raxxel

I'll carve you a backbone from the hull of this ship. I'll make you two ears from sail. I'll cut you a mouth from the kitchen stoves. From this rudder I'll make you a tail. Your muscles will be knotted rope, rigged so tight you won't feel a thing. I'll fashion you eyes from the portholes From deep in the hold you will sing. I'll fill you with breath from the ocean, A grin I'll paint on your face. Your sight I'll guide by the stars. Each morsel of wind you will taste. You can howl at the moon from the harbour You could growl at the waves as they crash You might scratch at the fleas from the sea rats And eat the Cap'n's biscuit s

I watched him sleep, twitching in some chasing dream, muttering to himself. I wondered what it was this time - rabbit, dog or stranger? I clicked my tongue and immediately he pulled his irises from their grimy depths and watched me with very little interest. In a few seconds, they began to droop again, lazy blinks which became longer and longer until he finally gave up and let them sink. The stirrings of jealousy made me look away. I could not doze like him on the artificial grass, couldn't pursue things in my sleep or ignore the callings of the world. He could though. And he did. Day after day, he dozed, barely there but always here, letting

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. It opened its shaggy jaws to the sky and let its song escape into the darkness. And then nothing happened. The world turned, thousands of times, until one day a man climbed the hill where a wolf once sat and sang to the stars. He looked out, the tops of firs beneath him bristling against the sky, hiding countless mysteries. He took a picture of the scene and uploaded it to his Facebook page and captioned it "King of the hill!". Except he wasn't. Below his perch, things lived and died and caused chaos and nothingness. Life went on. They never looked up, never noticed the little man taking pictures of t

Chewing away, Hungry little ghosts. Long-standing appointment With the Queen. Crunch, crunch away, Delicious, tasty. Running happy hands Over spotless fangs. And now to bed, Tuck the girls in, Turn out the lights, Toothpick for and from a Sliver of oak. Early up tomorrow, More spit and polish To lay down.

Silence. So much silence. The trenches made no sound, not a breath escaped. Even the rats, some as big as rabbits, scuttled into their holes without disturbing the crushing quiet. Only a few weeks it had been since the fighting had stopped. Michel's muddy face was streaked with tears, making little trenches of their own through the caked dirt on his cheeks. He tried pulling again but nothing happened. A clatter in the distance bounced its way between the earthen walls, making the passages tremble with the unexpected explosion of sound. Michel pulled again and this time the mud relinquished an inch or two of his leg with a reticent squelch. He

I gave my heart away once. When it eventually got returned, I didn't know what to do with it. Did it need to be refrigerated? Should I keep it warm? Water it maybe? I had no idea so it moved around a lot. For a while, it was on my mind. It stayed there a long time but eventually I had to move it because it had started to take the uneven, jagged shape of the surface it was lying on. After that I hid it in my hard drive. The constant whirring made it happy, kept it warm. I think it liked that, even though it never got much sun. Then again, hearts aren't like plants I don't think. They don't need sunlight to survive. It sat on my desk for ages.

"Dmitri, you're going to be late!" she called, ironing her son's clean white shirt. A non-committal groan came from his bedroom. She shook her head and muttered to herself about how that boy was going to lose his job and then what would happen? She carefully slid the shirt onto a hanger, smoothing out invisible wrinkles that only she could see. Creeping quietly into her eldest son's room, she hung the shirt from the handle of the old dresser, stopping for a minute to wipe the marble top quickly with a soft cloth she always kept in the pocket of her apron. She padded softly to the bed, where Dmitri had covered his eyes to keep out the first in

Scarlet tears racing down pale cheeks. They'd later find glass In his brain. It came in through his windows. She hid her lunch, Sandwich and orange, In a secret place So she could eat Even after they Tipped her bag out Over the bin. Cowardy, cowardy custard, he chanted to himself. Squared his strong jaw Cleared his throat. Adjusted his blonde wig, His perfect faux breasts And hid his Adam's apple Behind a cashmere scarf. She watched them, Kissing in the park. Envy burned her every vein. To kiss her lover under the trees was tempting fate. Looking dapper In his navy uniform, He carried his kit bag Across the dr