The Road in the Sky

Do you remember that road we were on?

Water screamed. A sky between us.

Or was it a window?

Closed? Opened?

Light leaps between our feet.

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Wish (2)

May your troubles sleep

as sound as snow,

and in time awaken,

a page of possibilities.

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Lost Dust

Ghost leaf chasing ghost leaf

Lost dust is humming

Omens crumble

Wish in exile.

———

Written: 15/08/2017

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A tiny rivulet of adventure

Once, there was a tiny rivulet of adventure. 

It lived between two pages of a dusty travel book, in the wrong section of the bookshop. Not just this. The book stood the other way around, because it was a bit shy.

In spite of its seeming bid to remain a well kept secret, the rivulet secretly dreamed of the rapture of discovery. “I’d like to see their eyes gleam with the reflection of little red autumn leaves drifting on the golden water. A heart beat faster seeing a cooperative of feathers slice the sky.”

“You’d better get out into the world, or you’ll dry up,” warned the dead crow perched on a fake hackberry tree branch.

The long absent book shop owner, who had been away for so long, that nobody could quite remember how they looked had apparently had a fascination with taxidermy – which was not to everyone’s taste. When Bokch, the current sales assistant had first arrived for an interview for work experience, they found the shop door open, nobody around and, tactfully assumed the position of stand-in shop keeper. Bokch thought the dead animals were –

“Totally disgusting. Where’s the dignity in being stuffed and stuck on a fake tree branch?” they hummed, scornfully, while making a cup of tea.

Little did Bokch know that the dead animals held fortnightly meetings to discuss their demise. A choking claw in their coffee, a feather in the artisanal mayonnaise. Soon enough, freedom would be theirs. No one had bothered to question how Bokch’s death would free them and they were bound by a spell to return to a state of transfixation if a human laid eyes on them.

Impatiently, the tiny rivulet tickled its way off the page, the book started chuckling, unable to hold itself together, and out it landed on the shelf with a thunderous splash that surprised everyone.

“Well!” gasped the crow, peering at across at the book from whence the rivulet had exited. “I had no idea you had it in you.”

The rivulet turned around in the room, in a mysterious pattern of lines and coils. It was making a spell to free the dead animals.

“About time too..” grumbled the fake fossils. “It’s only been a few millenia..”

The stuffed creatures felt the poetry of consciousness surge through their veins and long forgotten sensations flickered through their skin. Scales, feathers, fur, were driven with a wild burst to breathe and move.

Bokch was just locking up their bike after trying to get it to remain in an upright position. They were contemplating whether a 50% sale would draw more customers than a 3 for 2 offer, when they turned to see an unprecedented tumult through the window of the bookstore. Maybe a pigeon had got trapped in there and was trying to escape.

Then it all happened so quickly. The glass cracked, and after a moment, large pieces jumped purposefully on to the pavement. A flurry of wings, and a stampede of smaller land creatures, hurtling fake fossils came storming out on a fast stream of magic water, knocking over Bokch and their bike, and a curious squirrel who, attracted by the commotion, had stopped to see what was going on.

“Artisanal mayo! Ha! Ha!” blared the crow zigzaging over Bokch’s head, making a mild breeze, which smelt faintly of sweet berries.

“What’s this about artisanal mayo? I’m dairy-free!”

The bother of dealing with a broken window was a small price to pay for the gladness of knowing that dead animals were freed. They wouldn’t miss the animals, til that moment, they had always behaved perfectly dead, and.. Bokch had always had a strange feeling that they wanted to kill them.

“Just a feeling.”

Crouching on the pavement, Bokch noticed the last sign of escapologist water steaming into the noon air. They removed a dent from their cap, formed by the beak of the exuberant crow, and wondered if there were any teabags left.

“3 for 2 I reckon.. Maybe I’ll be able to get a few plants in there now the animals have left.”

“Unwritten Stories”
M.G. Lands

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The last pleasure

Each time before the dance began, the spider span a sweet, calm coast of cliffs with his mouth.

Fire blew tiny gold demons across the rocks and into the spider’s legs and hairs, taking him into the flight of imaginary friendship.

The feel of a warm embrace in the blood would be the last thing he remembered before he fell, into the dance.

It could even begin quite —fortunately. A warm nod of rain, a gentle tap on the floor, an invitation to delight. And then, each time, disaster, a dancer called Old time tiptoed nearer and nearer like the inevitability of an eventual inhalation for a breathing body, marking its passage with a stamp that shook the web, and a sneer that drifted a burning dread through the spider’s heart.

Old time was an expert hand at shredding the spider’s smile without a backward glance.

Some thought Old time was in it for the money, but who would pay to steal the spider’s joy? He had no enemies. Not now anyway. The word on the wall was that he wouldn’t even hurt a fly. Pretty much all he could bring himself to eat these days was fury, storms and drops of ice.

No, it had to be more than money. It was a personal vendetta and, while the spider determined to dance away the invader, each night the spiralling spikes and rapid feet of chaos tore away the carefully-tended, logic of the web leaving scattered threads and a few puzzled dew drops.

“Unwritten Stories” – M.G. Lands

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What a dance could be



Shall we talk about what a dance could be? A thousand stories and moods could be told through just one step. The possibility of interaction through some form of gestural motion, or a hummed note, does hold a certain amount of appeal.

Leafy notes, a comfortable level (acoustic, intimacy, humidity), acquiescing
exchanges.

The destruction of something he knew and loved, replaced by confusion and terror.

Tranquility swallowed by a giant cement mixer.

On waking, the spider ached, thinking of the struggle of the dance, and added a new brick to the tower.
“Unwritten Stories” – M.G. Lands
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The man who used to wear this shirt

The man who used to wear this shirt is no longer here.
For years he was, and then one day, he suddenly disappeared.
We looked high, and we looked low,
We spooked with superstition,
With no more ways for us to go,
Friends told us what we had to know.

The man who used to wear this shirt is no longer here.
For years he was, and then one day, he suddenly disappeared.

We sold his records, scrapped his socks,
And sent away his debts,
We fix the mess, the holes, the leaks,
We watch the hours go by, the weeks.

The man who used to wear this shirt is no longer here.
For years he was, and then one day, he suddenly disappeared.

When I hear keys in the lock,
A part of me still hopes,
He’ll walk in through the door, go watch Chinese tv,
He’ll like it that I wear his shirt
And think it’s great on me.

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