The Gecko felt depressed at his social options as he basked in the sunshine, all alone, just as he liked it.
Do nothing and nothing changes.
Your struggle is your story.
Bored in class.
So we improvised.
She put herself in uncomfortable situations.
She grew strong inside.
I dreamed it.
I believed it.
I didn’t do it.
I woke up. Thought it was Sunday.
It was Monday.
-I’m not perfect.
-You are to me.
Enjoy it. Dislike it. Give up. No.
Don’t give up.
“Your grammar is bad.” said the teacher to the young boy.
Later, while the young boy ate hot stew and potatoes at home, he asked his parents why Grandma was bad.
If I can’t stop it.
I must adapt to it.
The perfectionist abandoned
perfection because nothing
was ever quite rigth.
Sat by the fire he sank further into his velvet armchair. He wanted a moment to truly enjoy it but his head was disorder and elsewhere. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked onwards, striking half past ten and then eleven. How he hated the chimes when they were numerous, especially if he was listening to the radio. Outside the world was silent; the earth knew and understood this silence as did the cold mud as did the tree: stripped of its colour yet not of its knowledge. So he sat by the fire, the perfect image of winter contentment, like a painting, yet he wasn’t content – his thoughts were the sparks leaping to the hearth, each glowing ember replacing another. All that was needed was a pause, a counting of breaths and he too could join them all, the fire, the earth, the mud and the tree, be the man in a painting in a state of enduring wisdom.
The moon rose as she watched from her window; the city lit up like golden jewels and the winter sky clear, fresh and sharp and only those with proof against it – like her – were able to enjoy it. There were many questions she asked herself, what was her reason for being there? Was one of them. A bug crawling up the window caught the attention of the cat sprawled on the rug below her and in the street a car horn sounded, a couple talked outside a bar – should we walk home or get a taxi? She watched them, she longed to be them, locked in her room, locked in her house. What was her reason for being there? Surely not to suffer like this, surely not to be a prisoner in her own house. The moon rose further still and played in a small cloud, the city became darker yet more golden but she didn’t move. She only questioned her reason for being there rather than being there.
Things that get their attention:
The sound of a finished crisp packet
A sudden movement of my foot
The seagulls in the morning
The swifts at dusk
A fruit fly in the kitchen
The westerly wind
The easterly wind
The lift coming up
The sound of the other one eating
The sound of the other one pooing
The sound of the other one investigating
The sound of a finished crisp packet
A sudden jolt
Fight or flight?
For I am toast
well and truly
I really love watching TV but last night I got my verbs mixed up and washed the TV instead. It was soon covered in soap and stopped working. With nothing to do I picked up a book that was sitting on a nearby shelf and started to read. I found myself transported into another world and all because I had washed the T.V by mistake. Now I’m going to read everyday because I can take this other world with me wherever I go. Reading is great.
Sometimes you sting me to tears
as I cut through your sharp layers
and then you sizzle gently in hot oil
leading my senses to sweat and uncoil
anna to my left
anna to my right
anna to me pressed
anna to me tight
The fans she had of many colours were useful for keeping her cool before and after the performance but it was the other type of fans she longed for, as once again, only one or two seats were filled for the show.
A captive audience were held captive by one of the actors who was imprisoned in his own delirium and belief that he was doing the right thing when in actual fact he was quite obviously doing the wrong thing. Nobody was hurt and everyone got out of the theatre unscathed.