Roaring and Flying

Hear me roar thirtyfootscrew

(Credit: thirtyfootscrew on flickr )

Sometimes I want to turn into a giant mouth and roar at the world. It’s like a shock through my nervous system. One minute I’m doing the dishes, then shock! Cue roaring.

But I know roaring will only make things worse, so I remember the exhilaration of flight; the moment of breaking through the clouds to where the light burns the eyes and the wind whips away everything but the very core of ones being.

I remember being up there,



and free.

Then I can release the roar with a sigh and continue with the dishes.

The Bard And The Magician


(Credit: Wizards of the Coast, this from The Sha’tar EU)

The notes branched out from the bard, some ending in fantastic flourishes, some spiralling down until they were just on the verge of hearing, then, surging back up, they soared above our heads and vanished in the clouds. We half expected phoenixes to appear, to dance around him and nest in his music.

But then the Magician arrived.

She always warned us about beauty. It always comes from pain one way or another, so she told us, and there is no one in this world who can produce beauty and who has not at some point used it to manipulate another and caused pain by doing so. We knew then and still know now that she only wants to protect us, but we were sorry to see her so soon that day.

We stepped back to let her pass, and she strode up to the bard, her robes billowing behind her, leaving a scent of lilac. She looked him in the eye with a serious expression in her face, and the bard smiled and nodded at her and kept playing.

Then she opened the electric blue eye in her forehead, the eye that sees only truth, the eye that sees straight into the heart, mind and soul of a being, and the bard trembled, but kept playing.

She closed her electric blue eye with a sigh.

‘I know,’ she said to the bard in a low voice, ‘I know about,’ and she whispered something we could not hear, and the music withered and died.

Gulls Fleeing


(Credit: Glenda Green,

Gulls are screeching overhead. Some are resting in their nests others circle high above, and I know that if I go much closer, they will swoop down on me. I sit down on a rock and watch some of then fly out over the ocean. More follow them. And more. It seems the whole colony is out there. I frown and look to the cliffs. They are empty, they’ve left their nests. All of them at once. Why would they do that, I wonder, as I gaze after them. Then a rumble behind me spreads to under me and I look to the volcano.

Then I wish I too had wings to flee out over the ocean.

69 Annoyance

Angry old man

I am most certainly not just an angry old man, I just need people to stop being such idiots around me. I mean, look at this, all my toast is ruined. How am I going to make a cheese sandwich now?

I don’t care about her age, if she’s old enough to toast bread, then she’s old enough not to burn it.

I could have had more bread, but someone couldn’t read a shopping list. I put three things on that list, and white bread was very first one. Three things. And you came home with all these lichen fruits or whatever they’re called and pomegrenades and no white bread. Not a single slice.

Well I can assure you that I will do all my own shopping in the future.

Hopefully they’ve got those machines now, so I can pay without having to deal with those imbeciles they put behind the counter.

68 Hero


I need a hero, but not you.

You’re strong, no one disagrees with you on that,

And you say that you’re just, no one dares disagree with you on that,

And that is the problem.

Heroes should always be honest of course, but shouldn’t ordinary people be allowed to be honest too?

And when you help people, it seems it is only with your own interests in mind.

I heard you even charged old Mrs. Higgs for getting her grey tomcat down from the Christmas tree in the square.

And your eyes. They’re so hungry.

I fear that if I fell into your arms, I’d never be free again.

So if you are the only hero available, I think I’d be better off with a villain.

67 Playing the Melody


(Credit: Oleg Shuplyak,

“Do you hear that?”



I’m playing,

Not listening,


With your heart,

With your mind.


Let it happen.”


“Is that a piano?”


“Piano strings, heart strings,

I play them all.

I’ll give you wings,

To fly

Into a wall,

To lie

To you about and let you fall

Off a high building.

Metaphorically of course,

But we are in your head.”


“You’re going to kill me?”



Oh no,

I would never


My hands with your blood.

It wouldn’t be clever,

And it would cause me pain

To see that red flood,

Deliciously real, not merely ostensible, pain.”


“So you… care? For me?”


“I love you!

As the vulture loves his feast

As beauty was loved by the beast

Before he tore her to shreds.”


“I think we’ve heard different versions of that story.”




Let yourself go,

And I’ll let you know,

Let me win,

And I’ll tell the story you are in.”

Symmetrical World


(Credit: Vinayaraj, wikipedia)

In your mind, the world is perfectly symmetrical. For every good there is an evil, for every colour there is a complement and for every point there is a counterpoint.

Does that mean that somewhere there is a person who is my complement? Someone who is happy when I am unhappy and who bought a red bicycle when I decided on a green car?

Does that mean that if I work to become happier, he will become more unhappy? Would it then be wrong of me then to increase my own happiness?

And on a larger scale, would it be impossible for everyone to be happy at once?

I hope you are wrong.

Because it seems incredibly unfair to me, if it is impossible for someone to be happy unless someone else is in the dumps.

What does it take?



And yet it lives the disgusting creature.

I’ve tried sprinkling it with salt. I’ve tried drowning it, drenching it with the garden hose. I’ve even tried beating it with my shoe.

One should think it would at least be scared off at some point, but no. It seems determined to mar my beautiful garden.

Until I find out what it takes to get rid of a man.



There used to be a forest here. Long ago. When I was baby, they ripped up the trees and bushes. They probably used the wood as fuel. Then they covered the ground with a layer of sand and then they covered that with asphalt.

And yet it lives.

This small flower has made a crack in their road. It has thrust its yellow leaves on their black and grey world.

And it thrives.

The Power of Words


(Credit: Stephanie Rew,

The Speaker of the Empress is composed. Her hands are hidden in her kimono sleeves, her tone is cold, but her eyes are burning and her boiling words bubble over the podium and wash over the audience. She has already awoken the rage in the front rows; I can feel it like a pulse in my gut. It would be so easy to give in, but no matter how true my heart feels her words to be, my head knows that this is wrong. I know that when she says justice she talks of revenge.

And yet it lives, the hate she has ignited in me.

If only I could stomp it out; in me and in my fellows. If only I could put an end to this before it begins.

But how can one person stop a war?

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