Drag

No waste, no waste. Every breath counts.

Inhale exhale inhale.

No waste, can’t waste. Don’t let it burn up unused. It’s such a luxury.

A few minutes and then it’s gone. A few moments of warmth in the lungs. A few moments of warmth against the cold of the world.

What a waste. I’ll miss it when it’s gone.

I, By


I work next to the smell of the sea. 

And sometimes I think that I can understand, just a little, the longing sailors feel when separated from the ocean. 

I grew up next to the sea. 

I know the sound of waves, of gulls, of water slapping the side of boats. 

I grew up watching the sea. 

To be inland, I feel a sense of loss. As if a vital part of me is missing. That sense of endlessness has disappeared. 

The Window

Christine Fichtenr Window

It’s a day where all you do is sit in the window and watch the wind blow through the trees.

Where the rustling is accompanied by your music.

Where your cat curls up on your lap and sleeps the hours away.

Where you can look over at your partner and share a smile that conveys all your love.

Where the sun grows golden among the green of the trees.

Where perhaps you read, or sketch, or write.

Where all the words you speak are soft in nature and in tone.

Where there is tea that steams in warm cups.

Where the day passes gently, busy outside, but calm in the bubble of your window.

—-

Happy Monday! I hope you all had a wonderful weekend.

That is

A presence, everlasting.

Love and wisdom. Knowledge in their eyes.

With each word, we change. Slightly, subtly.

Sometimes it is blood that binds us. Sometimes it is choice. Love transcends blood; cements what choice connects.

Nature’s hold is tangible in the increasing lines and slowing motions. But even She does not hold back our souls.

Sometimes a single glance. A clasping of hands.

“I know.”

Is all that is needed.

Devour

“Whatever it takes,” he nodded to himself. “Can’t be weighed down with concerns about others. Won’t get anywhere like that.” His eyes strayed to the golden shimmer that was splayed next to the red counter. It was a number larger than anyone had ever had. But not enough. It was never enough. He always needed more. Because stopping meant losing. Stopping meant someone would catch up.

   There was a chime. The number flickered. Six billion nine hundred million ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. His smile widened. The golden number ticked upwards. He glanced back at the red numbers. He had done it. No one would ever be as rich as he was. He was the ultimate. He had everything. The freedom to do whatever he wanted, the power to control the world.

   Almost. The numbers leered. There was more. There was still more he could do. His movements stilled. He stared at the golden numbers that beamed his pride and obsession. Almost.

—-

A small excerpt of a flash fiction I am working on. Exploring the depths of greed.

Her Skin Held Time

I could feel time in her skin.

It was soft and dry and thin like the skeleton of a leaf half decayed.

It told me of days and months and years that had all passed. It told me that more had passed than would come.

It told me to hold her close and treasure her.

For Sale

“Hello?” He called out, hoping a guard would walk by. “There must be some mistake. I shouldn’t be here. Hello? Let me talk to the police. Let me call my family. I don’t even know why I’m here. You can’t keep me here like this!” He waited, but his voice had been lost in the cacophony of the prison.

He heard a laugh and looked across at the opposite cell. There was a woman lounging there. She was pretty but in a kind of unremarkable way. Someone you’d notice once but not think about twice.

“Sure they can. And they will. And you should enjoy it while you can,” she motioned around her. “What comes after is much, much worse. We have it pretty good here. If you’re lucky, you’ll be here a while.”

—-

I’ve been working on a short story about the future of technology and the evolution of the black market and corruption. It’s a work in progress, but I figured I’d post a tidbit here. 

Treasure

If I didn’t know that a heart pumped blood, what would I imagine to be a heartbeat?
Would I think it a drum, played by my soul,
Or a timer, ticking, counting down to my last breath?
Would I think it the footsteps of an angel, keeping pace with my life,
Or perhaps the clinking of gears that run my body, stuttering along until my death?
Would I think it the pounding of a demon, trying to free its sins from the cage of my flesh and bones,
Or the sound of the war that constantly ravages my mind?
Would I think it thunder that accompanies the storming of emotions that make my body their home,
Or the impatient tapping of a deity, displeased with my choices?
Would I think it the ancient language of all beings, its meanings obscure and lost in the world of technology,
Or the resolute beating of the wings of my spirit, driving me ever onwards?

Would I never know that it was so very important,
Or would I know instinctively, every time I gasped for breath and it responded, every time it clenched, every time it felt it would burst with emotion,

Would I treasure my heart the way I do now?

—-

It’s been a while. I hope you are all doing well in this new year.

Study

Everyone told him that studying would make him smarter. They said that it would help him understand concepts he could not yet grasp.

So he studied. He studied very hard.

He studied the twitching limbs and curling fingers. He studied the way the bodies curled inwards, away from the gleaming metal. He studied the way blood ran so similar to their tears.

He observed like in science class. He repeated his experiments, over and over. And when he still could not understand, he began to broaden his observations.

He started listening. To the screaming and the begging, the crying and the desperate pleas. But nothing, not a stir.

He watched as they slowly awoke, their looks running from confusion to horror at the sight of blood and rotting corpses – the failed experiments – that littered the room. Faces were, he realized, very strong indicators of emotions. They twisted and contorted in an acrobat of expression. But stronger still, he found, were the eyes. They showed their fear, their pain, and for some, in the end, their resignation. He kept those ones in a jar, but they had lost their emotions once he had removed them from the body. He could not understand why.

He also touched. Touched their shivering limbs, their quaking bodies, their warm blood, their cold corpses.  But it gave him none of the answers he sought. He learned only that they became quick to shy away from him when he approached, wriggling like bugs trapped in a spider’s web. Their chains would shake, clinking, but they were unable to flee as his hands drained them of their lives.

Finally he tasted. First their blood, for it was the same colour as his own, and he knew that all humans were made of the same materials. But it was metallic and nothing more. Then he tasted their tears, for they always cried when they felt strong emotions. They were salty, and it reminded him of the ocean’s devastation. But these people were small and weak and very soon they stopped crying and stopped moving at all.

A monster, they called him, but he could not understand. For he and they were all the same. Blood and limbs and beating hearts. So why did they spend their lives smiling and crying, while he wandered the days never needing to shift his expression and never able to create tears? It was something that puzzled him greatly.

He still, he figured, had much to learn. And studying, he hoped, would provide him with the answer.

—-

Happy Halloween!

Rhythm of the Clock

We are painted by time. Our souls the brushes guided by the hours and days and years. Our wrinkles, our scars, strokes of paint the colour of life.

Art that lasts the fleeting forever of our lifetimes.

As we age, we lose our obsession with perfection, and allow time to paint its abstract beauty. For we all lie down to the rhythm of the clock.

Lone

She saw it in her dreams. Only the stars provided life to the shadows that clung to its form. It was staring out over the lands like a king. But no howl would it answer. Instead it lowered its ears and slinked away as if chastised.

How she wished it would revert, back to its proud stance, beautiful even in its solitude. But it withdrew in exile, never to join in the calls of the others.

She longed to feel its fur bristle beneath her fingers. See its eyes sharpen upon her, perhaps seeing her as prey, or perhaps, though she knew it to be impossible, seeing her as a familiar presence.

Over forests she reached, but it remained just beyond her fingertips, no matter how hard she strained.

And she would wake, tears in her eyes, as it turned from her and faded away. Just a dream, tangible only in her heart.

—-

Very loosely based on a dream I had.