Unspeaking but in sync

Entwined across a room they sit

Understanding bonds them, stronger than words express

The artist and the muse, each one to the other

Together they are lost

Lost in each other, in themselves

Lost from this world

All they have is pure

Each loves, and it matters not who

Only, completely, that they do


House of Hope [twin poem discussion post!]

[My friend wrote a poem. Then I rewrote it, changing every word but keeping the meaning and the precise 100 word total. I won’t say which is which just now, because I’m not certain I can remember. Maybe half of you reading (yes you, not not you) should scroll down and read the second one first. Anyway, thoughts? Which do you prefer? Does it even matter? Can we just appreciate both. Answers on a postcard (gosh, that would be romantic).]


House of Hope #1

Bowing, bending beams and walls

‘Tread softly’ I repeat,

‘Take care’, broken bricks and mottled mortar

Sharp silhouettes and angles fill the gloom

Leering out, reaching up

Beyond the boundaries of candlelight;

Passageways take shape


The soft hum that signals slow collapse,

Pierced with urgent screeching,

Timber snaps and starts the descent,

Gradual, but gathering, past every path,

Each side taken, each challenge faced

Even challenges I couldn’t face.




Building blocks, cracked with age,

Shape undecided, indeterminate, growing and decaying.

A hollow whisper whistles round dead end corners

For each one that got away

The blueprint for my past


House of Hope #2

Great groaning husk of building

Proceed slowly,

Carefully, rotten wood and blackened timber

Strange angles and shadows in the darkness

Looming forwards, extending upwards

Further than light’s glow can show;

Corridors unfurling


Gentle murmur of slow decay,

Broken occasionally by a more destructive leap,

A beam breaks and begins its fall,

Its slow, sonorous fall, down all the passageways of your life,

The choices made, the bridges crossed,

The bridges you turned away from.


They fall.


The wood creaks under the pressure of time,

The structure changing, shifting, morphing, parts falling.

An empty wind blows through the broken house

The unredeemable moments

Architecture of your life


Forbidden Beauty [flash fic]

Hey there you wonderful people!

So my housemate and I had another short story competition, as outlined in my previous post about Vocal.

Now I don’t want to insist you read my work on some other site, so you can read it below if you want! This is how this one’s going down:

If you want to support me by reading the piece on Vocal, just click here. You’ll earn me like $0.003 and I’ll be super grateful. My housemate’s piece, for comparison, is on Vocal too.

[fun aside: Vocal has a ton of different categories, and you have to pick one for each piece, and they all come with a range of preset tags, so I can’t be my usual inventive tagging self. This one’s in the ‘Criminal’ category and tagged ‘fiction’, ‘guilty’, and ‘mafia’.]

If you’d rather read it here, just read on! No hard feelings. The piece is in full below, with the prompts used, and some chat, at the end. Enjoy!

Forbidden Beauty

I’ll tell you how I died, and you can tell me why. The cause was simple enough: a fall from as great a height as the 13-story Lindenberg Building will wreak havoc with anyone’s structural integrity.

Excuse the jargon—even in death I’m a typical engineer. So how I got mixed up in all this is beyond me.

It started when I met Grace, the born-again Christian evangelist, behind the scenes on her show. I was there advising the production company on the new stage they were building specifically for Grace’s energetic and dramatic performances. She used ‘the power of God’ to heal the sick and crippled live on prime-time TV, and to bring in millions of dollars in pledges, naturally.

Of course, Grace was as beautiful and charming as you’d expect, but she was a celebrity, you know? At first, I thought nothing of my crush. But as the weeks past, and we saw each other more and more, I started to get the impression Grace felt the same way.

One day, I let my touch linger on her arm a moment too long. She turned, looked me square in the eyes, and mouthed, “Patience.” I didn’t need to wait long. The next day, she invited me for a drink after work in a discreet bar downtown. From there, a chauffeur took us back to her place. The night was a first for me, but not for Grace, I learned.

All of this did not sit well with the man about town: Jack “White Baby” Lindenberg, head of the Faith Network Guild. It was his money, or his family’s, that ultimately funded Grace’s show, and that was no coincidence. He’d apparently had his eye on her from the start, and well before I arrived on the scene. I was told by reliable witnesses she had not reciprocated. It was one of those reliable witnesses, I’ve no doubt, who also took news of my blossoming romance with Grace back to Jack.

Someone had seen us backstage, snatching a kiss between shoots. We heard them scuttle off, but didn’t see who. We laughed it off.

A day later I found myself invited up to Jack’s penthouse apartment atop the Lindenberg Building where the studio was housed. After a few drinks from his extensive collection, Jack invited me out to the roof to ‘admire the view’.

“Sure is a beautiful sight,” he mused as we looked out over the city. “I love beauty, you know? I’ll do anything to keep hold of it.”

The statement sounded odd, and I turned and searched Jack’s face with my eyes. I knew he didn’t like people looking at him, given the skin disfigurement that earned him his nickname—a curiosity in a noble black family. But I figured I was in too deep anyway.

There was cold resolve in those eyes. A bodyguard stepped from the shadows.

“I’m sorry, Angie,” he said to me as the hulking great man approached. “But I can’t let you take her.”

[502 words]

[prompts: “It’s a boy!”; from a great height; Grace, the born-again Christian; Jack “White Baby” Lindenberg, head of the [] guild]

[Once again, this is the result of a bit of friendly competition between me, my housemate, and our latest competitor, his girlfriend. Find the full explanation with the first piece I wrote, Division. We added a few new prompts to the disc, drew four again, and gave ourselves around 15 minutes—the buzzer this time was when a friend we were expecting rang the doorbell. The eagle-eyed among you will notice I missed a prompt! So I may or may not be DQ’d. Still, hope you enjoyed it!]

[I won’t be putting my housemate’s entry on here, because it’s his, so I’ll just give you the Vocal link. Of course, reading his and not mine on Vocal puts him ahead in our competition, so if you read his, please at least click through to mine here :)]



For Victoria

The excitement of new, the remembrance of old

The subtle advance or like lightning so bold

It can strike anytime and can hit anyone

And when it begins it cannot be undone

Irreversible, undeniable

And no matter what you try it will

Surround you, astound you

Above all it will confound you

Under its spell even saints will lie

Kings abdicate, the heartless cry

It pounds like a drum, a beat through the chest

And once it starts up the drummer won’t rest

It will drive you to madness, a voice in your head

But god if it stopped you would rather be dead

The song without lyrics, carefree it will rise

Out of pages and hearts like new-born butterflies

On paper-thin wings they bring hope to us all

To wait for the day, when in love we will fall


Trying out Vocal [Getting paid to write stuff!]


Heard of it? Vocal’s a publishing site that rewards its authors for how well their content performs. You can find it here: https://vocal.media/

Anyway, my housemate and I had a little short story competition this weekend based on a few prompts, and we decided the only fair way to judge art was, of course, to monetise it.

So I’ve signed up (he already had an account) and we’ve each stuck our stories on there.

You can check them out here:


The Brightest Star

And we’ll get stats on views! And very small amounts of cash!

What do you think of the pieces, the site, the idea? Let me know 🙂


After the rain

The world around me feels decaying

stifled full of Life and green.

Leaves on stems on moss on grass:

A mass, a wait of years it seems.

The reign is over,

mist lighter than my shadow, shallow

when drops from tree tops are thicker, heavy with expectance.

I move as they fall, their energy is mine.

The Thunder left them quivering, He will be back in time.

‘til then I roll and duck, and die,

as in my imagination trees collapse and

roll themselves to paper and bound I draw my last: A scene

beyond idyllic, the canvas captured quick, a scene

with no-one in it, their lives would ruin it.

MNiS after the rain