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Greetings, from Edinburgh

The castle looms, a guardian angel

history surviving through centuries

medieval mingling with modernity

from a home to royals to a museum of ghosts

from the one o’clock gun firing for ships

to firing for tradition, gifting the present

a gunshot moment into the past

Bagpipes screech a valiant tale

soothing souls waiting for traffic to die

facing strangers on opposing roads

pipes shrill, lingering on a defiant note

cars slow, and stop as the song ends

ears vibrating, strangers switch sides

momentarily merging into a line

interlinking, like hands clasping together

creative writing, poem, poetry, writing

Maybe I Do Have Trust Issues

Slithering between bones

rippling through blood

he hugs, squeezing my heart

struggling to breathe

twisting in tangled knots

he strokes tears away

a trail of blue flakes

assuring it’s only a hug, an embrace

so why am I afraid?

Slowly loosening his grip

just enough to pinch, adjusting

to the red rope of his caress

a too tight necklace

covering purple fingerprints

grateful for the air he lets in –

maybe I do have trust issues.

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Late Spring

Predicting futures repeating into the past

this short season around your iris will everlast

Spicy earth drugs the air

wrapping around tentative tongues

Footsteps awaken puddles

as escaped muddy leaves

float under ripples of dancing trees

Your freckled, emerald eyes twinkle

alluring hopes to be and forgotten about

in this early summer, late spring.

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I Fell From the Ground and Landed in the Sky

My minds a forgotten doll

whose seams are ready to burst

as pills pop out of cottons cracks

prolonging the pounding

my heart sleeps in a dense grave

barely ringing chimes

disintegrating with every pump

wondering how many more times

my shell’s a crumbling coffin

no room to win in restriction

dust coats vision and bones are bitten

tongue can’t click conviction

my unspoken thoughts play

in opaque black silence

too tired to collect them

too hollow to try.

Too weak to push the lid

blow memories through the gap

and cry infront of strangers

maybe give directions

to find loose pins

doubting they could find a way

to stitch up the cracks in my dolls coffin.

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Leading to Hope

Leaving sand behind

along with dizzy sweats

parting the waves

limbs relaxing

sinking under cold comfort

lungs aching

after sucking too much air

stars waver, wriggling blurred directions

as water knots hair

sparks so close together

sealing the gap, leading to hope

maybe lines in roads do join up

creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

My Child Became a Voodoo Doll

I gave birth to a daughter covered in freckles. She used to get more food down herself than in her stomach. I was never able to remove the stains from her clothes. Maybe, I should have dressed her in black instead of white.
          As a child she’d grab as many felt tip pens her tiny hands could hold, and draw a rainbow of dot to dots along her flesh, and fill in her plain nails on her hands and toes.
          I was always repeating, “Don’t cover yourself in ink!”
          Then she grew older. She stopped colouring her skin and started splattering the colours on to her hair. Too many colours circled her face, so bright and mismatched. Why did she choose to paint orange next to green? And yellow next to pink? It didn’t make sense.
          I told her, “Tidy up your appearance and wash your hair! You look idiotic.”
         Time passed and I noticed my child was reversing her white and black clothes into string. After too many trips down the steps, too many traps around objects and too many tangles in locks, I bought my daughter a needle.
        “Fix the holes in your clothes and get rid of the spare strings. You should treat the clothes I buy you better!”
          My child worked hard for days but the enormous yarn, and the ceiling of destroyed clothes kept her in her room for weeks. I couldn’t recall the last time I heard her voice, so I unknotted the door open and crept in.
           “Where are you?” I left the door open.
           All around me were messy piles of unrepairable clothes, strings of scribbles along the floor. My child slumped in her bed, using the needle I bought to stitch fraying strings, of different sizes, colours, and of dot to dots through her skin. No black and white were in sight.
            I cried as I realised my daughter resembled a Voodoo Doll. Why would she turn herself into one? I couldn’t guess which freckles were the start or the end of a sew. She stared towards the door. I searched for vitality but I could only see my reflection on the surface of her black, marbled eyes.

creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

The Street Below

On a twig outside their nest, the old Lovebirds snuggle while observing the neighbours below.

They tweet good morning to the Tortoises who slowly walk down the street, carrying too much knowledge on their backs of all the animals past. They try in vain to calm their pupils; Young Monkeys swinging between trees and lampposts, leaving their wrinkling teachers behind as they skip down the street, pulling each others tails. 

Out of the corner of beady eyes, further down the path, the couple spot a family of snakes shedding their skins down the drain before slithering back to their home, leaving no trail of their former selves behind. Across the road, a young Parrot couple bicker, the argument goes round in circles as they continue to repeat each other, feathers ruffling in frustration.

Then a few houses along the street, the Guinea Pig den grab the old couples attention, causing their feathers to quiver and their beaks to hang open as they watch them having an orgy through the window. Out of the way of the view, their children play in the dirt, caring less than other animals would, about who they belong to. Muttering under their beaks, about the morality of other species, the old birds turn away glad, in a way, the obscene mating can only be seen and not heard, unlike the squawking Parrots down the road.

The Lovebirds snuggle closer, pondering on where they should move to next. They would need to scout a new area, try and find a politer place to set up their nest. But then a small feather waves and lands at their feet. Their grandchildren hop down on another twig in front of them, clicking their beaks, tweeting stories of their own, not caring about what’s happening on the street below.

Photography by J.Broomhead

creative writing, poem, poetry, writing

Rivers Rocks

Sunlight sneaks through trees

creating gems with the river.

Birds sleep in newly made nests

comforted by woodlands subtle sounds.

Whispering leaves assures

the mermaid stretched on a rock,

that the air’s chill kisses, its caressing shivers

slyly beckoning her above ground

is how it expresses love.

With one hand she splashes water on her gills

while using the other to prod the dirt

like how a baby plays with sand.

Deers watch from a distance, silent

as the waters Princess draws lines in the land.

Her tail flaking, she closes her eyes

allowing air to stroke rebellion along her cheeks,

licking temptations along her waist –

She drops from the rock

hiding under the sun and waters diamonds

rippling back home,

mud stuck deep in her nails.


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Death’s Life

When Death was born Immortality died,

incurable illnesses encouraged Fear,

and humans clung to Life.

Few cradled Death willingly

and lost breath easily. Others hid from it

while some stood silently next to the cot’s bars,

torn between sickness and sympathy

for this strange creature which killed Immortality.

Death received the same tuition as the other abstracts

choosing to ignore Wisdom, yet scoffing,

and sometimes winning, against Logic.

Love’s efforts at coercion was always a disappointment,

Life refuses to be in the same room,

and the Sun shivers at its gloom.

Even Darkness, too disturbed

by the everlasting, unknown end

will not give Death a chance and be its friend.

Death’s lurking and lack of personality 

made others uneasy, so the Afterlife was fabricated;

It gladly and readily soothes

the paranoid, bitter and miserable mortals

but it’s an unknown ghost

to those indecisive individuals.  

Death won’t confirm this belief.

Why would it when it’s blamed for empty bodies 

and it’s existence is scorned?

Anger emboldens humans

to believe that Death lies.

The irony is that Death is immortal

and most of us want it to die.