We cry, with the throb of deception,
Because we’ve seen the tongue of deceit, without exception.
We cry, and we feel guilt,
Because we’ve spat the words of trickery ourselves, knowing what it would wilt.
And so, we speak in feathers of white, to cover our scarring words,
Even when we know white lies can so easily be tainted by the song of black birds.
But why can’t we speak in different shades of light?
Periwinkle lies, so soft and pure it would chirp with joy even through the darkest of nights,
Or navy lies, that, with its deep hue, would calm our harrowing thoughts.
And why not lie in shapes and spots?
Diamond lies, with their captivating clarity and sharp precision,
Sphere lies, the ones that may seem shallow, but offer solace in their gentle vision.…
...continue reading
It would be love after a few sights. Last Tuesday, she caught my eye again, and I caught hers back. I’ll probably ask her to prom – betraying the pact made with my two closest friends, to go together rather than with dates – but I need the confirmatory third or fourth sight of her. Then I’ll tell her that I fancy her.
With the frenzy of two months before prom dominating classroom and corridor conversation, our minds are occupied. We’re unusually busy. Much to our teachers’ dismay, we’re organising the detail of prom night – the before, the during, and the after; the whos and the wheres – rather than revising for our GCSE exams.
Most of us will be fine. The majority will pass or excel, then join chosen sixth form colleges, well on the way to university then career then retirement.…
...continue reading
What shook them loose from those grim days, news from my mother’s uncle domiciled in Australia, a firelight dream, some cinematic malarkey, a maggot, or just bad memories? Emotionally ransacked in hospital waiting rooms and cemeteries, the economy’s renewal slower than my mother’s stoic sighs, she read my great-uncle’s blue aerogrammes, creative non-fiction right to the thin pages’ edges and along the sides like ant trails. An example of English parsimony, or adventure? Did my parents visualise the journey as a magic carpet ride to exotica, wonderful wide skies the optimistic colour of those encouraging letters as their limit?
The taxi’s extravagance exiting their fed-up pennypinching continued with Paddington station’s ornate Victorian architecture but long train trips can invite retrospection’s sad trap. By the time we reached Liverpool’s Lime Street my father’s cheer had veered into lecturing me again, my compulsive cheekiness always getting under his skin. …
...continue reading
He stayed up all night excited to be sleeping under his own roof for the first time. After years of working overtime, living in cheap rentals with noisy roommates, driving a rusty car that limped from repair to repair and taking no vacations, he saved enough to put a down payment on a house. He got out of bed before sunrise and could not wait to start working on the yard. Unfamiliar with the rules of American suburbia, he did not want to awaken his neighbors and waited until he saw the first signs of activity on his quiet street. Emboldened, he went outside in the summer morning and was greeted by the rising din of neighborhood lawnmowers, leaf blowers and weed whackers. His neighbors waved from across the street and he felt for the first time that he had finally arrived.…
...continue reading
Limp leaves shudder
In cluttered puddles
Dead and brightly colored birds.
L. Noelle McLaughlin…
...continue reading
He sat perched in his old place, where he had sat a thousand times before. From that lofty height he turned and gazed upon the green patched floor. He saw all that there was to see; there the smoking chimneys and there the willow trees. Nothing could escape his gaze, there was nothing there he did not know. He knew the lanes, their bends and straights. He knew the hedges, farms and loam. He knew each cheerful homestead and each happy family. He knew the little streams and brooks, he knew each bird and tree.
This is my home he thought to himself, quite contentedly. Why is this not my native land, where all my life I’ve been? I could not leave, I never could, for other pastures green.…
...continue reading
After I killed my boyfriend, I hid his body in the basement, where he was swallowed by the stone, becoming nothing more than a shadow. Even in death, he finds ways to surprise me. Many nights, I wake to find him staring down at me, and I know he wants to kill me. But apparitions can do nothing but bloom on the walls like flowers, pleading to be noticed.
It’s never enough, but it’s all they have—and all he ever deserved. “At least you’re never alone,” I whisper to his silhouette. “Isn’t that something?” I’m not alone, either. Finally, completely, he belongs to me.
Killing him was an act of mercy; some might even call it fate. I did what was necessary to save him. I love him, and now, he finally understands how much.…
...continue reading