Fiction and poetry writing, recapturing the muse.
His compass saved him
from wandering aimlessly
amongst the sky.
He’d travelled East on the ground,
away from his home,
so now he headed West,
eyes aching from the bright
white and blue
that was never hidden.
Night fell before anything changed
and he hesitantly
laid on the clouds,
praying he wouldn’t
fall through as he slept.
Mid-morning he spotted a structure
in the distance
the sight making his heart soar.
The closer he got
his heart began to pound
at the enormous scale
of the building.
The air was thin,
his lungs not fully satisfied
whenever he took a breath.
When the beanstalk stopped growing
he climbed slowly, letting his
body adjust
until he broke above the clouds.
The brightness hurt his eyes,
blue and white
like a floating sea,
suspended and impossible.
He clung to the beanstalk
as he summoned his courage,
finally stepping onto the
unstable ground
and feeling an unreal lightness
in his steps
as the cloth kept him afloat,
bouncing on the ground.
He was here,
and now, finally,
he’d meet his Felicia.
A nickname
confirmed as real.
Instinct revealing the nature
we evolved into,
or perhaps adapted to
in order to be defined.
Felicia’s days had been long,
unbearably dull
and void of hope
since the day the beanstalk
had fallen.
She’d cut off communication with Jack,
too ashamed to reply,
but had still held a secret hope
that everything could return
to how it was.
Now the landers had cut that option
and once again the ground
was beyond her reach.
She took down Jack’s drawings,
too painful a reminder,
but couldn’t bear to throw them away.
Instead, she tried to continue,
seal her heart and dreams
and just exist.
There was no other choice left.
Fog is a ground cloud,
hiding the mysteries of the sky
that have fallen
but are too high,
too much
for those defined by gravity
to bear.
Rant with me to bond,
slag others off to win my trust,
don’t think about
when you’re not here
you are our subject,
our irk,
and we bond over
hating you.
But you will be at home,
enjoying life,
so perhaps you deserve it.
The injustice of expectation
to do what others do
and who I ignore
as they struggle
alone.
But reverse the roles
and all is wrong,
all must be corrected,
all must understand
how unfair this is.
Only then will I be
human again.
Calculate to create,
measure their mass
and deem if they’re suitable,
or if it’s time
to return them
to the mould.
Hinted moments that
lead to this fate,
explaining without showing
that the end hasn’t come,
that you lived on
and fulfilled your goals
while remembering
those that could not.
Stuck against a wall
of starvation and struggling hope,
witness the hand
hoping to save you,
who cannot contend with
the sticky hold
and smears the body apart
that it wished to free.
Was it better this way?
Scribbled Thoughts