I place his food in front of him,


I sit opposite,

He watches me eye up the razor scars across his wrists,

Red and fresh, they scream

In the awkward silence.


My eyes search for his

Sunken in a heavy head

“You know that’s wrong mate?”

I ask, rhetorically.


My baby brother, 19

Struggling with his chilli.


“So many people care about you…”

I taste the pause as I swallow

“…I spoke with Dad, he’s worried, you know?”


Hiding his slashes of desperation, he absorbs the chilli

“Its not as good as Mum’s huh?”

He smiles

“No, she cooks it properly.”

We laugh.



3 Words

I watch reflections on these shards of trust

This glue wont do.

Decayed words, Perished romance

I can’t think with you here

Your hands tight around my state of mind

Smell of betrayal is potent,

A bitter cologne

I want to hold you

Integrity helps me find three words to converse


Wiping away hazel tears, leaving your shadow behind

Yesterday hurts, Tomorrows out of grasp

Lost in the sunlight, dehydrated heart

Sitting with a bottle and melancholic sounds

For now I’ll have my Emotion straight, on the rocks.

We Are All Haunted Houses

The telephone rings, you answer it.

The voice is quiet, you listen to the unfamiliar voice, you’ve been waiting for this call. You pick up a pen from the side and write an address on a notebook, a notebook you brought for this moment. It’s a twenty minute walk, you’re surprised and kind of disappointed it’s taken so long when they live so close.

You know what to do. You put keys in the pocket of your jeans and leave out the back door. The night is calm; the air is fresh and fills your lungs as you take a few deep breaths. In, out, in and out.

On the way you appreciate finer details of the neighbourhood.  Your footsteps echo through the dead of the night. Each step defines the scene; you’ve lived for this moment you savour it. The moon is alive, full and beautifully lonely in a bed of stars. It leads your path as the nights darkness protects you.The moon has always been a friend, you remember looking up at it as a child, the nights scared you and the moon was a familiar face. You’re thankful for the company.  Being scared of the dark is still better than being scared of the light.

You stand outside the front of the house leaving the moon behind as you enter the back yard. A window is ajar; you smile, could this be any easier? The kitchen smells of him, your breaths become short and steady. You ascend the stairway, quietly.  Each step descends you through time, you’re that little boy again, scared. Fragile. Alone. The smell of him becomes stronger like heat from an approaching flame.

You enter the room and watch him sleep for a while, how dare he sleep. How can he be so carefree? Why isn’t he haunted?  This bewilders you, angers you. The rhythm of your heart dominates the room, making you fear it will wake him. Your hands reach out towards his neck, they are tiny, child like, delicate. Blinking brings them back to reality; you refuse to be that little boy anymore.

You can see he has aged; his once strong body looks frail. This doesn’t lessen your anger or make you feel any pity for him, in fact it excites you, fills you with pleasure.  As your hands grab his turtle like neck his eyes meet yours, he knows who you are. You feel like he too had known this moment would come.

No words are spoken as he struggles.

You thought you’d say something. You don’t regret the silence. Watching life leave the bastard is enough for you.

The telephone rings, disturbing you. Cold sweat. You look around the familiar room. You answer the phone, Mum. “Hiya Mum” you say. “Yeah, I must have fallen asleep in front of the television again.” You listen as she tells you about her day and scribble on the notepad next to the telephone.


It was 2.44am… it always was. He looked over his princess as she slept; her breaths gave him comfort. He fought back the desire to turn on the light, to wake her, to hold her tight; instead he knelt on the floor and rested his head upon her mattress. Feeling her warm breath on his face seemed to fill him with life.

He thought about the morning she was born, April 23rd. She was pure sunshine on a rainy day of spring. Such a joy, always, he laughed to himself, reminiscing the turmoil she caused as a teenager, a beautiful nightmare, a cyclone on a hot summer’s night.

Twenty-one now, and back in her bedroom, he knew it was for her Mother’s benefit. She comforted her like a log fire in the long winter months. “I’m so proud of you Lucy…” He whispered, resisting any form of sadness. “You’ll always be Daddy’s little princess.” He paused, smiled longed to feel her auburn hair between his fingers.

Lucy had woken at 5.11am every morning for the past six months; her old bedroom gave her comfort from that reoccurring nightmare. The time haunted her. She grabbed a hair band from the bedside table and tied her up her hair, and began to rub her arms warm as the light from the landing lit up her room. Mum.

She listened as her Mother descended the stairs; she heard her fill up the kettle in the kitchen beneath her. ‘She hasn’t been resting properly since the accident’, she mused as a tear fell like an autumn leaf. As she wiped away her sadness the photo under her lamp caught her eye. Dad.

A holiday shot. Wrapped in his arms, what a trip. She bit her lip and looked up. The ceiling had a few glowing stars stuck to them, aged and barely glowing. She was a little girl again, “I wish you were here to tell me everything will be okay, Daddy.”

Autumn Dew

The mood was red as the lamps illuminated the leaves a shade of chocolate orange. Autumn Dew was walking home thinking about Thanksgiving. Her Grandma had flown from England this year especially. Autumn’s steps were musical, crunching to a beat of dead leaves that dominated the park.

He watched her from the shadows, like a wolf, he waited.  Her chestnut hair flowed like waves in the wind, the aroma of desire compelled him. This is it. She fell like an acorn upon the sandy leaves. Confused panic absorbed her as the tree’s hurried by hiding her path home.

He stole her last breaths and watched as she withered. Her winter lips tasted like a lustful summer, pleasing his appetite.  Her skin was a sweet secret and he savored each whisper. Pleasure penetrated his lungs; power dominated his veins, his breaths felt nourished and overwhelmed with bliss.

He hid Autumn’s body in a bouquet of leaves, harvesting his thoughts.  Calm and Un-noticed he slipped away grasping a red knitted scarf, stolen from innocence, treasured to death.

Broken Wings

The rain hits the floor like a thousand shards of glass. The wetness from my Nan’s doorstep absorbs through my trousers. Mum will go mad; they’re new. The familiar smell of Nan’s baking is absent today, all I can smell is Mrs.Smith, she reeks of damp. Nan would go mad if she could see her drinking from her best china. Sammy sits next to me. She looks like my Mum and weirdly I look like hers. I giggle at her in the skirt she’s obviously so uncomfortable in. Giggling identically to me, she slaps my head. We sit in silence watching the rain.

I love it at Nana’s house; I adore her. I sleep over every weekend since Grandpa died. We’ll eat breakfast and watch Wakaday on the television, just her and I. One week the presenters made angel wings from cereal boxes so Nana spent hours making mine. They were amazing, way better than the ones on T.V. I was devastated when I broke them, trying to fly from the top of her stairs.

“Adam, your trousers!” Mum bellows as she pulls me from the step, kneeling down, meeting my eyes. “These are new” she continues, patting Sammy to get up from off the sodden step. Her usually dark eyes are a softer hazel today. I sweep her raven fringe across her forehead as she straightens out my trousers. I tell her she looks pretty and attempt to wink, I blink both my eyes in struggle. She laughs like everyone does when I try to wink. She grins and winks back, fighting back her tears. Sudden wetness fills my eyes making my surroundings blurred; I can smell the sadness from her, like each tear has been stolen from her soul.

“Auntie Julie, the cars are here.” Sammy tells my Mother; her soft hands guide me past flowers and familiar faces until I see the bloated black car where the decorated wooden box sits. The panic takes over me; I’m not ready to say goodbye. I wish I hadn’t broken my wings. At least I’ll never have to do this aga…

“Adam! Your trousers!” Mum yells, taking my attention away from the drizzly haze. I look to where her now frail hand points; I’m sat on my freshly pressed trousers. Time has been unkind; her perfectly white hair is out of the curlers. She winks; I wink back. I long to hold the moment. It’s reassuring to know some things good and bad never change. Sammy enters the room holding my godson, the youngest of her three. The cars are here. I stand, sighing deep breaths, I need to get ready. From the window I look at the well wishers and the flowers I brought. ‘DAD’ it reads on top of his casket. Strangely elated, I know he hated a fuss almost as much as he hated flowers.