangled in Treason

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You were always the kid pushing boundaries. At school, some said you were the “it” kid.

You started to change at fifteen; eccentric cool turned into conservative stoicism.

You receded into yourself, and I could not get in, although I tried; now you look through me, or not directly at me.

Where did you go?

I’ve asked myself this question so many times; each answer appears insufficient to me.

Then, we saw your face on the news one hot December morning; you got Tangled in Treason.

You had a beard, wore your hair long, and your eyes looked haunted.
Where did Matthew go?

You lost your uniqueness and that spark; you receded inside and then became something new.

Why did Matthew do that?

You had a vest strapped to your chest as you entered a town square. The explosion sent you to forever, or I know not where.

What will become of Matthew?

You killed yourself and a whole town square for them; cannon fodder for a lost cause.

Now, as the rain falls upon my face, I cry for you and your lost soul; it wasn’t worth all of that to die at fifteenth.

I see such a waste of humanity, and I remember so much horror when I think of you today.

The coming storm

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It’s been too long for you and me, but we cannot touch each other for the sun is too hot, and our skin is too dry.

The humidity creeps higher and higher, yet there’s no relief in this hell. Nature wants her way.

I would tell you about my day, then you could do the same, yet we’re too spent to move.

Then the buzz begins. We are electric and wired to what’s coming from the atmosphere.

Birds in the sky fly away or chat madly in the trees; there are so many parrots, sparrows, and a few cockatoos and rosellas.

The cat meows nervously and begins purring loudly, rubbing against us, hoping for a lap or pats.

Outside, the wind picks up, the trees blow about, and the madness sets into our minds.

We’re wired and starting to feel increasingly weird when the lightning crashes.

Then the rain begins to pour hard. We start to smell the rain, and we feel the change.

Laying about listening to the rain, we begin to touch one another. Our skin is so wet now.

The Grumpy One

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Listless and upset.

You sit clutching the remote control as if pressing the buttons will make things better.

He sits over there, horny and haggard from listening to your grumpy taunts.

You’re upset with yourself more than anyone else, but you take it out on him.

He wonders when you’ll come to realise those pork sausages are the culprit.

You’re plagued by atrabilious feelings, which only heightens your cloudy thinking.

He does something out of character and gives you a Stomach Ezzy with water.

You’re so shocked you drink it, even though you’d like to cry into the glass.

He sits by you and waits with his eyes closed, for he feels the shit inside of you.

You feel rotten and put the glass and the remote down, then paw his legs and feet.

He smiles and opens his eyes to say, “I see your mood’s improving little cat“.

You want to take the piss, but think better of it. All you can say is, “I’m sorry“.

He says, “Pretty one, that is enough…“

20 then 40

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In the beginning, the world spun out of control. You longed for stability from abuse and normality.

A course through others’ mental health hells would see you stand at 20 on the precipice of your destiny; the choices you made were harder than you imagined, yet you were determined to win this one.

As 40 creeps closer, you look to the future with bright eyes and wise lips.