Catch a Daisy

Ask me to marry you and I’ll refuse, say that you love me and I’ll let you put a ring on my finger.

Brightest Eyes

When I was younger, a group of us would walk home from school. It was only a few blocks, down some streets. But on the way there was one house, with an old man and an apple tree. We’d always stop and he’d let us pick an apple. The sweetest, juiciest apple ever bitten. He was a nice old man. But then high school came, and I took a different route home. A year later I mussed the apple. So changed my way to walk by his house. Looking back now, I find at this age I would never have accepted an apple from him, Guilt is always expected before innocence. But I was young then, innocent myself. Three times a week I would pass his house, and he would always mile, nod at the tree. Sometimes comment on the weather. Two years later, when I cut down to twice a week, he began pointing out the best ones. He’d reach up and picked the brightest one, he’d call it, just like my eyes. We’d make a few minutes of conversation now. Another two years and he could no longer reach the brightest  apples. It’s the back, he’d say, like it wasn’t really a part of him. He'd point, that’s the one. And it always would be the sweetest and juiciest. I’d sit with him now, wand we’d talk. About anything really, this and that. I could sit there for an hour before I realised the time. I asked him once if children still passed on their way home. Kids are too cautious these days he sighed.

And now, after all that, I stand here, after coming for a week and finding no one. There’s a movers truck out front, man with red eyes shifting everyone around. Maybe he feels my gaze because he turns, and looks at me.

“You want an apple?” He nods towards the tree. It’s like a mimic almost, but too much effort to be right. Awkward really.

I look at the tree, the dull apples sitting there. “No thanks.” It wouldn’t be bright if he didn’t pick it. “Was it his back?” I asked, the question seeming dumb upon my lips.

He seemed confused. “There never was anything wrong with his back.”

“Oh.”

He had moved to stand before me, within reach. “It was his heart, just gave out finally.” He sniffed, I could tell he was sad. “Too much staring at pretty girls he always said. Never really made sense though, ain’t been able to stare at anything much for the past years.”

“Oh.” I said no more, and he slowly moved away. I went towards the apple tree, the fruit still seeming dull. I closed my eyes, reached up, picked an apple. It was the sweetest, juiciest apple. He was in that apple, smiling upon me finding his secret. It’s something you feel, he had once said. Eyes closed I could find the brightest apple. Except he hadn’t needs to close his eyes.

Pick Apart a Flower

 A person is like a flower. They start as a seed, then come into the world. They grow, until they bloom and shed colours and happiness on the world. Then they share their seeds and more flowers are born. All the while they are helped by the soil and sun. A flower cannot survive alone, just as a person cannot.

Chance

He lay against her sleeping bones, feeling the dirt caress his naked head. In his hand he could feel the small glass resting against his fingers, it smooth exterior judgement to what lay beneath. His escape. In his minds ecstasy of grief he saw her, golden air dancing along with the wind. The wind that even now embraced him, unlike her. He rose, coming to sit, facing the stone with the words that would never fade. Just like his love for her. A hand came across the stone and he felt the imprint that had long been etched into his mind. He swept his breath into his mind and brushed the bottle against his lips. It was empty. Confused he remained still, not knowing how this nothingness slipt down his throat. His escape had lain in there before.
“Excuse me.” He turned with a start, unsure, to find a woman standing before him. Brown hair flew across her face, shadows throwing themselves against her in the dark. “I’m lost, could you help me?”
In honest actions he rose, and a smile placed itself across his face. A smile long forgotten.
“Maybe some things aren’t meant to happen.” And the bottle lay to collect dirt on the ground.

Stealing Fate

It seems like only moments ago I was whisked away. Off into the reality of my past, the reality of my future. But not, the reality of my present. I left the present, stole it from my own grasp, gave it to someone else. A little boy it was, sitting on the street as they do, crying. They all cried. Why wouldn’t they when they knew they would never experience life like they we do. They would never get to slip into their life once they died. This was boy was one that would be born again, another life he would have to suffer on the many he had already bore. There was only one way to change it, to take this boy from his written fate. He needed a life. So I gave him mine. I took his hands in mine and smiled, he tried to protest, for my new fate would be worse than his. But I was firm, and grazingly I gave him my present. The present now he would live in, till his death came when he was let to wander the Otherlife. Where there was no bad. I would get no such sanctuary. Eternity would allow me to wander my past, and to wander to future I would have gained. It was for me to mourn what I had lost, to punish me for touching the book of fate. But I will not let myself mourn, when there is one less boy crying out there. That at least, is what I tell myself.

Stealing Fate

Dreams on a Trampoline

Dreams on a Trampoline


The trampoline has always seemed to revolve around things. I
remember how my sister had lain there with her boyfriend, and they had talked,
laughing without stealing glances around them. He had then treated her roughly,
not in a bad way, but like he didn’t see the need to protect her. The last time
they had lain there, he handled her with care, like a delicate porcelain vase
that need polishing. Three weeks later she announced that she was pregnant. And
now, I watch as my other sister lies there with her boyfriend, just like the
others that had been there before. And it makes me wonder, how will he treat
her?

One Day

One day.

Somewhere out there, there is a place for everyone. A world that everyone can call their own. Most will never discover it and the few that do will never really go there. Their minds will take them to the place they see but their bodies will stay away.

The few that discover their world are the unlucky ones though. They will spend their life longing for the place in which they believe. Some may search for it, but it can never be found.

So they must live with what they have. Their minds and their hearts.

These people never lose hope, they always believe.

So if you wish to be one of those people, you must start to see the world inside of you, let your heart guide you. You must believe.

One day.

By You this is Seen as Trival

We sit there, chatting aimlessly, talking of this and that. That new politician, they’re a real clincher. They won by three nil, fancy that. It was tight towards the end. That dress, does purple really suit. There’s a party this weekend. Beach tomorrow anyone? All these things, trifles really, no matter how important they are. Minds pass over and then leave as dessert is served. Tea and coffee will come. Decaf? There’s that new honey brand, only the best here. No less trivial than before. Each time a new start begins it is treated the same, nothing important, just for conversations sake. Cups empty, spoons clatter. Did you hear of those people? The bushwalkers. Got lost in the bush. Been drinking too much. Not serious bushwalkers, really. Who brings more than a beer on a bushwalk? Darn stupid really. Maybe not right in the head? Didn’t say that on the news. News lies. No more than stupid buggers, got ‘emselves killed. Too right. Really, probably better they skinted, who knows what people like that could do to our society. Just trifles, trivial things. Plates sitting in the sink. Still talking. Hasn’t passed from the trivial. Those bushwalkers. Wonder what they were thinking. Maybe wanted done for it. Drank themselves down. Not smart enough to think of that. Stupid them. Not fit for society. Not for us certainly. Oh boys. Stupid. Unfit. Dumb. Challenged. Stupid. Don’t you realise there’s people mourning for those men?

Everyone leaves.