NaPoWriMo – Day 19

Desperation coils deep within me
pressing up and out
I am trying, trying to hold on to it
but it pushes harder
pushes back.

I want.

Desperate and wanting
I pressed harder
but am overwhelmed
and it presses harder
at my eyes as tears rush
and want is nothing like this.

Except at the worst of it.

Like now.


NaPoWriMo – Day 19

NaPoWriMo – Day 18

The dead trees are still beautiful
in the sunshine,
what is torn down
and burnt away
still bright with energy
as new growth is nurtured
so far from the urban sprawl
I was so used to,
the cloying of cars and crowds
like a second skin
one you barely you notice you wear
until you shed it.
Wearing it once more,
returning to that den
it becomes heavy and hurtful
pulling at every step and breath.
Dead trees are beautiful
wrapping around the reality of the world
a signpost for morality.
Cities crumble, sit forever in pieces.
Tress die, rot and renew.
I would rather this than the artificial lies
of brick and mortar, smog and smoke.


NaPoWriMo – Day 18

P is for Pale

az-pI don’t really know where I’m going with this, but it’s P and I do want to finish it…Here’s what I have so far.

Pale looked around the little room and shifts in her chair. It’s light, it’s airy, it’s nothing like the TV shows. The coffee is nice and she’s not allowed to smoke. She’s not allowed to read her book either so she just waited for a while, staring at the white walls and thinking about what she could and should be doing with her Saturday afternoon.

Two police officers flew in and Pale sat up, stretching her own yellow wings out behind her with a little flutter and a shake before they settled again against her back. She smiled at them but they didn’t smile back and she waited for one of them to talk.

“Pale Hanaharn?” the first asked.

“Yeah, that’s me, what did you want?”

“Are you honest?”

It was an odd question to start out with and didn’t really answer her own question. They were older than her by quite a bit and their wings were starting to shrivel around the edges even as their faces remained wrinkle free, their hair thick. Not a lot could be done once the wings started to go though, she mused, her own wings would go eventually.

“Mostly,” she answered after a thought. No one had ever asked her outright like that before. Laid out in front of her she supposed she wasn’t always honest but she wasn’t a bad person.

Just average.

“It’s a yes or no question, Miss Hanaharn.”

“Not usually.”

They didn’t reply and Pale sighed, shifting again in her chair so her wings weren’t crushed against the plastic of the chair.

“Yes then,” she tried.

The men looked at each other and nodded. A slide was placed on the projector and they flicked the switch on the side of the box. An image popped up on the crisp white wall and Pale turned to look at it seeing a slightly blurred photo of Chain’s Goods – a little store that sold a little of everything. She wasn’t sure what it had to do with Pale being honest but then she wasn’t really sure why she was there. She flexed her wings, an old reflex she couldn’t shake when she was nervous. She had always been a bad liar, that’s why she was mostly honest. She had a huge yellow tell on her back.

“Been here?”

“Yeah, Chainy sells some good sodas,” she said.

The men looked at each other and nodded. They put another slide in the projector, and Chain’s store was replaced with the man himself and another Pale didn’t recognise. Again, it was blurry and dark, the two men were standing in a alley; probably the one by his store she guessed.

“Know this man?”

“No, never see him before.”


Another slide and another blurry picture. This time of Pale and the second man, she was holding out something but she couldn’t make it out.

“I’m sure, I don’t remember meeting him.”

She shrugged, looking back at the two men. Green wings were fluttering a little violently on one of them and she wondered if it was a tell like her own but then he raised up into the air and flew out of the room. Pale looked back at the second man, who flicked the projector off and turned to face her.

“We need you to do something for us,” he said.

“Whaaaat?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

“The second fairy is called Arthur Linseele,” he said, “he’s a dust dealer in your neighbourhood.”


“We’re having trouble getting close to him. He knows every single undercover we send in,” he explained but Pale didn’t reply, she just waited until he told her what he wanted from her. “We need you to get close to him. You live in the neighbourhood, you’ve met him-”

“I’ve bumped into him.”

“He knows your face, Chain knows you.”

“He sells me soda,” she cuts in again, wings fluttering behind her.

“We can’t even get close enough to take a decent picture, we need someone to get close enough to him to get more information.”

“Are you paying?” she asked.

The police officer looked stunned and Pale stood up.

“Look, I have a full time job, and a relatively active social life,” she said, raising into the air and off her feet. “I don’t have time to be spying on my neighbours and some guy I’ve never met before.”

“We have a picture.”

“He probably asked me for a light,” she said, throwing her arms up. “Look, it was nice to meet you both, but I need to get going.”

She flew out of room and didn’t look back – this had been a huge waste of time.

For the police at least.


Pale went straight to Chain’s. She was pretty sure she shouldn’t, but she wasn’t involved with anything. She wasn’t involved with Chain and she wasn’t involved with the police. She just wanted to work in her crappy admin job that meant she could afford her rent and her bills and left her enough for a damn slightly illegal soda from the human world now and then.

They obviously didn’t care about the sodas from the human world, they would’ve shut him down years ago.

She smiled at the young woman serving as she went towards the fridges in the back, landing close by and walking on the cold ground the last few feet. She wasn’t sure of how it worked but she ddn’t care – somehow she got to drink 7UP and Red Bull and that’s all that mattered.

Apparently soda came in metal cans in the human world, but that’s all she knew.

She just worked, and played canasta in the bar with her friends at the weekend and drank imported sodas. Then she started the week all over again.

“Pale, my dear, you should try this,” Chain said, reaching into the open fridge from behind her and grabbing one of the glass bottles.


“Tastes a bit better than Red Bull,” he told her with a smile.

“You drink this swill.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “Nice visit to the police station.”

She chuckled. He knew, of course he knew. She turned so they were facing each other, Chain was a big guy – one of the few she knew to wear shoes – a weird coloured leather that he had wrapped around each foot. His wings were healthy, that much was obvious from the bright blue shining and flapping behind him. She assumed the size of him meant that he could keep himself in the air for very long; she couldn’t remember seeing him fly at all but it wasn’t her business. Maybe so much time surrounded by human things he had an affinity for them. Maybe he really liked his shoes.

Maybe he hated flying.

Pale didn’t care.

“Confusing. Nice viewing of some blurry photos.”

Chain laughed again and handed her the bottle of energy drink.

“They think you’re working with a dust dealer.”

“Sometimes they’re right, and sometimes they’re wrong.”

“And this time?”

He smiled, she didn’t need to know; she didn’t care what Chainy did she didn’t have time for morals. Not right now, but Curiosity would never forgive her if she she find out some local gossip. The barmaid lived on gossip and soda.

“A bit of both.”

She smiled.

“Okay, well, just watch yourself cause they’re watching you.”

He nodded, and she walked over to the till.

“Take them,” he said, “on the house.”

“Thanks,” Pale said, raising her drinks at him. “See you later.”

<< O is for Odd Numbers || Q is for >>


NaPoWriMo – Day 17

Struggling a bit
to always find words
day after day after day.

There are none.

Not now, not before.
Just platitude and politeness
over and over.

I always lie.

It’s not that
there’s never anything to say
just no one to hear words
worth saying.

Just what needs hiding,
papering over cracks in conversation
with the same words
all the time.

No one ever notices.

It’ll come,
it’ll fall apart
turn on me
until I am nothing
but raw bloody truth for everyone to see.

Not today though.


NaPoWriMo – Day 17

O is for Odd Numbers

az-oI like odd numbers. It’s an OCD thing as well as a problem I have with numbers in general. I find that odd numbers are both more ascetically pleasing as well as easier to count. I like patterns, and I find I prefer odd numbers, that I can make more patterns with them than I can with odd numbers.

And by patterns I mean, in my head, out of the blister packs of my tablets, in lego, in everything. I see patterns of the opportunity for patterns everywhere. I find it both soothing and pleasing, deep down and it settles me nicely.

I find that odd numbers help me count too.

I struggle with counting. I know that should be something that’s easy, I mean it’s like the first thing we learn after talking but I struggle to keep it straight in my head when I’m counting. I find that having something in the middle helps with the numbers. It’s an odd way of doing things – I’ve noticed that I’ve done for a long time though.

What can I say? My brain works in mysterious ways.

<< N is for Nails || P is for >>


NaPoWriMo – Day 16

Sleep is lost on me
I dream so intently
every image
pressed into my skull
from the beyond
my ability
to hold onto reality.

Sleep is lost on me
when I am lost in sleep.


N is for Nails

az-nI don’t like having long fingernails. Or average length nails in fact.

I find them annoying and they get in my way. When I was a kid I always broke them as soon as they started to grow again because I was always climbing around or digging stuff up or things that weren’t good for fingernails. Even now they break quickly because I’m always picking at things. Bits of wall and wood and whatever is loose and within my reach. It’s a bad habit more than anything, part of the OCD I think. I struggle to keep my hands still when I’m not busy or not using them.

Or part of the anxiety. Not quite a nervous habit but I have trouble keeping still. Even in bed. I lie in bed and more my feet back and forth over and over. I’ve done that since I was a kid. It drove my sister crazy (we shared a room) but my wife isn’t bothered by it. She falls to sleep quickly anyway.

I keep my nails short because they’re easier to keep clean as well.

I am a little obsessed about keeping my nails clean. I tend to go through phases well I’m really obsessed and go overboard in cleaning them until them they are red raw and painful. At that point I realise I am too obsessed and they are now too clean so I tend stop for a while. It started when I was a kid as well, when one of my aunts told me off because my nails weren’t clean – but I had already cleaned them and used a nail brush and they still weren’t clean. At that point I started cleaning them too much, too well. Some things from my childhood I really took to seriously, took to heart. I’m 32 now, I shouldn’t still affected by little things like that, but it settled in so deep that it’s become something else entirely.

So short nails. Short clean nails.

<< M is for Morecambe and Wise || O is for >>


NaPoWriMo – Day 15

It’s warm around my finger,
silver around skin
around flesh around bone.
It imprints on my soul
through letters engraved
deep into the metal
and deep into me.
Through skin, and blood, and
borne of love
and days to come.
Accept it. I accept.

It shines and shouts
in sunlight
bounces of the bones
of our connection,
between days and nights
and what’s left in between.
dawn and evensong,
dusk and noon,
passing time silently
with silver to shout.
Silver to say everything
should you come looking.

Should you judge.
I accept. Even if you don’t.
It’s the difference between us,
pressing into skin and soul
body and bone.
I have all, I have her
and silver wrapped around me.
It’s different, to old gold,
and broken black gems
that burnt until pulled apart.

What we accept we live with.
I never forget it
as it warms and I wonder
what I did to deserve any of it.
I accept it now,
regardless of guilt or fate.
I am accepted
regardless of crime or punishment.
Thus the difference
to how we love.
Thus the reason, I accept.


M is for Morecambe and Wise

az-mMorecambe and Wise stopped making TV shows before I was born. Hell Eric Morecambe died when I was two years old. But I have loved them since I was a kid – that’s something TV has always done well – repeats. They are some of my favourite comedians and I still watch their sketches and shows today – which is something the internet does well.

There are a few sketches that really stand out, everyone has their favourites. For years I’ve sung ‘A! You’re adorable’ randomly – I still only know some lines cause I’ve only heard Morecambe and Wise do it.

So I offer you three of my favourites:

With Angela Rippon

Andrew Preview and the best joke/timing ever written.


Glenda Jackson in an Ernie Wise play.

Basically forget all comedy written in the last thirty years – this is the best (okay, don’t forget it all, there has been some gold but I still watch these two over and over).


<< L is for Latrice || N is for >>


NaPoWriMo – Day 14

Scream louder cat!
Scream louder and get more food
than chew on the sponge and
the wooden spoon
to devour more delicious molecules.

Delicious, delicious molecules.

Scream louder.
For I am cat.

Steal the milk
straight from the glass
and scream about biscuits
and lick all the bowls just in case
there is a single delicious molecule of taste left behind.

You never know.

Sleep now.
Long day.