in scratches on cell wallswhen i was small
i thought of the people
fighting for their innocence
but ending up in jail -
now i am thinking,
'this is ironic'
solitary confinement and knowing
that innocence is hardly
Never Judge a Book by its Odour"I was somewhere along the banks of the Amazon river when I noticed the Stench. It was there that I noticed it, I say, but I'm sure it had been around ever since I disembarked from my balloon. It was a new place, and there were so many interesting new sights, sounds and smells that one presence in particular can sort of pass you by, you know?"
"Why did you notice the Stench just then?" I asked.
"Well, you see, it was the way the trees moved. There was a fair bit of wind, but when the Stench was there they really racketed around. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't notice it sooner. But I suppose I was distracted. After all, it's not every day y
BridgeThe woman fell asleep right away, helped by the injection. Katherine watched over her. She was sleeping very deeply, a bit too deep for the purpose. Katherine adjusted her machines, and the woman’s breath became less deep and faster. Yes. She was probably ready.
Katherine sat by the mattress’s end and closed her eyes.
She worked quickly. The webs weren’t too hard to weave, but concentration was heavily needed. She always had to stop herself from giving in the temptation of just appreciating the beautiful hue of the threads, shining in the dark, always slightly different from person to person. She touched them carefully, as if she was afraid to break them, and rearranged them.
The bridge took some time to form, but it gleamed beautifully in the darkness of space. Katherine waited. Soon, the woman’s dreams would begin flowing through it, and reach her.
She was a Dream Reader. As the name says, she read dreams. She created the bridge with those tiny thre
from sun to moon to oceanswe spent half the night having
drunken conversations about
the sun and stars and things
we couldn't help
the dizzying & blinding nature
of creatures too bold and bright for
cold blue eyes to bear.
yours were empty & though
glasses could be refilled,
it seemed they were never as
as they used to be.
we played a drinking game of who can tell the worst story,
of whose hand played in our downfall
of who or what were were truly
the poison of having spent too many years thinking
the world was not ours to conquer,
but the inevitable drop & pull
and the weight of things
for emptied bottles to hold
GarbageEvery morning, it was the same story. The little boy wandered hopefully into a dark alleyway before the sun even rose and he began to hunt through a dumpster for something to eat. Most of the time, he wasn't caught in the act, but if he happened to be unlucky, an angry man or woman would come out of a nearby abode and begin to scream at him. He didn't know what they were saying, but it was enough to scare him off and make him run away. He never looked back.
It wasn't enough that he had no place to turn to for the night uniformed men would often force him off a park bench at night or sometimes even patrol his sources of sustenance. But