The whole joke about dragons is that by the time you slay them, they are already dead.

I think that for so long I was waiting in suspense. If I finish this, then I can do that and that and that. A whole life on hold isn’t a life at all.

Dragons can’t stop anyone who means to accomplish their task.


Kite Dreams

He always wanted to fly a kite.

Darius imagined that either he would fly his kite, or let the string twine round his throat. Perhaps it was a physical euphemism for a subconscious connection to his plight.

Fly or die.

The beach stretches for miles to the right. The wild woods to the left. Breezes from the ocean swiftly float mist from the churning waves. The trees whisper their acquiescence in a lullaby of sorrow.

Darius rolls into the sand, combing through his fingers the granules of gold and silence. Flick back the sands of twenty years, and he was just a boy sprinting through the waves. Now, he is a man. A young man, struggling to find the meaning of life. The thread of destiny. What is there, in this life, for him?


Jonas strokes Darius’ cheek, a brush of sweet everlasting pain. A light kiss, the pressure of skin on skin.

Wrap it up and give it away. All the worry, all the concern. The decisions that every second demand…


Stumbling through the city lights, the stench of rot and filth permeates the air as Darius slides past the metal grates. Wrapped in fear and shame, the shivers of delicious pain floats above the struggles and display. His breath sucks in the poison and thinks it paradise.

He knows better now. But too late.

Jonas’ arms wrap around Darius’ shoulders. An embrace nearly claustrophobic now… He can’t seem to escape -but then, does he even want to? Smart moves need to be made, can he manage to place the proper bets?

Weeping, Darius slides to his knees, clasping Jonas’ knees in a grip so desperate, the denim fabric crinkles in the way only ironing can resolve. Shuddering sobs vibrate through his spine bowing in supplication -or perhaps…


Jonas stands silently, and somehow, that silence is worse than rejection. Worse than extracting organs from his ribcage and cracking his remaining bones despite turning to dust by the rejection. Filling the void never seemed so difficult as in those moments when Darius had felt needed, wanted, desired, determined-


Those days are gone, long gone. And now he has become the ‘other woman’.

Oh, how he will flay himself later. How he will self-flagellate.

Hold, then release.


Jonas strides away, the echo of his words ringing in Darius’ ears like the tremors of an approaching earthquake. Increasing aptitude, inherent longitude. And the sweet scent of decay and ozone taints the air.

Lightning has just killed his dreams.

Darius stands in the window. The wind and the storm blow detritus and trash up and down the streets. The remnants of his relationship blow across his mind.

The final resolution and last fantasy dances in the drifting heaps as they form, dissolve, and recongregate.

Just the cold glass, a rain-struck view, and his blatant anguish remain.



Got issues? Don’t we all…

Criticism doesn’t do anything but breed resentment and demoralization. Rather than criticize, consider the power of gentle reminders and recognition of the good actions taken. The right decisions made and executed.

Continue reading Got issues? Don’t we all…

A Shepherd

Through the lens of internal interpretation, this is how I had perceived the day.

She spoke, words blasted beyond pain. Hollowed from repetition, her fragile facade an onion skin away from crumbling into nothing.

Her words lacked passion. Spark. Vitality’s chamber a dry echo of a long empty well.

I wondered how many times she has been here. On this stage, before this crowd. Saying these words.

These… empty words. Words so meaningful, yet barren of life.

This is not a call to action. This is a funeral.

We remember the smile of a man we never met, the words we never heard him say. We relive his moments, moments that we’ve never seen.

Experience his life, we’ve never lived.

She does a  decent job at resurrection. But, it’s zombified. Distorted. Jerky motion of a smooth existence. Recounting words, through the echo of grief, a skewed mirror of reflection.

Did no one see it? The wraith in her shadow, faded in the spotlights, but still present. Tracking her movements, a forlorn creature of tortured physique.

Could no one see it?

The line stretches away. Shuffle step, shuffle step. We wait our turn to approach. To pay our respects. To pay our money.

Soulless ghouls.

I watch her hands, worn and beginning to wrinkle, as they flow steadily across the pages. Tens of thousands of hundreds. Page after page, I can see her fingers inking the pages, word after word on a sea of white. As I get closer, I spot the weariness in her bearing, like a crushing weight on her once strong shoulders. Her hair has begun to fade to gray and wisps of white interlaced the remaining blond.

I watch her with morbid curiosity, staring with an acute fascination. Is this… is this what suffering looks like?

So vacant. Absent.

An automation.

I’m surprised when it’s my turn, feels like forever in the brief span of time. Taking the book, I slide it onto the table in front of her. She doesn’t even meet my eyes, her hands already moving to begin the ritual engraved into muscle memory.

“What do you want it to say?” The false vibrancy is gone, stripped away. Enamel worn away.

You poor soul. “Write ‘_________________________________’.”

Her hands move upon the page. Mechanical.

I see it now. The wraith. A ghost of her.

She has been climbing that stage for years. Saying word after word. Writing page after page.

Falling on deaf ears. Ears of stagnation, rather than activation.

She’s been carrying her son, all these miles. Bandying him in front of the world. At first, because it felt right. Then, because she was told it was right. But now the conviction’s gone. And she’s tired.

Tired of carrying the corpse of her dead son like a banner before the masses.

Pen stroke complete, Mrs Shepherd hands back my book, her eyes staring past me, to the line of endless book signings, eternal struggle, constant battle.

She will not rest.


Her son… is gone.