Crisp Apple Orchards

Running through the orchard.
Rabbits running haywire.
The country breeze scattering stones on
the country road.
The long, winding country road.

It's that kind of season.
We've waited hours for the storm to come.
The wind picks up.
It won't set us down.

We wait patiently for Summer.
We can see what we plunder.
The skies never darken here.
The rain never comes.
The declining years are in for the long haul.

Alice's Intervention

The bright light cascaded down like the light that follows sickly sweet angelic choirs. Alice coughed, a haggard sound escaped her deathly ribcage. A face came into view. The face was obscured, just a shadow thanks to the choir of angels and sneak thieves. She thought what a pity that was because the face, although blurred seemed so handsome. She coughed, a sickly stream of serpent lava... the face came into view. He was handsome, he looked just like an angel. His steel blue eyes gazing down at her with such concern. She murmured something about 'sneak thieves, drug dreams' and then noticed the stethoscope.

She came back to earth, to the hospital for sick humanity. Alice wondered if she was still human but the burning in her veins told her she was at least on the same plain of existence as them. She coughed again, blood curdling and frothing from her mouth. Her teeth chattered at the sensation. She gripped the morphine dispenser, an old and familiar ally and pumped it through her system so fast her veins shook.

Drink The Poison

'And is she the reason why he's dead?'
No one could nod but no one could defend her either.
It seemed like the ultimate catch 22.
'She flew away right before he did it you know', remarked one woman dressed with bouffant hair and a dead fox wrapped around her slender neck.
'I heard she did it on purpose!' 'The nerve of the woman!' 'A witch!' agreed another .
Was there any real way to fight the accusations from people who weren't even there? Who had no intimate knowledge of the events that had transpired. 'It's pointless' sighed the bride. 'I might as well drink the poison'.

Carnivores

Every day there is more of you and less of me.
There is no substitute for our reality.
Your canines shine in the dark, the gleam blinding those who
were caught at the wrong angle.
When will the bite cause the blow?
When will the zebra fall to the strength of the lion?
My blood is on your paws.
Your mouth is an open wound.
I'll infect you long after I have left your mind.
You lick your canines clean.

Copyright Microsoft

You are systematically erased.
Your eternal life now void.
It's useless.
It's restless.
The monster in your head is starving.
The monster in your head is weak.
So what are you now?
What can you feel now?

Your sheen, your digital glow.
As impotent as withered fruit.
Your sheen, when the world is too clean.
The germs attack.
The germs react.
The virus in your machine
has nothing left to eat.
The virus in your machine
has eaten everything we had.
So what are you?
Did you do enough now?

The Operating Table By Danielle Searby

Xerox faces staring back at me.
White walls mocking tranquility.
Chrome reflections morph the truth.
Scientists promise the fountain of youth.

Surgical steel and a rubber glove.
Bright lights grant halos from above.
Rushed into the quiet room.
The cleanliness of comatose doom.

From the world of plastic.
Copied expressions and stretched elastic.
White light and humming to calm the mind.
Lobotomies and pleasantries strangle mankind.

Blurred

Svelte little girls are running in circles behind my eyes.
When I was blind everything was a blur.
Thin ankles looked thick.
My hair is falling out with the lines of age,
the lies of age and I hear a snicker behind my back.
I used to enjoy that snicker but now it is a poison bullet.
Pretty bones and soft brown hair.
The dreams they promised to prepare.
I feel deflated.
I used to be fire.
Am I part of the exclusivity now?
I'm left waiting.
There is no reply
....
....
There never will be 'til the day I die.

My lips are always painted but the colour has changed.
My pretty bones, milky white and raised.
How easy it was to return to default.
When imagination comes to a grinding halt.
You lied to me.
Your perfection is obscene.
No one said you could wake me from my dream.

Previously published in Ophelia Street.