Theatre Masks


Theater Masks Silhouette.png

(Credit: Elizabeth J. Aragon,

Can we change masks now?

I am getting tired of crying, and I think the wrinkles in the brow are making furrows in my brain.

You promised me that they were only masks and that they would not change who we really are. But during the days which turned to weeks which turned to months, my face seems to have been ever better moulded to fit this grotesque façade, and I worry that time will turn these foreign features to stone.

So give me your smile.

Surely, it is my turn to be the happy one by now.





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?

In The Forest

The trees surrounding me are like four severed forearms, elongated fingers reaching far above my head, but still an eternity from the sky. Perhaps they will be satisfied with tearing holes in reality where they can and I think they have already done so, because when the wind blows I glimpse a void behind the foliage and I can feel it sucking me in. And I wonder how the rest of the forest can seem so unaffected. The dripping from the trees mingling with the bird song in the air, the smell of moist earth, a ray of sun peeking out from behind a could and making a rainbow in a cobweb filled with pearls.

How can this world be torn?

I have to move or I will be dragged into nothing, so I climb the muddy hill behind me. I slip and slide and get grimy hands, but even as I near the top I sink deeper into the hole that I dug for myself. I don’t expect your sympathy, after all I could have let the spade stay in the shed, but I hope you understand how hard it can be to clamber out once one has reached the bottom. Not that I expect you can see the hole. I could try showing you, if you want, but there is a risk of me pulling you down instead of you helping me out.

A Summer House Toilet

toilet wooden seat


He sighed as he released his stream into the toilet bowl. The wooden seat of the toilet was so aesthetically pleasing. The next time he moved, it would have to be to somewhere with a toilet like that.

It was the first day of a whole week of relaxation with his closest family; his parents, his uncle, his sister and then of course his sister’s new boyfriend, but he seemed really nice and it would surely last much longer with him than it had with the others.

His girlfriend, Jessica, had gone on holiday with her own parents, so she could not come this time, but she had a chance again next year.

He looked at the blue bathtub and smiled as he remembered all the times he had let himself soak for half an hour in hot lavender scented water. Next year maybe he and Jessica could have a bath together.

A mark on the seat of the toilet caught his attention. A sentence was carved into the wood. It said: ‘Bob was here.’ It had to be one of the people who had rented the summer house during the year.

‘What lack of respect,’ he thought, a dull anger simmered in his gut, ‘towards both the owners of the house and towards all the people who rented after Bob.’ He shook himself off and put down the seat with a slam.

‘Are you done in there?’ asked his father through the door.

‘In a minute!’ he went to wash his hands. His father was so impatient and his uncle spoke so slowly, they would be bickering this evening. And every evening in the coming week. And his sister and her lover would probably only show up during meals, and his mother would come with lewd comments about that and guess about how long his sister’s relationship would last behind his sister’s back, and he could see his mother had a point, because honestly, he could not remember whether this boyfriend was called Dave or Dylan. And in between it all there would be all the questions about Jessica and about why she had not joined them.

He sighed and longed to go home.



I was hypnotised by the fire in your eyes,

But I confused a candle flame for the moon,

And now I’ll never escape your hair.

No matter how much I eat through your clothes,

I’ll never reach your heart;

Your skin is marble.

In your closet, I can dream of our love,

Writhing around the poison you’ve left especially for me.

I know I should leave,

And I would,

If actions could travel directly from my brain to my limbs.

But old delusions keep pushing action aside,

And as I stand mesmerised,

Your hair only wraps me tighter.


(Credit: Adventure Time)

(Credit: Adventure Time)

A sound and a pang from her stomach make her rise from Gilly Stinson’s facebook page, the wall flooded with messages Gilly will never read, and go into the kitchen. She looks at the stove contemplating what she would like to eat, opens the fridge to see what it would be possible to make. She has ketchup, some unwashed potatoes, soy sauce, her heart, cheese (out of date), a cucumber, a litre of orange juice and a slosh of milk. She closes the fridge. On her shelf she has a bag of pasta less than a quarter full, canned mackerel, canned tomatoes, canned memories (out of date), and canned maize. She sucks her teeth, opens the fridge, closes it, looks at the shelf, opens the fridge takes out the cucumber and puts it on the table.

She makes herself canned tomatoes with maize and cucumber and puts what is left of the pasta in water to boil.

Half the water from the pasta bubbles out of the pot onto the stove and cleaning it up she burns the back of her hand on the pot. She bites her lip and tastes iron in her mouth. She eats her pasta and tomato sauce with the old cheese sprinkled over it, sometimes dipping the end of a two days old loaf of bread. She washes it all down with orange juice and rationalisations of her past actions.

‘You couldn’t have helped the wretched girl if you wanted to,’ she whispers.

When she is done eating, the hole in her stomach is still there and as she washes up, she wets her cheeks.

Stuck in a Maze


I have heard that if you just keep right in a maze, you will eventually find your way out, but it seems this course keeps bringing us back to the same place or at least an identical place.

I have heard that everything changes, but I cannot find any alterations in our situation and I find no alterations in you. In fact, looking at you I wonder if this is the day we met.

Sparks still fly between us both the pleasant and the scorching ones, but my shoulders have grown heavy.

Maybe the only thing that has changed is how I feel.

Bag of Memories


I have a bag of memories which I don’t know what to do with. If I burn them, they will never again warm me as they once did, but as it is now every time I pick them up they scorch my heart. So I suppose I’ll just have to hide them away for a while and hope that the pain fades faster than the sunshine.


Asian forest scorpion (Heterometrus laoticus) ...

Asian forest scorpion (Heterometrus laoticus) in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

She jabs poison at me, but I dance around it very cleverly, if I should say so myself. I have learnt to label my feelings and thus, I can experience and recognize the emotion of wanting to twist her pretty little head off without actually doing it right here in the office. Of course, I still have not quite given up on my cyanide-soup idea.

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