just one more chance he thought, elevating aspirations finding hope in the here the now, beyond what was beyond the me that has always been lost and pointlessly meandering between this wish and that never quite achieving anything of real merit
one last chance to be seen to be heard and known perhaps even to be loved before the curtain descends on a life so very ignoble, so easy to ignore, so shamefully dully maintained under clouds that never quite found the courage to disappear
Brightly lithesome she dances across the sky my joyful lunar maid, my all her winsome ways ever appalling the jealous sun so somber and staid, and she unwilling to stay his commanded course playfully japes with a rhyme.
How haughtily he cringes, wincing at her smiles her lips teasing in mirth birthing yet another game to play, a song to sing my jocund jesting one testing the stodgy sun with each twirling reel feeling fully alive and sublime.
“Do you know,” I ask, as she passes again barely glancing down, “how much I adore you, mo gealach àillidh my fair fae one on high?” “Then rise,” she says, treading the night “and know the truth of time.”
she weaves tales of such glorious complexity the richest tapestry of love and fear and wonder and I, desparate to feel, wander lustfully from one courageous strand to the next dipping here dodging there filling the gaps in my mind with faces and figures and finest determination all of which I have acquired from the worlds that are born of her pensive passionate thoughts she is my muse, she is my author and I would follow her to the ends of time ever eager for the next incomparable tale her characters compel her to compose
I just had to share this with you all. Out Brief Candle is a magazine publishing short fiction and images associated with horror, gothica, and speculative fiction. They are seeking submissions for the July edition (published four times a year). Looks like a great opportunity to share your own creative works with others and get published.
the avarice of time is unmistakable cruelly rolling my flesh through the dirt like a blind and callous dung beetle leaving nothing but meandering paths and pock marked speculations defying the simplest interpretations of what it all was ever for beyond this— the banal flecks of dust left behind
when honest thought pierces gray morbidity colors emerge of such unexpected vibrancy willingly painted upon this gloomy canvas by the most creative and caring artist for you have illuminated this darkness so deeply that I might ruminate for eons yet to come and never again encounter a single strand of that once ponderous web woven by ravenous time