Sunday, September 11, 2011

When I Look Into Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes, I see fire. A fire meant for me. I see the fire of your passion, the fire of your anger and pain. All burning together in one flame. Just for me.

When I look into your eyes, I see us. The us that existed before him. The him I wish would burn up in your fire. And leave you. Just for me.

When I look into your eyes, I see sadness. The sadness that has frozen my heart within my breast. The sadness you have left just for me.

Inspired by Carry On Tuesday.

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Seaside Misery

The water droplets spread across his chest and arms radiated a sensuality I just couldn't ignore. I plunged into the sea next to him, pushing above the surface inches away from his steady form. He waded there, in front of me, simply watching. His eyes, the most beautiful brown I have ever seen, warm and spicy like cinnamon or nutmeg, drenched my body in the most delicious heat. I held it there to my chest, never wanting to let it go. But I must let it go as his next words reminded me.

"I suppose you will be getting married tomorrow, then."

"I suppose."

William and I swam to shore and rested our naked bodies on the white sand, wrapped in front of his beach house like the Great Wall. If only it could keep me from the world forever.

"I suppose," I said again.

He rolled me half onto his chest and I buried my face in his skin. Oh, how I wished I could be immune to his scent, his taste, his sound! But no, I was doomed to feel his presence as strongly as I ever have now and forever.

We could never find stolen moments like these when I was married. It could never be. Never again could I hear his deep voice or feel his skin like this, so close to mine. With that ring came a house and that house was a whole country away.

This could never be again.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Daughter of Triton

I fought against the urge to breathe. It made my lungs burn but I had to resist. The water maiden pulled me lower and lower. Deeper and deeper. Until there was nothing. No light to kalaidescope around me like dozens of stars in the sea. No distant sounds, muffled by the water's weight. Nothing. Except her. I could see her still in this darkness. Her ebony hair and fishscale eyes. Her beauty frightened me and yet I could not look away.

Her lips met mine and I could breathe again. I sighed relief and twisted my body into a swim next to hers. She led me deeper into her home, the world growing brighter with each spastic kick of my legs. I tried to move my legs, both together, in the graceful way hers moved but I failed. How did she move so? She was no fish, no dolphin or shark. So how?

She placed a red cap on my head and smiled. I didn't smile back. I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to! But I didn't. We were alone in this sea, at this moment, and I did not want to smile at her in this way.

Soon, we came upon a palace, built into the reef. The water swirled around it, white foam riding the walls and dipping into the doors and windows as a lover would delve his tongue into a woman. The sensuality disturbed me and I let go of the maiden's hand. She gurgled something at me, eyes wide and confused. I ignored her and moved ahead but with my ineptitude she quickly passed me and was in the lead again.

Before I could enter the splendor of this underwater paradise, a man overtook us. A bone-like crown circled his temples like a laurel leaf and his eyes, deep obsidian, bore into my soul. I opened my mouth to speak but alas my English tongue could not translate to his ocean tongue. His bronzed hand, huge and barbaric, leapt out at my face. I turned to cover my eyes but he only ripped the red cap from my head. He gripped it at his hip, a crumpled and pathetic piece of cloth, and stared at me. His eyes flipped from the water maiden to my person and suddenly I realized. This man was her father. His arm around her shoulder, hugging her to his chest, confirmed it.

Without the protection of the red cap the air left my lungs and I couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes, clutched at my throat, but to no avail. I tried to flee but found my legs too heavy. When I opened my eyes I saw the maiden break from her father's hold. She clutched my wrist in her slippery fingers and began to swim frantically to the surface. We rode the currents but it was too much. My eyes began to close, the world faded, and I sucked the seawater into my hungry lungs.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Captivating Light

The stranger glided closer. Winds circled around to push Rose forward, whipping golden hair into her eyes. The strands were shining, blinding. Rose clamped her eyes shut but couldn't resist another peek at the man's purple-grey eyes. They beckoned her soul to rising. It slid up into her heart but Rose fought back. She wrenched herself free from the winds, pulling into the shadows where the man's light could not reach. But it could reach her there. She found out when his moonlight danced under the cover of darkness, illuminating her sanctuary with its obscene glow. That glow was there in his eyes, too. Obscene and leering. Smiling. He knew he would win. She knew it too. She didn't want to but she did. The man stepped into the shadows and chased the rest away like fire and rats. Scurrying away. Her shadows. He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin. Rose looked into those purple-grey eyes and forgot everything. The world. The danger. Her own life. All forgotten. The man tightened his grip and pulled her face up higher. He smiled and a breeze carried the rest of her soul out from her throat, loosened by the look in his eyes. Her soul slid up, up, up and out past trembling lips, falling into the void.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Friday, July 15, 2011

The Outsider

Hey guys,

Whenever I look at this picture I keep thinking of a brilliant short story. So instead of doing a writing response I'm going to do a reading response. The story is "The Outsider" by H.P. Lovecraft and I suggest all you writers (and readers) out there check it out. It is brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!


Saturday, June 25, 2011

Christmas Joy

Emily tore through the presents under the tree, her claws ripping into gift wrap and tissue paper and tossing it all aside like a rag doll. She did get a doll actually. From her Aunt Ruth. Too bad she was too old for dolls.

The porcelain doll hit the floor with a thud, her little face cracking down the middle. When Emily had finished opening cameras, clothes, and jewellery, she turned on her parents like a wolf.

"Is that all there is?"

Her mom blinked away tears and her dad glared at her.

"You've been given over twenty gifts, even one from Santa--"

"You mean you."

Her dad frowned.

"Isn't that enough?"

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday and Sunday Scribblings.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Maffick Monday has begun

Hey all,

The first Maffick Monday prompt is now up. Yes, it is up early but I'm going to be camping so for this post it is Maffick Friday.

So come post and have fun.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Maffick Monday announcement

Hey guys,

I'm going to be coming out with a new writing prompt blog. I'm hoping to get it under way this coming Monday but if not then the next. Come check it out:

As the name suggests, the prompts will be posted on Monday. They will be from one of three categories every week (setting, plot, or character).

So come check out Maffick Monday to find out the definition of "maffick" and to get writing.

Get a Grip

A thread poked its head out from the hem of my blouse. I gripped its neck and held tight. I would've preferred our first date be somewhere nice. A restaurant or something. But Mick wanted to go to a scary movie. You just didn't say no to the most popular guy in school. I was lucky he asked me out.

The screen flashed in font of me when the moon shone through the bedroom window. The young girl heard a sound and dove under the bed.

"No," I whispered. "No, he'll find you. Leave the house!"

A creak and then footsteps. The woman's breathing was too loud. Sheets lifting....

A scream. Mine or hers?


Mick looked at me and snickered under his breath.

Monday, June 13, 2011


Slipping through my fingers
Like flower petals

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday.


Walking through the halls of Bennet High, I pretended the marbelled floors were made of sand. I walked as if my feet sunk low and then lifted, low and then lifted. I pretended my shoes had been cast by the ocean (the lockers served this purpose) and, before dancing in small circles, my head spun to check both sides of the hall. No one was there.

I spun and spun and spun. And then I stopped. Footsteps sounded around the bend, coming from the caf. I rushed to my knees to slip my flip-flops back on, running down the hall away from the sound.

Flip-flop. Flip-flop. Flip-flop.

Voices followed the footsteps. I knew those voices. My hand dug into the pocket of my Walmart jeans and my fingers hugged the plastic, craft-store seashell. Faster now.

Flip-flop. Flip-flop. Flip-flop.

And then I saw them. Which means they could see me.

Two of the girls had gone around to ambush me. There they stood, blocking my only exit from Bennet High. The other three came behind. A hand on my shoulder. A hissing in my ear. And then I was on the ground. Yelling.

I clutched the seashell when one foot and then another dove into my side.

Inspired by Magpie TaleS:

Thursday, May 19, 2011

The Painting

I stumble into the stairwell, heedless of the random crap on the cement. That's what my life is now. Crap. Random crap everywhere. Well, that's how it goes, I guess.

I don't feel like climbing to my apartment so I light a cigarette. I leave the main door open just enough for a shred of sunlight to die before me and to allow myself a small glimpse of "life" out there.

There is a picture above that door. Something with nature or animals or whatever. I hate it. I've demanded it be stripped from the wall but apparently the other tenants think it "livens up their day" or some shit like that.

But I guess that picture's all I have to look at now. Well, that and the random crap. But I guess that's life for me now. Life, or rather death.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

The Siren's Lament

I skidded across the water's surface. My power incensed the siren. I could feel her watery hands grasping and clutching but always missing.

My legs grew tired. My power began to wane. The faint lullaby in the damp air pulsed greedily on what skill remained and I began to sink below the unforgiving surface. I could feel the siren drawing closer. I could feel her nails in my skin and the scales of her bosom as she held me close.

Her song wrapped me in a vicious lullaby as I drowned.

Monday, May 9, 2011

Made of Stone

There it sits. The stone figure from the Otherworld. It taunts me with its beauty. The magnificent doves in my master's hand...they are a lie. It is all a lie. Except for His likeness. And there are birds. Only they are savage, evil things. Meant to keep their master's subjects in line. Like me. Only I escaped. To the beautiful human world where my violent skills don't matter. They aren't needed for a power crazed master. Because He is not here.

But now the thing taunts me. My master, with His closed loving eyes and soft fingers. This is not Him. This is not my master. This figure looks holy, wonderful, magnanimous.

He is not my master. He will never be again.

Inspired by Magpie Tales.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

City Streets

In the merry month of May, in a morn by break of day, I walk along the bruised sidewalks, flipping into cut up alleys. I pass by the shops in this sweetest of months and watch the young couples at their games. And games they are as the young couples sit and chat about nothing, holding hands and leaning close.

In this most merry month, I walk through the meadows. Well, meadows of my mind. There's none of that here, in this sweetest of cities. Especially not at the break of day. But I supposed that's the best time of day to find a meadow. In a city like this.

In May, the morning month, I walk along and peep at the animals, fighting each other for the steel garbage bins along crumbling brick walls. Rabid. Wild. Abandon.

In the merry month of May, in a morn by break of day, I walk along these city streets until I am home.

This one's for Sunday Scribblings and Carry on Tuesday.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

The Spider's Silk

Ren drifted through the tall grass. Her jittery hands parted the strands, curving into a thin wisp of sticky thread. Violet eyes fell to the spot. A spider's web. That's all it was. She kept moving, past the shining beacon of silk.

The grass crackled under her foot, rustled like a lady's skirts as she brushed them aside. Soon, the green disappeared, leaving a man in their wake.

Heath turned with the grace of silk, reminding Ren of that sticky spider's web. His eyes met hers and he fell toward her. Heath lifted her hands in his and guided Ren forward. His gaze raked the bag hanging forlorn by her side.

"Are you ready?"

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

Sunday, April 24, 2011


The shine of the metal burned my eye. I had to keep them open, though. Couldn't close my eyes. Had to keep watching.

From underneath the truck, I could see the abandoned knife sitting so close to my eye. They were fighting now. Fighting over me. I could only hope the right one won.

Please don't let me die.

Steve had told me to hide when my stalker attacked us. Jealous over Steve. But Steve was my fiancée. He shouldn't be jealous over Steve. Steve was right. He was wrong.

Steve had told me to run. I ran. Steve had told me to hide. I hid.

I couldn't see much under here, though. Sometimes I saw their feet, locked together in an ugly dance. Things picked up, though.

The knife was stolen from the ground. Someone grunted. Someone fell. Blood rolled toward me. I shifted away.

A hand came into view, reaching for me. They pulled me into a pair of arms. Steve's arms.

It was over.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

I Dreamt a Dream! What Can it Mean?

Rolling pink waves. Yellow flashes. A man in the wake of it all.

Cooling voice. Burning touch. Ariel in the wake of it all.

But what does it mean? What does it mean? This dream of mine.

This dream of mine. He says, he says....something will happen at the party.

He says, he says....Man will happen at the party.

Beware of Man. Beware of Man.

Beware of Man at the party.

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday. Also, please read Alexander Pope's "The Rape of the Lock."

A Scientist's Design

Light flickered. Machines rumbled. The dead howled. The scientist ripped off a limb here and there from the bodies. They lay on his many operating tables deep down under the earth.

The scientist stitched the flesh together slowly. Still after so many years he was not a skilled tailor. His children suffered as a result. The scientist stared at his current project. The seams stretched open at the joints. He could see the ravaged muscles inside. But he wanted a beautiful child.

Maybe next time he should design a beautiful wife instead.

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

The Magic of the Desert Sun

It was evident he wasn't going to make it.

I watched from afar as he clamoured toward the illusion of an oasis I conjured before his eyes. He was getting desperate. Soon, he would die. He couldn't last much longer. The desert heat was even starting to get to me. And my witch's blood could usually withstand such abuses.

Finally, the tragic figure fell to the ground. When I closed my eyes I could feel his tears caress my cheek. When I tilted my head I could hear his hoarse whisperings float on the heat waves. When I opened my eyes I could watch him die.

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

The Locket

The locket sat on the desk. It did not move. Its owner watched it, waiting. The forlorn thing really didn't seem all that important. Who would've thought it held the key to the girl's past?

It was a peculiar, little thing, sitting there as if the world was right. The girl picked it up and held it in her hands in the dim, attic light. Dust motes swung this way and that in the lonely sunbeams. She pinched the chain between two fingers and swung it like a pendulum before her tired eyes.

She had to get going.

The girl picked herself up and tucked the locket away in the pocket of her little dress. She descended to the garden in the backyard, calling out to her step-mother, "I'm going to play, mummy."

The girl pulled open the little gate and crossed into the next street. It should be here. Her older brother, Mark, told her it would be. She wished he was there with her now.

The girl studied the numbers on the houses as she passed them. It really was too bad Mark couldn't come. In truth, her brother had fabricated a tale to explain why he couldn't join his younger sister, Arabelle. Mark had said he had a date, had been quite adamant in saying he did, but Mark never had dates. His sister was just too young to notice.

The numbers 597 gleamed on a small, white house. Arabelle checked the back of the photo in the locket. That's what it said. Mark had told her it was here. He was right. He was always right. That's what big brothers did best.

Arabelle climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. A woman answered with the same carrot-red hair as Arabelle.

"Hi." Arabelle plucked the photo from its place and shoved it into the woman's face. "Is this you?"


Arabelle flung herself at the woman.

"Hi, mummy! It's nice to meet you."

Inspired by Three Word Wednesday.

Sunday, April 3, 2011


It's in the sunbeams
Streaming down from the sky
It's in the wild air
Tickling my
Skin touching the cool grass
It's in the lives of the animals
Nature's limerick

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Problem is fixed! :)

I love My Wife

I love my wife. Or rather, I loved my wife. The poor dear. I strolled into our favourite coffee shop; it was where we had met decades earlier. The tiny bell announced my entry and the young man behind the counter offered a familiar smile. I came every day. I came faithfully at the exact same time. It was a ritual.

I kept my hands tucked deep into my pockets, like hammers in a tool belt. I continued on to the bathroom at the back of the shop to wash up before I ordered my usual coffee and lemon cake. The biting January air crept through the tiny crack in the high window. A crack ran through the middle like a ragged scar. I twisted the taps on the sink. The cold one didn't work. So, I used the hot tap. I watched the soapy foam as it swirled down the drain. One more look at the window and then I returned to the young man behind the counter.

His face crumpled into a mask of concern. "Hey, are you okay, man?"

My eyes darted to find the culprit of his alarm. My thumb found the spot of blood on the stiff, white collar of my favourite shirt (it was a gift from my wife, my darling Mary) and I rubbed at it a little. I hadn't taken the thing off since she died.

"Yes," I offered a tight smile. "I just had a bit of a nose-bleed, that's all. It's this cold air that does it."

I smiled again for good measure. He smiled back.

"The usual?" I nodded. I shoved the cash onto the counter and took a seat near the far window in the corner, away from the door. As I sat, I watched the passerby and the people who wandered into the little coffee shop. It was in this way that I saw them.

They were across the street when I looked, talking to the locals and writing on little, spiral notepads. Their heads--a pair of blonde heads, by the way--snapped up to stare through the frosted windows of the coffee shop.

I groaned, my fingers flying up to grind into my temples. Those damn sirens were giving me a headache.

The police burst through the door, hands on their guns and legs braced apart.

"Gregory Smith?"

I indicated my presence with the wave of a hand and a small grunt.

"Over here, boys."

I really didn't expect them here so soon. I hadn't even gotten my coffee and cake yet.

"You're under arrest for the murder of Mary Smith..."

The cop's voice trailed on but I couldn't listen.

I stood to make securing a pair of handcuffs around my thick wrists a little easier.

Mary, dear Mary, had been a bad woman. She never listened. Well, she certainly had listened that night. But still...I loved my wife. And love means never having to say you're sorry.

Inspired by Carry on Tuesday.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

La Belle Dame from the Moon

Moondrops, fallen from the bruised sky and carried on the wings of shadowed butteflies, had long ago knitted together to breed a fairy. She came to be known as the Belle Dame of the Westerly Woods.

Leaves twisted into each other from the dead branches above the Belle Dame to form a swing. She stole a flower from the ravaged earth, twirled it in her grasp, and seated herself on the swing. She watched the shadowed butterflies flit across the empty sky. Strings of dewdrops hung from their wings. A smile spread across the gruesome lips of the Belle Dame. A nearby rabbit shrunk back into the shadows. The whole forest knew to stay away from the fairy when that smile lit up her face.

The best jewellery could be found, she thought, in souls extracted from knights. Such a noble lot. Their souls tended to crystallize into diamonds from the dew.

The Belle Dame could see him, her knight, just past the mangled oak. He wandered near the lake. He was looking for her. Well, he would never find her. He would never find anything ever again.

She had had kings and princes and warriors, too. But none were ever so sweet as the honourable knight.

Image here:
Inspired by

Also be sure to check out Keats's poem "La Belle Dame sans Merci."

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Winter Waters

Like waves
Up, up, up
To crash down
On the cement shore

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

A Thousand Years

Yawning of an Age
It waits

Inspired by Sunday Scribblings.