Alive Standing on the edge, kissed by the salt spray dance of the waves The wheeling bird call soaring in the sky Embraced into clouds a hue of grey and purple and frosty blue Feet cushioned by a rich tapestry of fauna The wind entwining it's fingers in my hair Its briskness born of the ocean, and breathing sail boats to motion There is only one feeling like this To be alive So I'm casting off worries and doubts The undercurrent pulls them away Into the bleak of beyond This is how it feels to be alive Embrace it

The Storm When the storm tore through we had nothing to do But reminisce over stories of me and you Uncertain of whether we'd get through the night We clung to each other, bathed in candlelight I traced your features, fingers eager to drink in Every line, every quirk, every inch of your skin We reassured ourselves 'this storm won't see us done, 'Not when our story has still just begun' The wine kicked in as the wind howled outside But in your eyes I found my place to hide In the morning they found us Still holding together Another tragedy corresponded via sad letter Of lovers who'd really had nothing to do But take comfort in what they knew to be true Their love, their #life, their time that was shared Because really, it was just nice to know that you cared #promptschallenge

I Was At A Loss For What To Do, So I Started Something New Three months had passed without incident since the herd had torn through the town. Buildings still lay in crumpled masses, mere husks of stone and thatch, a testament to the lives that had been crushed underneath. Smoke billowed across the town, bellowing forth from the open fire that provided comfort and warmth to the few residents left, those who resolutely refused to leave the ravage that they still deemed home. And to call it home would seem a stretch to anyone else. What had once been a small yet thriving town was now nothing short of a ruin. The residents made do as best they could, many had dug almost liveable accommodation from the wreckage, removing the majority of the rubble from the buildings that were the most structurally sound and patching up the remnants of the thatch and wood roofs as best they could. Jovial laughter and coarse jokes could be heard emanating from the fireside, a sense of normalcy in a broken town. The people of this town were simple folk, they respected their homeland, living in relative harmony with the flora and fauna and wild cackling oddities that made up the creatures of the land. Others joked that these were backwards people; that they belonged in trees and burrows and not the homes of good honest folk. Darker tales alluded to violence and bloodshed, telling tales that the people of this town had taken the buildings by force from more civilised folk, but those tales of murder and cannibalism didn’t seem to sit well on their soft faces and gentle eyes. The laughter and homely calm was a stark contrast to the day of the incident. That day those great beasts had ripped down homes like they were nothing, uprooting the people of this town like trees ripped from the soil. Screams had clung to the air like a thick cloak of misery, choking down on the people as they tried to flee. That day the world turned red. Those who had tried to run were engulfed in despair that was as white hot as the flames, dropping to their knees at the massacre before them. Their eyes hurt, breath rasping in their throats as they watched the town melt before them, buildings burning with an intensity they had never seen. The flames were rage itself, as if emitted from a vengeful god whose hatred knew no remorse nor boundary. After the chaos passed ash rained from the sky, settling like blackened snow on the charred bodies of the townsfolk. Those who had run now returned, wordlessly clearing and burying the unidentifiable bodies of their loved ones, each face an unreadable mask as they set about their work. The tears had come later.

Cheeky Little Repost From 18 Months Ago Under the stairs was where I found it, tucked away beneath a break in the splintered floorboards, and so clogged with dust I’d swear it could choke; only rationality reminded me otherwise. The once beautiful wooden lid was layered thick with grime, and I could almost chart the years across its surface, the many times it had been missed in the spring clean all mounted up, like the rings found in the trunks of trees tale telling their age. Gingerly I reached out a finger, ran it through that coating of neglect, exposing the still brilliant deep mahogany, the shine of varnish that had been untouched for so long. The box itself was quite small, no larger than a sheet of A5 paper, with smoothly curved corners on either side of the lid which was held in place by a silver lock. I blew heavily upon it, sending clumps of dust flying into my face, causing me to splutter momentarily. Blinking heavily my eyes graced upon what my efforts had exposed, a lock intricate and delicate, with a filigree of leaves and vines that wound across each other towards the keyhole. Supporting the box in one hand (and feeling the contents within slide across its base as it sloped) I reached into my pocket and fumbled for the key, blanching as my finger tips came into contact with the old crumbs and tiny dust bunnies that lurked within. Grasping the key I pulled it out, pausing a moment to marvel at how its decoration so well matched that lock, causing excitement to bubble within me. When I had found the key I knew at once it was special. It had also been hidden, stowed away in the secret compartment of my grandmother’s jewellery box, given to me as an inheritance on her death. I had never really known my grandmother. In my blurred and vague memories I remember snow white hair that curled across her head, I remember skin so thin it looked translucent, wrinkled like tissue paper and just as breakable. But that’s all I remember, ghosts of conversation, snippet recalls of her voice, but nothing more. The jewellery box might have held many treasures, but I wouldn’t have known; it had already been picked through by my other relatives before it reached me, despite the fact that its entire contents were supposed to be mine. I had been left with the meagre remains; a stopwatch that had ticked its last, a battered old silver brooch which had once held beautiful blue stones now clutching at the pitiful remainder of two, and a plain gold wedding band, suitable only for the fingers of a man. My relatives, specifically my aunts who had looked after me ever since my parents had died, were only interested in shimmering and dazzling gems, so the wedding band had been overlooked and underappreciated, and neither of them had even paused to wonder why it was there when my granddad had been buried wearing his. But I had wondered. My grandfather had died well before my birth, but I always remember my mother telling me how wonderful he was, how his love for my grandmother had been as strong in old age as in their youth and how they both had beautiful carved wedding bands, and that he had been buried wearing his, and my grandmother planned to do the same. So on finding that ring I had wondered. Not in a suspicious way, my innocent thoughts had gone instantly to assuming it to be my great grandfathers, or maybe a brother’s or a cousin, the knowledge of its original owner lost by the years. It was only on finding that secret compartment, exposed when, by accident; my elbow caught that box as it sat on my dresser, sending it hurtling to the floor where it impacted with a startling crash. The pretty little jewellery box had broken in pieces, and that secret draw had gone sliding on the wood floor, finally stopping as it hit the skirting board. I sat in dazed horror staring at the mess, eye brimming with tears at the realisation that I had broken my most precious gift, fists clenched in frustration as my thoughts taunted me with ulterior scenarios, ones where I caught the box, or it fell on a cushion, or did anything but break apart so easily. I had eventually forced myself to move, collecting up all the little parts, leading to the discovery of that secret compartment, and the key, and a tiny little note that simply said ‘I will love you until the end of time itself’.

Autumn In The Forest Mist hangs in the air Bellowed forth from the lungs of a blackened stag. His imprint scars the landscape Antlers tangled in twisted thorns Soft underfoot This land yields to my steps This forest smells of rain It scatters in a flurry of droplets, shaken from vivid fox fur His cunning is of the trees, an autumnal undercurrent that washes through the stillness Flashes of gold and red clinging crisply on To twigs that snap under my steps Wind chills to the bone Icy claws scraping against cool stone, a badger scrabbling for purchase His fur consumes the weather, imperfect grey of slush and snow melding into the depths Of his wild stare That scatters at my steps And what am I? Grown not from the forest Ginger hair flung wildly back, the wind does not address me, it fights me This snow does not welcome me, it trips me These thorns are not of me, they seek to part me And the leaves seem to die at my touch I am not a child of this forest And I do not belong