All Stories

Once upon a time in Feyland, an Evil Overlord kidnapped the Feyrie Princess and enslaved the Feyries of the Forest. He sent them out into the world to collect the teeth of little children, because he wanted to know every tooth in the world.

Imprisoning the Feyrie Princess in the lowest games room of his fortress. He forced her to play games all day and she had to let him win, or else he’d pull the wings off a Feyrie.

But one day the Feyries rebelled, and rescued their princess, who was at last allowed to beat the Evil Overlord.

I stand one foot in the afterlife, one foot in this life and the shadow in-between batters my soul.

Turning my head one way I see the beauty of a world changing and never lasting. I see glorious moments fleeting past, in a place where nothing ever lasts.

Looking the other way, I see light, and perfection and the Moment of Everything stretching on, everlasting. There I see no need, no pain, and no change. There I could be.

Just be.

At least that’s what I see, as I stand one foot in a grave for here, I stand divided.

The smell of wet shoes lingers in the confined air of the bus, but the young boy doesn’t notice. Sitting by the window, he waves at the children walking passed.  But they are too involved in their own games to notice. They don’t wave back.

The man waiting for the bus is too involved in getting on. He doesn’t wave back.

The teenager on the bench is too involved stuffing crisps and pop into his gob. He doesn’t wave back.

But then a lady walking passed, sees the young boy waving. Frowning, she lifts her gloved hand and smiling, she waves back.

I thought I’d put the glass that was my life back together. I’d painstaking glued each sharp-edged piece and cut my fingers to ribbons doing it.

In scarred hands, I hold the glass that is my life. It’s no longer as good as before, but at least it holds some water.  It can be a glass half-empty at least.

But if I drop it again, it’ll smashed into even smaller pieces and I’m too tired to even try to put them back together, my fingers are too sore and next time there’s no chance the glass will hold any water.

Not only your feet, but your heart and your head must walk away from him and his poisonous love.

Don’t worry about the wall he’s building, blocking you out.  He’ll have a tantrum soon enough and knock it down, like a child knocking down a tower of unstable blocks.

Just concentrate on taking another step, and then another.

It’s okay that you still love him. It’s okay to look over your shoulder. It’s okay to strain to hear him, but before you react to whatever you feel, see or hear, take a deep breath.

Take several.

Then take another step.

In the college bar, she perches on the arm of a sofa, higher than the four squashed on the three-seater but at the same height as the five others sat on low bar stools. Half the group is known, half new but banter is still easy.

The new good-looking boy, with thick, dark hair and a broad smile turns to her, mischief in his blue eyes.

“Do you want to be my next ex-girlfriend?”

The worse pickup line ever, but also the best because it’s the first one she’s thrown and  whenever she recalls it afterwards it makes her smile.

Joking, you tell the one about the fish and chips on top of the car at the wedding. But even your best told anecdote can’t mask the pain when the procedure starts.

Every muscle tenses. But you don’t realise until the nurse tells you to relax. Unwanted water leaks from your eyes. Breathing, loud, long breathes, you sound like the little engine that could. You’re only a machine; no ghost in here. 

Procedure over, you hide in the story about the chair with the missing leg.

But once you’re alone again, there’s no one to converse with – nowhere to hide.

I see a beautiful girl, a woman vocal and strong, who holds her own and dances to her own song.

But she looks in the mirror and she sees someone underserving to be happy.

For so long the reflection has told her time and again, in voices echoing from a childhood, full of insults and shame.

I can’t see the scars that are etched across her heart, but I know it still beats, bigger and kinder despite the treatment its endured.

She sees a past of pain and hurt.

I see strength now, and a future full of amazing potential.

Time has almost caught up with the man who steps slowly up the street. His grey-white hair flutters in the breeze as his walking frame leads a slow pace.

At the road two pupils ask, “Can we help sir?” 

Then a lady offers to help him up the curb.

But it is then that the universe converges and the man, who time is catching up with, sees two friends making their slow steps too.

Stopping for a chat, he knows he’ll have to take it easy tomorrow, but until time actually catches him, he’ll keep stepping out along the streets.

Anita Ganlua, was built on foundations of solid hate. Her inner strength was tempered in fires of anger and even now, after years of building and renovations, it’s hate and anger that holds her in place.

From this prison she glares out at the world, through thick windows, seeing the worst in people and expecting the world to see the worst in her, and hate her for it.

But what people actually see is an ordinary woman, sometimes smiling, sometimes worried, sometimes busy, sometimes crying. An ordinary woman who’s built, for her own children, foundations of love, tempered in kindness.