An Ode to Bipolar

Published in the 2016 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology: Speak Out
blue-fringe-arts-001

An Ode to Bipolar

Into sadness,
a sometimes forgotten spell.
Feverish, fetish, devouring all.
Yet when deprived,
a fondness; so yearning
and lachrymose.
Of tears, weeping
the flower
of being.
And necromancy,
an embrace;
a plea for answers,
but soft and deafening
the shadowed face.

Perpetual madness,
a labyrinth of decaying
thought and nameless love,
where spectres dance, and ravage,
and sentence the mind
to answer.
Damnation.
Doom.

But the hummingbird,
the sublime,
the beauty within.
Does it linger? Why does it so?
The love foretold,
and wisteria singing.
Creepers entangling,
strangling no more.
And leaden drops no longer
fill the lands with despair.

© 2016

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

The Devil’s Anvil

Published in the 2015 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts2-001

The Devil’s Anvil

When winter’s night dances
but forlorn and forgotten memories
prey.
Of darkness, bitter
and madness, stained.
The mind bereft of laughter
and happiness pulled into that
Void.
Waning, yet caressing thoughts
that one desires and loathes the
Same.
The disease crawling through
and cawing into the raven-black
Sky.
Beckoning and begging to play.
It burns in embers
but never fades away.

© 2015

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

Beautiful, beautiful!

Published in the 2015 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts2-001

Beautiful, beautiful!

Beautiful, beautiful!
earth so beautiful.
To find everlasting peace.
And insufferable life? Begone it all
to see me smile at my funeral.

But no end to torture, no.
So I sink down below
to Hell’s sweet icy embrace
relishing forever rain, forever snow.
My heart frozen, but cheeks aglow.

© 2015

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

The Final Sin

Published in the 2015 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts2-001

The Final Sin

Her eyes were a deep obsidian hue, set on a ghostly ivory face, and framed by soft alabaster tresses. And from those luscious curls protruded two impressive horns, spiralled like a faun’s. So sublime, they sat atop her crown. Brilliant of chestnut, ecru, bronze, and fallow. The colours, striated; weaving in and out of each other, as veins surging through the bone, and beneath them were furred lop ears unlike I had ever known. Aghast I was, my eyes grew wide. I fell to my knees and cried.

What is she? I asked myself. My voice broken to a whimper. I brushed my fingers through her hair, waiting for her to stir at my touch. Nothing. Her eyes kept on mine, and would not waver. It was not until my hands met the wound at her stomach that I realised. Fingers marked in scarlet rivulets.

Gone. Gone the beauty of the creature before me. So entrancing, so ethereal, I collapsed over her broken form and wailed into the night. My heart whispered, as the knell. And tears. Tears fell, cascading down my cheeks. Sorrow was taking me, unrelenting in its torment. What had I done? What had I taken? All that I know, all that I am, forsaken.

The scent of death began filling the air.
Poor soul, poor soul.
Closing my eyes, I begged the torture to stop, begged the image of her broken body begone from my mind.
Then a flutter. A stirring. A voice from nowhere, whispers to a crescendo. Why? was all it said. Why? She was speaking to me. No, demanding. She was demanding an answer from me. One that I could not give, for I was merely selfish and indulged in a moment of cruelty, a moment of pleasure. Aroused in my mind was the desire to find the beauty I had always longed to find. But far too heavenly. Far, far removed from this world, the sublime creatures, the Otherworldly creatures. I must… I did destroy.

So magnificent her splendour, I had wanted her all to myself.
Now… the hunter in me…
Dying.
The remorse, the sorrow that followed…
Keening like a banshee, I crumpled to the earth.
The stain forever on my hands.
Her blood.
Her life.
I begged forgiveness.
But the guilt was unrelenting,
And the melancholy, bitter.
I drew from my person the pistol I had used to slay. Against my temple, to rid the images, I prayed.

A burst of light, then darkness scattered from above, in stars of onyx. And she. She came towards me, a smile gracing her lips, filling me with hope. Hope that peace be among us. Forgiveness upon me. Her porcelain fingers met my cheek and she brushed away my pain.

“Only man is capable of such cruelty towards another being, even to his own.” Her words cut deeply into me, and I feared Hell would swallow me in its icy bosom, as punishment.
I sighed through a jagged breath.
She continued. “Our fellow beings who walk this earth and fly in our winds, the innocent all forgive the horrors brought upon them by man, for we know man is weak, man is greedy. They are his sins, and his alone. If you love us, if you see our beauty, you will respect us. You will give us our lives. That is all we ask of you.”

Before I could respond, before I could repent and redeem myself, she vanished. She disappeared as a ghost from limbo, her business no longer unfinished. And yet, I realised, my body would forever remain in her place until her message was met by mankind through the ages, through to the end of time. Until the trail of bloodied tears ends. Until the innocent are freed.

© 2015

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

Absinthe

Published in the 2014 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts3-001

Absinthe

I loathed the spell of the lullaby.
Iridescent in destruction,
Inside a sombrous reverie of my mind.
Of forgotten, despondent hearts
And magnificent splendour.

Fallow womb
Unkempt
Unripe
The rue unknown

Into the copse, a whisper
And the moonlight waned
In alabaster plague
Stained in wormwood

Of rosy hues;
Rotten mourning
In my madwoman’s cheek.
Inside my glass coffin
I sleep.

© 2014

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

Death of Catherine

Published in the 2014 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts3-001

Death of Catherine

Hatred and passion
My heart that is scorned
In your death
The hurt deepens.
Loneliness is the consequence
For my torturous love
Of you
In you
I wither into darkness
Like the moors,
Wild and free.
In my jealous blood,
In my death,
I lie with you.

© 2014

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here

The Strigoaicǎ

Published in the 2014 Blue Fringe Arts Short Story and Poetry Anthology.blue-fringe-arts3-001

The Strigoaică

Want to read more about the Strigoaicǎ?
Read the poem, Strigoaicǎ
Read the short story, Tale of the Strigoaicǎ 

‘The truest pain from the scorn of man was never greater known than by a girl that I knew many years ago.’ She began her tale. I could only listen, and will the fear and danger to disappear from my mind.

‘This young girl sat beneath a willow tree, the one which kept her company in her childhood years. She often danced beneath its weeping leaves as they fell slowly, gracefully to the bed of the woods. On this fateful day, in happiness she twirled in her new dress then collapsed amongst the creepers and dreamed. Hours later she awoke, startled, to the screams of something unknown. It was the most horrible sound she had ever heard. The sound came closer, but the young girl couldn’t identify it. She was wary. The screams were then accompanied by the sounds of men, of laughter. The girl stood, her heart raced. So completely full of terror, she froze, not knowing whether to stay or run. The screams came even closer, but she knew they were nothing to fear when the men were laughing. From the fog against the slowly setting sun, came running a distressed lamb. It ran toward the girl.

‘The girl could not say for sure that the poor creature knew she was a safe haven, a sanctuary, but as she quickly took the lamb in her arms, there was no struggle. Although there was no sign of an injury, the lamb was covered in blood. The girl nestled the poor being close to her, and felt its heart slowing to a normal pace. As the girl took her first steps, to take the precious baby to her home, she heard again the laughter of men. Their forms broke through the fog and when she spotted them, carrying the dead body of what she could only imagine was the mother of the lamb, she stopped breathing. The baby was frightened, and began to struggle in the girl’s grasp. She remained motionless, hoping the men would not see her in the fog. It took all her strength to forbid her own tears from falling.

‘Their heads turned, searching. They hadn’t seen the girl. Carefully, she stepped behind the willow, praying that the lamb would not cry. One man yelled to another to get some rope, while the other two began scouting the area for the lost lamb. They were distracted, looking away from the tree. It was her chance. Closing her eyes, she drew a breath and released, trying to remain calm with what she was about to do. She took two steps away from the tree, looked around and saw that no one was watching. It was just one hundred metres to the rhododendrons that she and her sister used to play hide and seek in. The dissipating fog was her only veil, and the woodland floor of creepers and twigs would give her away instantly. Stay or go, either way she could get caught. At least if she made a run for it, she might save a life. The girl looked down at the poor creature, its breathing laboured. The mother’s blood had smeared onto the girl’s new dress.

‘Her time was running out, but she smiled as the darkness formed a blanket, like mother earth knew and brought the night to her. Taking a deep breath, the girl started running. As she predicted, her movements alerted the men. They began yelling for the third man to come back, to bring his rifle. The girl was certain that they hadn’t seen her though, so she kept running. So often she ran. She knew she could reach the boundary before they could get to her. She was within a few feet of the rhododendrons when she heard the rifle go off, making her look back in terror. The lamb began crying again and the girl knew that the men would be able to follow the creature’s sounds. After the lamb quieted down, the girl turned to continue on her path, knowing it was safe, for the lanterns the men carried faced everywhere but in her direction. The lamb cried out again however, and the lanterns simultaneously pointed at the boundary. The girl crept into the shrubs and followed a narrow path that she and her sister created for themselves. They had walked and ran the path so many times that it knew them and welcomed them. The girl pushed through the stray branches and muffled the lamb’s cries as best she could with her now tattered dress. She felt as though her heavy breathing alone would be enough to give her away. Sweat trickled down her back, making the dress stick to her, and created difficulty when manoeuvring.’

The Strigoaicǎ paused. The cadence of her breath and voice stammered for she clearly felt the pain of the poor young girl in her story. Powerless, I knew that I was unable to comfort the creature of the night. She turned away, seemingly ashamed of her tears. As she wiped them away, she inhaled a jagged breath and continued her story.

‘The next day, the girl returned to the field where the willow stood and searched the area with hope of finding more lambs. An abhorrent sight made her fall to the ground and weep uncontrollably. The mother had been strung up in the willow, on display, with a note attached. In numbness, the girl cried in her head, The devil was here, and it was man!

‘A piece of parchment had been tied with string to one of the legs of the mother. Roughly, the girl wiped the flood of tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand before carefully untying the string. She did not wish to harm the mother even if she was already dead. The parchment was rolled ever so beautifully and tied with a bow of fine ribbon, forming only a greater hole in the girl’s heart, by that dagger of senseless violence. It was only when she unfurled the parchment, spreading blood across it, that she noticed her hands, tainted with the coldness that she saw before her.

‘The flow of letters, the curls and loops were so elegantly written with ink and quill as if there was some importance and formality, yet the words themselves created a feeling of dread in her. She felt completely drained and, no longer able to hold herself up, fell, lost in a reverie of emptiness. The girl rested her head against the willow, her eyes stared into nothing. She couldn’t even blink. Her head slumped as though it were a heavy burden. In deep, piercing melancholy, her mouth flew agape. She felt death upon her. Dead inside, if not truly dead.’

That was the end of the Strigoaicǎ’s tale. All she said was that the next days and years of that girl’s life were too painful to speak of. She said it was something that only that girl could bear the burden of. The Strigoaicǎ refused to tell me the debasing final act of the girl’s days as a mortal being.

© 2014

Want to read more of my Blue Fringe Arts works?
Click here