To dance with the wind…

‘Twas only a game, merely a show-

when many a child flew off into the night.

Poor Mary.

Under the trees and through dense foliage.

The leaves inked with the dead of night

and trunks pushing the shadows with all their might.

Poor Mary pale as the placid moonlight.

Once upon a time, there was a village set in a wood so fine and dense with opportunity. A night of gale and devils dew: a possibility unseen by the villagers, happy and content behind a veil of ivy and leaves. As every man and women slept peacefully in their beds; the children fitted and fretted instead. For just beyond every window pane, the wind playfully tapped and danced away.

The days grew long for tired wee boys and girls. “We’ll make a plan” She said. “When heads hit pillows let feet hit soil as we dance with the wind and air.” So it was done, and when daylight hours were gone, children would play in crystal air.

Cold: the ground was cold on their bare feet. Patiently they waited.

The crisp air embraced them all with clawed hands and springing feet. They played and whirled and whistled through the night. Around and around with each new gust; further and further, through brambles and logs. Glistening eyes and pointed red lips. The night gave way to new places and noises but a bubble and a gurgle broke through their senses.

‘Pon reaching the river they all turned on home, for the cold was upon them and the day was arriving. So they all left; all but one. The child whirled and bound so caught in the web of dark beauty and cold caress. But slow the water did make you and fast was the wind. Breathe child, breathe.

Poor Mary.

(Author’s note: this is one of the first ever short stories I was able to finish, having only ever written poetry before hand. It was done as part of an assessment about 4 years ago in school and this is the unedited version (sorry), I’ve never been a confident writer but hopefully I’ve improved since then and fingers crossed this will inspire me to write more short stories and improve my writing- anyway I’ll stop blabbering now and thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed! 🙂 )



Figures moved like smoke in low light,

seeming to float gracefully

in endless circles lost

to the feeling of the air

and breath on their skin-

air that smelt of damp

and breath perfumed

with the whispers of broken promises.

Faces passed blank and unfeeling,

their eyes glazed over with tears

that never rolled down

and met with the pavement like the rain that fell,

persistent and cold, all around them.

I moved with the crowd,

their distant minds as sweet as first love

and their bodily nearness

sickening as an embrace.

Inhaling deeply ,

I felt every particle of chemical pollution

that danced around us

and burned surrender in to our flesh,

melding us into one.


There are words left
Unspoken on your lips,
Written like the lipstick
of some hidden lover.
A crimson hue-
Rich as wine
and just as potent
too. It’s in your heart,
moving with every beat
further through you,
circling, getting richer
with time, ‘til the strength
of it scorns you
and pulses, white
hot, in your veins.

Your heart slows
in anticipation,
watching, waiting.
“Oh, what a delicious burn.”
It has you delirious,
drunk and craving more.
The minds a slave
to the heart
my dear,
and the heart’s a wicked fiend.

Sub Rose/ Under the Rose

Though his lips and their careful caress,
He fills my lungs with his fragrant breath,
And when he parted, it was then that I felt
The small seed lodged deep within my chest.

The stem would eventually begin to wrap
And bind my breath in loving clasp,
And when the leaves would begin to sprout
They’d leave me panting, tickled by the gentlest
of motions. And the crimson petals where a beauty
better left unspoken. But in time the rose would mature,
and become taut over my tender lungs. It would be then
that I would feel the thorns that marred in silence my passions and desires,
and how the perfume of such a sweet flower would burn
my throat and punish my chest every inhale to the very next.

The finger of Harpocrates placed upon my lips
So I could watch with bated breath
The man who silenced me live and love again.
We are forgotten, only when the last root withers.


There’s something beautiful in a tear,
the salty water formed into  a perfect sphere-
that smoulders with all the light that it takes from the room
to burn crystal tracks down your skin, ’til you glow
iridescent, sadness marked in every contour of your face.
It’s almost miraculous how the simpleness of that tear
can transform you and paint the nectar of the gods,
weaving it into your being. And how the once salty taste
of ones own woe can become ambrosia on the tongue
that places you on a marble throne among the immortal,
so you weep to feel more alive than you’ve ever felt.
Because when you weep you are above mortal suffering,
you are free of the confines of the human soul,
and emotion is none, because in heaven love is plentiful
and love is free.
So you watch that small miracle fall from your face,
and roll sweet nectar down your arm, to settle in the dark angry flesh
of your marred wrist- to seal your holy demise.


He stands at the alter, one with the shadows.

She walks down the aisle, bathed in the light of a pure white dress.

Iridescent, his skin waned pale like moonlight,

enchanting you with his haunting beauty, the promise of secrets

on dark and cold nights.

The sun and all its bounty moved along her mahogany skin,

where the buds where free to flower and where leaves came to

grow, colour and fall.

She pushed the obsidian lock from his brooding brow and he noticed

now, how the gold of her hair moved with ruby wine

in the pall of his twilight.

His eyes shone red with the burn of loathing,

and decorated around her luminescent green eyes of life,

were crimson petals of passion and desire.

His lips were marred with destruction,

while her lips seemed drawn by the perfection of love.

On her finger he placed a sable serpent, that coiled,

crushed her delicate finger and sunk its teeth into her sweet flesh,

drawing youth from her waters. On his she placed a vine

that wound gently and dug its roots under his skin

to drink from his tainted stream.

In blood were they joined.

But, through kiss and the careful caress of their bodies onto the other,

they were one.




Child of innocence

She sleeps in the woods,
Curled up snug
In a tight little ball.

The trees surround her.
The canopy high and dense
And dark.
Like a thick blanket
Woven with loving care,
Each strand gently turned and tucked
Over the other,
By the hands of her mother.
She is safe from;
The wind, the hot and the cold,
The rain and the snow,
The sun and the moon,
Where under this blanket
She softly sighs.

Though the trees prosper,
There is little else but trunks and leaves,
And that thick canopy.
In the spring time, life`s just the same,
The green and the brown is
All that is seen,
No cries of new-birth can be heard
Over the din-
That awful silence.


And even if
There were a whole
Parade of colourful flowers
To be seen,
Or a world of creatures
And life to be heard,
Still she would not open her eyes-
Safe as she is,
Bundled up so tight.

And in this forest,
This magical forest,
Every root can be seen.
No need to go deeper
When all that they need
Is right on the surface,
Plainly seen.
On the edge of the wood
A tree slowly dies.

She sleeps in the woods,
Curled up snug
In a tight little ball.
But if you come closer,
Or place your hand upon her skin,
There you’ll find
How her skin folds
Over itself and sinks
Into her flesh,
All worn and thin.