Left -short short story

They write notes to each other on post-its, until they run out of paper one day and they start to scrawl on the fridge instead. Black and red and blue all mingled together till the white is all but a memory. He doesn't remember who started it, might have been him. Probably wasn't. Two cups stand on the sink, side by side; one large for coffee, one gigantic for tea. The cups migrated out of the cupboards months ago, it was just too much work; opening and closing and reaching. His hands itch to break them both, but he doesn't. Instead he plucks out an ordinary glass and fills it with water. He takes one sip, then two, before throwing the rest away. Right now there would be a gentle reprimand concerning water conservation. The quiet screams in his ears and he flees the kitchen.

The living room is also much too quiet for comfort. His hands automatically go to the stereo and put the records on shuffle. Too late he remembers when they last listened to this particular mix. He can't bring himself to push the stop button though, not when the music starts with the soft gentleness of Adagio. His thoughts stutter to a halt and he listens with horror at the much too familiar words. The door bell chiming saves him from any more reminiscing and he takes money to pay for the pizza. The tip is plentiful, he just can't concentrate on something as petty as counting money right now. Five hours till the plane ride home, this isn't his place anymore. With a look at the empty hangers by the door he wonders if it ever was.

Masquerade

Play the show to its end,

it’s all we have to do.

Keep the masks on to hide

what we’re feeling inside.

It’s not me that is playing, it’s not you.

The audience is waiting

for another drama play.

They like the blood to flow

and teary eyes to glow.

It’s their world my love, it’s their way.

So play for me a murderer

and I will be your fool.

Let’s show them how it’s done

until their need is gone.

To gain we must suffer, it’s the rule.

For they live through the theatre

and need to know it’s real,

so play this well and get a boon.

Oh, hush love, it’s over soon.

Death’s our final pay, that’s the deal.

Weightless -poem

While we’re falling there is peace,

that utter rapture of knowing

that nothing can hurt you,

until you land.

When you leap, you’re safe.

There’s nothing to understand;

you know everything.

The air is like the breath of gods,

loving your fortitude.

You know it’s not the time

for anything but dreaming.

The dreams are real;

it’s all the same.

Your name a whisper

on the lips of the weaver.

You spread your arms

and you soar on time.

The Dark Is Rising Travesty

Well, the trailers are up for this next fantasy blockbuster movie. The Dark Is Rising indeed, Susan Cooper's wonderful series of books have been raped and pillaged and twisted into American commercialism at its worst. My heart aches for one of the brightest memories of my childhood having been violated in this manner.

1) Everyone but two of the cast are American, now that wouldn't necessarily be a problem, but they also sound American. The set even looks American for pity's sake.
2) Will is an angsty teenager with girl troubles instead of a pure and goodhearted 11 year old.
3) Arthurian myth and legend? Arthur who?
4) Seventh son of a seventh son, err.... where are the rest of the siblings?

And just, no.

No, no, no.

But don't take my word for it, look at the trailers.
The American one almost made me cry.
The international one is slightly better, but that will only bring you a false sense of security.

Don't trust the Dark!

The American Trailer for the Dark Is Rising




The International Trailer for The Dark Is Rising



I'm not saying you shouldn't see the movie. I'm going to watch it myself. I'm just going to [pretend] it's a completely different story that has absolutely nothing to do with the original. Which, won't be that far a strentch of the imagination really.

Change Html to BB Code

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Cheers!

Yeah, I don't drink. Used to be a Good Templar Youth and everything, but when inspiration strikes, what are you going to do?

A toast to us;
for health, and sorrow.
Today, tomorrow -
long will we reign.
Hey friend, remember -
if the glass is half empty,
it means you can fill it
again.

Compassion - Fiction Drabble - 100 words.

Hospital smell, shoes on rubber floor. He hardly knows the woman in the other room and the man walking out is a stranger. A blank face greets him. So it's over now. Empty words lie heavy in the pit of his stomach. He is not a friend, or a lover, or family. He is no one to this desolate soul. But he is the only one here. Glimmer of a moment. He hesitates. The man takes a seat. Hands clasped, head lowered. This is grief then, hesitations are through. He places his hand on a shaking shoulder, and holds on.

Doctor Terrorist. Is it really that shocking?

They say that eight of the terrorists in the latest London debacle were doctors. Many people are shocked and dismayed at these news. I am not shocked. Dismayed, yes. Shocked, no. Though it's easy to think that all terrorists are cut from the same block, things are rarely that simply. Both history and literature teaches us that being a doctor does not necessarily equate being a healer. Hippocratic oath? More like hypocrisy. Just goes to show that intelligence and book learning does not replace wisdom and some good old fashioned common sense.

Rainy Day

Being that as it may -I quite enjoy a good storm now and again. I actually thought the rain ended much too soon. It was the first real pounding-into-the-ground rain we've gotten this summer. Had I been a few years younger I would have pouted over the fact that we got no thunder, but I like my computer not getting zapped or fried, so I guess I'm ok with that.