Now showingAnd we'll meetNow showing by dreamingshadow
and I'll be there in a blouse that blows slightly open
like a sentence I left incomplete a year ago
that for once...
…you didn't finish
with eyes that will
skim like stones
over a hundred yard stare
It's the appeal of those little backwater town cinemas
that used to be theatres. We'll smile but with arms folded
as we file past 'Now Showing'
feeling like neither of us ever will. We'll try to find something appropriate
but something or other will always push us back into a situation
where we're sat
in the dark
next to each other
watching a romantic interest develop for a hundred and twenty minutes. In the darkness
we're most comfortable, looking on,
as if in a world outside the universe
at how these things called humans love. Well I don't know my love
and I don't know if we'll ever be seen by anyone
on the silver screen.
Silhouettes will perform
to a dialogue we know by now. Female lead will spike up with, 'I just never k
ComfortableThe atmosphere around youComfortable by dreamingshadow
is made of armchairs,
a twilight made for picnic bears
and a sun wrapped in a corduroy smile.
Your eyes pour out coffee
from a whizzpot mind,
I coast on marshmallow rafts
to your words' finish line.
Wherever I find you
I feel like I've arrived.
I've been going through
all different types of forgetting;
an amnesiac by twenty five.
But even when I didn't know your name
I still knew who you were,
you're the special darkness under my eyes,
that connection to something
that makes me feel alive.
As you talk, as you listen, couched
behind my eyes,
is the question, 'how can
be such a cat stretch of beauty
when it's done such horrid things to me?'
The last time I saw you, you said
I just seemed so tired,
I should get some rest. I guess without you around I
I don't think I've slept right
my entire life
BubblesWe sit in a café, in the bodies of two autumn aged women, our hair collecting fiery tints like leaves as time blows irreversibly past us. Our bodies overflow onto the spare chairs like unfinished, sloppy dough, bursting haphazardly through an insufficient bag. I stare at the table in our silence, where crumbs of fleeting pleasure lie motionless, scattered across notches and scratches. Recall engraving given name with mischief and pride onto an exam desk. Now there are as many coffee stained rings at the tables we sit at as we have had rings on our fingers. Connections all made with stale milk, that just became unpalatable, and had to be poured away.Bubbles by dreamingshadow
I look up at her. No wonder I can't talk to you. You're repulsive. Now we don't say anything to each other. Just avert our seeping eyes and avoid the other's like blue dodgeball. I'd grab a newspaper to lend occupation to the tones of failure but, in all honesty, I want a husband to fill that role next to me. To watch a world other t
My first nightmareI still remember my first nightmare.My first nightmare by dreamingshadow
It's nothing, Sarah, go back to bed. And sleep.
And every nightmare after that.
When I shook, with a blind death panic that used my own hands to grip me, she told me to get to bed. Turned the light off. So at least to her, I wasn't shaking any more.
I saw skeletons come alive and wield death at the ends of spears, and I knew no one would help me.
Twenty years, and...every time I felt myself become a skeleton, hunting myself with the power of death, I closed my eyes, to tell my child brain that eyes don't just fall out of sockets.
Under my breath, under onslaught, I cursed.
I hate you, mother.
You never held me.
You never cared.
All you cared about was yourself.
Twenty years, and...she looked me in the eyes for the first time without flinching.
I'm scared, Sarah. I'm dying.
Her words couched in clinical smelling pillows and a sense of inevitability.
Do you know how many times I've felt like I was dying, moth
I am now offering up the short novel I wrote in seven days in November 2013 by request only. I'm not publishing it online.
If you're interested, message me, and I'll send it to you. Lame ass blurb:
In the breaths of draught let in by his presence in the doorway, her nightdress rippled a song of midnight sea; the impact of his own breath like a ghost boat sliding across her body. She was a blank white queen, like a human chess piece, surrounded by black squares, and only words now could be written upon her. She could be anything, it seemed, but not enough.
What is there to do when you feel nothing?
And how do you deal with a life you suddenly find yourself in, answering the surprisingly difficult questions from your children about the nature of the world and living?
existing follows the story of a writer who desperately tries to write himself, and his family, to a better ending.
A chapter preview can be found here: