Downstairs is a boy without a dream.
I tried giving him an early birthday present,
But he just told me to give it to the poor.
I never got around to it.

Across from me is a single mother.
I took her out to dinner and she got all dressed up.
On the way home she had to pick up medicine,
Her son had the flu.

Next to me is a widower,
I asked him about his mumblings,
To which he asked me about mine. I didn’t mumble.
I knew he had fought in the war.

Above me lives the landlord alone.
Today he jacked up the rent in a rage,
I paid it with a smile and wished him well.
Not sure why.


I could smell them first.

The moist musk crept towards me effortlessly over the melting glacier.

Thick and pungent, they smelled of rot and decay. Ancient things barely preserved; awoken by the tiniest of trickles, deep in the heart of the ice.

They had tracked me for days; ran me ragged; used me up just to keep away from that horrid smell. Yet over the unending white expanse I saw them, shambling figures in the distance. I was encircled; cut off; closed in.

Kneeling in despair, I wretched, the primal sound the only grace my frosted ears had caught for days. I was high on adrenaline; shaking, terrified, alone; everything was sharp; hard and true, and every dreaded step towards me was marked by a wave of noxious breath. They were the tide, come to bury me away; to silence me, to make me them.

The smell grew stronger, my nostrils flared and began to sting, water welled in my eyes, my heart desperately throbbing on, straining against coming death, torrents of terrified tears making little marks upon the snow. Sobbing and wailing, kneeling on the ground. Pathetic.

I could smell them coming, smell their aching limbs that carried eager fingers; clumsy oafish talons that had an only want.

Now I shook quietly. Their figures seemed no larger, though they were closer; my straining ears heard their slow shamble, a rhythmic symphony that brought them closer. A last hope lay heavy in my jacket; an escape, a last chance. I reached for my flare gun.

The unbearable weight pressed down on me; the fear shook my hands to uselessness; the cold twisted and warped them; I scratched desperately at the pocket, screaming, sobbing, pleading for the gun to fall out.

They were close now, though I dare not look up; I scrabbled with frozen hands, pushing through the suffocating odour that poured like steam over the tundra, engulfing me.

I couldn’t pick it up. I smashed my hands angrily into the ground, wretching again, crying.

There would be no escape.

Alone. Encircled.

Shadows on the ground; a thick, heavy weight upon my head; the tiny tremors of which pressed me further into waking nightmare.


Gearing up for Halloween already? Preposterous. Inspired by the upcoming event hosted by TinyOwl Workshop & Southside Tearoom!

If you’re in Brisbane; write it in! Will be a cracker of a night.


Old Art

Twisting wooden sculptures squatted motionless on their stands,

spires of dead life, reaching through the fine dust, that settled like snow.

Footsteps through a house with no light; an unhappy dark, devoid of life.

Curtains drawn to keep out the sun.

Paintings without purpose.

Statues of forgotten people.

Jewelry, never worn.

Waiting to be sold.

New History

The soft rustling of autumn jacarandas swept down the street in a ripple, casting flecks of gold and brown upon the gentle breeze. We held hands, as we always did, the soft shuffle of our wool slippers matching old and weary heartbeats. Through the dim fog that laced my eyes I looked at her. I broke the stone facade that masked my face; lines breaking into motion at the corners of my eyes; life breathed into me, once again.

“You look so lovely.”

I think she smiled back, but I couldn’t be sure; yet I felt her hand tighten and squeeze. I knew she loved me; she always had.

We never saw the car; flying down the street, wheels screaming, smoke screening the windshield. We were invisible.

Death, and rebirth.

I met her when I was in high-school; we were the kind of kids you stayed away from; drop-kicks, vagabonds; no-gooders. My father had been imprisoned for hit and run; hers an alcoholic. We found refuge in each other though; amidst the awkward angst and misplaced fury, we felt real; human.

She looked at me with those big, brown eyes.

I feel like I’ve known you all my life.

I looked back, my vision clear.

I know what you mean.

We were married young. We lived a long, happy life.

She died before me.

I’ll find you in the next life.


And rebirth.


Written for BekindRewrite!

Mind Clutter

He was whisked through the hospital, leaving the doors swinging in a synchronized rhythm. The wheels on the trolley rattled along; clunky relics of a bygone era. We were in desperate need of an upgrade.

The nurses had him hooked to a power source when they burst into the ICU. The jack in his back sparked and fizzled; he was dying. I only needed a quick glance before untying the USB cable wrapped round my wrist. All doctors carried one. Just in case.

“Nurse! Open Virus, Malware and Spyware on the screen. Rachel!”

I looked at her; those glimmering brown eyes, that soft, translucent skin; only two more hours before we could be together. But I barked at her, all the same.

“Get a replacement harddrive ready. Do not plug until I say so!”

As my assistants raced around me like pavlovian dogs, I jammed the cord running from my laptop into his socket, just under his neck. 

Folders flashed on and off my screen; cardiovascular movement; lymph blockage; neuro-transmitter failure; all signs of a virus. He lay wheezing on the trolley as I sifted through his hardware.

A folder came up and I froze it, jamming my stubby, fleshy finger onto the keyboard. I needed an upgrade.


The most recent one was a smile; and that was all. Invasive, corrupting, debilitating; deadly.

“Son of a bitch. Nurse!”

She had the cord ready, running python-like from the lead cage, which housed a very, powerful piece of equipment.

“Wipe harddrive, run sweep, reboot.”

She looked at me coldly; her eyes nothing like Rachel’s: full of knowledge, power and impartial logic; but there was nothing there for me.

“Yes sir.”

Rachel came running in awkwardly, her small stumbles so human-like, so wonderful; elegant and graceful. Only the imperfect could love.


Written for BekindRewrite! Let me know what you thought of it; hopefully quality is making up for quantity, as Ancient History is a cruel and demanding mistress.

Thanks for reading!

Mountain Goat

A ferocious alpine gale roared past me, as if I was traversing up into the mouth of the mountain itself. All was white, save the bleak grey-brown path that I followed, alone, up and up, on and on. The quaint village that had so ill-prepared me was washed out of sight with an endless torrent of snow. No guide, no ropes; conquer alone, or not at all.

Their words, not mine.

The wind picked up, blossoming into a raging buffet that pinned me against the mountain like an ant; helpless and insignificant. If I could only but round the corner ahead, find shelter in some forgotten craggy inlet…

Warm but forceful nuzzling broke my intrepid thoughts. Twisting my head, I saw a small mountain goat, pinned behind me, but urging me on with small nudges of his head. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Charmed, I’m sure!

His eyes were wise; a trait only acquired through years of experience, that begot wit, and sarcasm.

“More like charmed, wouldn’t you say?”

His eyes caught the glint of my token; a small parting gift from the village, strapped tightly to my pack. The goats words were short and fleeting against the might of the mountain wind, and yet they filled me with hope and vigor, comradeship not unlike that found in those doomed to share a similar fate.

Pressing on, almost shoving aside the crackle and bite of the frost, we rounded the corner and took shelter in the small cave, forcing a fire into existence, sharing what supplies I had brought with my climbing partner. Half-way up a forsaken mountain; little food, little warmth; little indeed were our figures, stark against the vastness of the ridges, that too soon filled my dreams, with tales of a talking goat.



Written for Trifecta! If you haven’t already, be sure to check them out for groovy prompts and a fantastic community! Let me know what you thought, always appreciate criticism and help!