Haircut –
Waiting, for the next haircut,
Bothers I don’t remember, as water filled the air
This October, now I’m waiting
For my next impulse, the next
Time I feel a pulse of identity, something
Asks if I’m happy, dark in my ear,
As if I could stop myself, I think,
What’s been right, dulcet sound,
It hasn’t, giving forth,
Shadows say I have no right to know,
No, pause, no right,
And water collects in my hands.
Unrest –
Unrest for my hands, curves,
stroke the air,
Over and over they fold like waves,
Up to my neck, down to the page,
In pairs they shape the world.
The Knot –
I’m a knot, pulled, pulled,
Tighter, tighter,
Every day I’m sick,
Am I breathing?
Love Memories –
Love, I miss love, I miss fingers
I miss folds, and
Laughter is torture,
The shortest, sweetest, fading feeling.
Waste –
I’m not compelled to my own nature,
Love, martyrs made for saving, mending,
Love, moment’s search for feeling, kissing,
Scars, protect in showing, hiding,
Despair, daily name of memory.
Quiet Letter –
I want to rip it out of my skin,
Falsehoods, abominations,
Freedom has decided it’s in control and
Have I the strength, pushed to my knees,
Was it that I tried to stand?
Green mountain –
Green mountain,
Top, knee bent from under sheets almost
But soft from the grey sky,
Bursting pink, burning orange, freezing blue,
Melding, molding their undergrowth
The world, all that rises
Brain grows vines over stone cutting edge
What would it be without you?
Disturbed –
Walking to the car
Brushed, surprise, a thought or
A spiderweb catches, on my leg,
Feels as though it should slip past but
It doesn’t, walking,
Cold droplet strikes my shoulder or
Another moment, no longer watching the path
In front of me, blurred,
A falling leaf at my chest, change’s embrace, or
A dull pain.
Heat of an Incandescent –
Heated bones flex, live wire veins,
Blue light, black heat,
Slow completing painting of
A dark room, and two humans.
On the wall twenty colours,
On the heart, uptime,
Fingers plug circuit breakers,
Pain is a flash, iris depth, then
The venom withdraws, pressed to night comfort form that
Searches each tear in lamp-light.
Guarding, quiet hands,
Arrest my sight, loving touch,
Cold and homely black.
Lacquer on my hands,
Smells of love and death, or else,
It has no likeness.
The pen twirls in dance,
Fumbling in wait, mine are
Novice fingers, -crash!
Word count: 954
The Life Lost – a short story by Ethan Cross
Something feels wrong.
Lytha stopped, the bucket in her right hand whirling in irritation. Her stance was set rigid, leaving no trace of influence to the surrounding forest breeze and agitated liquid. The floor was a fabric of grass and moss that hung like curtains to each tree’s snaking roots.
It’s so quiet here. Lytha’s thoughts searched out for something in her surroundings to conceal her air of unease.
Like always.
Dark, sea-green light blanketed everything, pulling closer the seams where the shifting, living leaves met the ground. The whole forest looked to be underwater, blunt and ancient rocks rupturing out from underneath their wooden netting in sad and storm-touched color.
Another sound. Her skin pricked.
Lytha spun but saw nothing, more of the water finding its sweet escape to the forest floor. Each breath grew louder till they reached thundering intensity. Her left hand shook, resting at her chest, while her right shifted the handle between her fingers.
I’m fine, if worst comes to worst…
Sunlight bloomed, finding its way to the brilliant canopy mid-thought. It slipped with grace through each leaf’s curves and points to pierce the somber air, loose strands wandering across lingering dust particles. All at once the light became a painting, giving life to the wings of golden insects and raising grand spires of crumbling sandstone. Lytha could only stand and watch as they tumbled through the picture, and the pillars! They seemed to crumble without loss, listless, leaving the remnants of broken hourglasses like waterfalls. All at once the magic of the woods manifested to an awe-striking glimpse.
Right. This… empty peace seemed to sink into her heart like a stone.
I forgot this.
God It’s chilly, her fingers reached out for her arms and she held herself, steps feathered as she approached the creek from a forest ridge.
The memory of the sound had vanished as she had left the clearing, each movement kissed by reluctance as she had turned, legs then hips, shoulders then head, towards the nearby sound of running water.
Not that I’d need a coat for much longer anyway. Lytha paused as she reached the edge, recalling her directions.
Follow the creek, then…
A sudden breeze, cold. It took the forest by surprise, suffocating the half silence around her.
Turn at the path into the bamboo. Right. She passed the bucket from one hand to the other and stretched her chilled, aching fingers.
Simple.
It was strangely beautiful for the common object that it was. It’s carvings were more an art form of wooden embroidery, and their eery depth felt dangerous. Like a siren song, she had thought after she first found it.
But that was a long time ago.
Emotions came back to her, hitting hard at her heart and stomach. Stepping out from underneath the leaves her skin met amber, and Lytha shuddered as she felt it sing to her cheeks and nurture the memories of warmth up the lengths of her exposed arms. Imprints of tears gathered around her eyes. Her muscles danced about, unsure, restless.
Then, the sound of a footstep in water. Lytha jolted and her chest went hollow. All of a sudden her head became a tangle of breaths and heartbeats, smothering the voices and chimes of the creek.
Her hand slid once across her cheek. Twice.
Time to go.
Again, she had seen nothing.
The forest sounds had returned and faded once again as she had left the gentle company of water and sun to the path. They were now fragmented, the floor only a blanket of fallen leaves, and the kiss of heat lost far above her as she took up in curves through the silent forest.
Again and again the bucket had changed hands as she walked.
Trees thinned and Lytha crossed from leaves to earth. Chiseled into the side of the mountain she stood like a figurine. Neighbouring mountains grew up past the clouds, and the clouds wound their grief-stricken gray above all else.
Lytha crossed to the weathered stone wall and lowered herself to the smooth ground. Leaves and dirt fell scattered across the platform, characters of the land that had stuck themselves to each space and fracture in the spiraling carvings. Ferns grew from ledges, given view of the falling spring water that graced the shrine with elemental subtext.
She spent some moments in silence, gazing up to the sky and feeling her breath steady. The altitude seemed to disconnect the rest of the world. Thunder cried. Lytha fixed her vision in front of her and lost focus.
“Troubled?” a voice asked.
She shut her eyes.
“You were ready for this, remember?”
The bucket had begun emitting whispers like a tuning fork. Its form appeared to her without her having to look at it, where it was, the shadow it cast.
I was.
Lytha’s shirt rippled about her waist like lilium petals.
“You made it.” the voice again.
“Now it’s time.”
I-, I don’t want to go. Soft. Tears fell across her eyes and cheeks.
And rain. Only a drop. She had been oblivious to the gathering wind and water spots.
“Then don’t.” not aggressive, but impartial.
Stupid… Her blood roared within her, eyes screaming behind their lids. Her body became crowded, spikes, fire, heat.
I didn’t forget, how could I-
The drums of thunder. Then emptiness felt as though it would consume her.
Even if I wanted to forget.
Lytha’s eyes opened and turned to her right. Every muscle tensed and she drew still. More raindrops. They clung to her hands as she brushed them back through her hair. A ripple shook the water in the bucket as she reached to draw it before her.
Even if I wanted to.
There’s more coming soon.