Blogger/Vlogger/Writer
I awake, a cold breath filling my lungs. Slipping out of my sleeping bag, I search for the radiant heat of a small ember to stoke the fire. Lilly is still sleeping, and the sun will bring us no warmth on this day.
This piece of microfiction is a character story from my apocalyptic novella Every Yard Is A Grave. Character stories are small glimpses into a character’s life before, during, and after the book.
I closed my eyes, and the nightmare went away, those masked faces that haunt my day.
But the dreams soon followed, and I could see; mouths sewn shut, never to be free.
“Wicked me this, and stave off the pot—give up your friend, and death find you not.”
“Eat me at will; my flesh is with rot—poisonous to witches cold or hot.”
“A winter stew it will be, rot or not—the pot is for rats, and they’ll like you hot.”
“This rhyming must end, for I must go—his name is Matt, and I never liked him anyway.”
Left for you to see
A flattened cigarette butt
At every doorway
Haiku are short — very short — poems
In this haiku, vice is litter
A moment of truth slips silently past. Your inner voice goes unheard, and that gut feeling gets suppressed with Tums. You hide in plain sight, but the predator sees you. And you perish from the earth.
With one last breath, the body exhaled, deflating into death, its soul rising or falling with it, depending on a life lived. “A voyage we will all take one day,” said the priest.
It’s not your addiction that binds you to a life of hell; you want to do it; say no, and it will stop. There is no other way. No one can do it for you. It has and will always be your choice.
Misplaced are the days of youth when disgusting porn is only a click away. Eyes that once sparkled have dimmed, replaced with dark dreams of innocents lost.
A beautiful day
BREAKING–SUN IS BRIGHT–HIDE NOW
Ruined by drama
Haiku are short — very short — poems
In this haiku, turn it off
The body released her soul, and I looked up, my one-year-old niece in my arms. We waved goodbye as my father wailed uncontrollably; he would not see his wife again for another five years.
Timothy French 