Lost Tweet

This is from a tweet I twittered earlier in the year. I don’t know what I was on when I wrote it, but whatever it was I clearly need to find some more!

Under the darkest moon,
Beneath the smouldering leaves,
The grasses burning in snow,
Wrapped by feathered sheet,
She sleeps in a frigid bed.
S.H.

Captain’s Speech

I hereby declare, for all those fettered and not, to go among the sun on this of all the days, to seek their tidings, to grasp their glories, and to reach into the abyss of all that was hence before unknown. Yorkshire follower make yourself known, to the skies, to the trees, to the trampled grass that lays in wait for battles of far off days. The paths you tread now are worn to the bone of the earth by those within thousands of years past by, their victories no less potent in the hearts of us all than those which you forge each day to the next, a lift of your hand like the lift of their sword. Let the bleak day come and have it cast away like sea water spattering off your bow, a luckless thing of ash and ruin. Today let you be free, free to seek what tries so desperately to hide from your ever weary eyes, what has outrun your fingertips like the stag from the hunter’s bow. Lest this day be forgotten, and forever will it be remembered, in the tails of old and the songs of children, this is the day we take the air back, the space we dwell within, and keep it there until and ever again we may be needed to snatch it back from whichever daemons’ foul grip. S.H.

The Hero Walks

A gentle walk across a sparking bridge. The trees leaning over the banks like nosy neighbours gave a shuffle, as if they were quickly trying to change their position while I wasn’t looking. I gave them roughly three more seconds of my suspicion before my path began to openly crave my attention. The Sun was falling towards the western hills and kicking its last few rays across the freshly showered bridge, the stones like glass that had been stained with bronzed and coal colours, all mixed around with a painters brush. The river ran, as fast as it could, below my feet, fleeing, it seemed to me, a deathly foe placed higher up and deeply set in the mountains. S.H.

The Deepening Fog Pt. 3

The kill had been sloppy, I'd known it, but it had been so long since I had had to use any of those skills, any of that training, that I just did it. But I would have to refine things from now on, I knew that, and hope my first slip up was my last. If I was to find her again, there was nothing that could go wrong, it had to run like machinery, every time, when I had to, I had to do it right. A blackening tinge began to fill the edges of my view, and I wondered if I should again chance another rest. But as I ran on the darkness continued to slowly flow over everything, like an inky drizzle, and I knew it wasn't fatigue. Night was coming. Slinking up behind me like a ghoul after my skin. But the darker it got, the better off I would be. The darker it got, the less would my pursuers be able to see me, and more able would I be to see them. S.H.

The Deepening Fog Pt. 2

The fog grew thicker still, falling from the sky in blankets of mist. I trundled on, with more fervour than I would imagine my body was able to sustain. It stared to groan, to pale, and I didn’t dare think about the storm now on my face. The forrest turned this way and that forever, a mass of muddy leaves and blackened oaks all I could make out. My vision gave in to small fits of blurriness and I had to slow down, rest my hand against a tree, and collect what little breath I had left to my lungs. I went on for who knows how much further more before I realised the birds had ceased their singing. There was something else that rang around them, calling them to catch their breath, and I didn't dare to drop my pace after that. I knew they had found the body. They were coming for me. S.H.

Ribbons and Lace

There is nothing to weep for, the time has long past us by. There is nothing to stamp on, the the creatures have scampered away. There are no tassels on the edges, no ribbons lined with lace. The day is off, tomorrow is on. Cross your heart, hope not to die, no precious words, no useless cry.

The Bitter Salts

The bitter salts are left to flutter like flickering lights, highjacking the wind to throw their shards at new homes. Formulate, if you will, and interview for yourself in ten years time. What would you say? Would you even need to say anything at all? Would one look at your decade plussed counterpart be enough to answer all your queries? Not a breath nor word need to be uttered but a look that says you’re going to be fine. Better than fine you’re going to get what you need, what you long for more than want.

If Only

Of all the McDonalds in all of the world, she had to walk into mine. It had been a full two months since the business in the countryside, and only now, once every day rather than once a minute did her face ever stampede into my mind, like a herd of wilder beast, and I had called myself quite settled. I was sat to the side, but quite near the front, so could see who came in and I could see who ordered. I myself was on a steady diet consisting of a large chocolate shake and an similarly named potato prepared side. I was at the end of my fries and was fishing at the bottom of the brown bag they had been sat in, searching for thy cheeky bonus you usually find, a few stray chiplets that have dived out of their red and yellow cardboard home. It's at a time when you think you've had the last, but a quick rummaged gifts you a welcome little surprise. But today, as if a precursor, the fortune telling fries, there was nothing at the bottom of my bag but emptiness. And then she walked in. Irony complete. What was it first that I noticed if not just her essence? It wasn't a mere feature as it was the conglomerate. If held to sword point I'd say it was the hair that first set it off. But on the canvas of a Van Gogh is it not the brightest colour that the admirer is first drawn to? Then the rest of her being flew into the space like a rushing skylark, simply beautiful. Her eyes did not see me but there presence was never a tone to be avoided, as it rang through the air so sharply, the sight of them both filled up my stomach and emptied out my lungs, a withered shell repaired now faced with what it was that shattered it in the first place. My skin contracted in a million different ways and the crackling fireworks retuned to my veins. I have no recognition nor inclination of how her head might have risen if she had seen me that day, if anything, and most likely, not at all. But all this was there for but an instant, a pure second, a fair blip that flashed indeed months of feelings all by my minds eyes with insurmountable speed but for an infinitesimal crumb of time. It was over. That was how things would most certainly stay. Time to get along with my day.

The Deepening Fog

Tell me of this, the wheedle the warp, the beadle and snap, the warbling bird that sat above my head. I cricked my head and held it to the sky. The clouds were made of branches, crooked and beautiful. The ground was damp and dark, a mess of dead leaves. The light cut lines of dull grey through the air. I set off again, a weight in my boots that has seldom been there before, but neither a surprise to my heart. The cold was manageable as no wind scratched through the trunks of the trees. I held a simple pace, over hillock and round creek, the crystal light a deepened fog. I’d gone for at least an hour before I looked down at what I was wearing. A tattered suit and totally inappropriate shoes, a gun in my jacket pocket. I stopped and pulled it out, a black and frigid lump of metal, I had no idea how it had gotten there. But considering I had no idea how I had gotten where I was too, the heavy weapon in my possession was a small task at hand. S.H.

About A Girl

I want a girl who wears black t-shirts ... silver shoes and blue tights.
A girl who swears without swearing.
Who cries when she wants to and also when she doesn't.
Whose eyes turn the others away, and reel me in on home.
Who laughs when she shouldn't, and smiles when no one else will.
Who sings in the supermarket at the top of her voice.
Who runs from everything, but is afraid of nothing.

Pudding Pie

He shook his head, like pudding pie, a jumbled sludge of softened crust and doughy centre, clear thought at the minute a figment. ‘No time for this,’ he thought, his mind too tired for words or thought or anything of use. Use. It was useless to think of how she had done this, what ‘this’ had been. He knew it was coming but still he had sat, atop a horse made of mashed potato, the tidal wave of gravy so ready to come. She'd rolled him, kicked him, thrown him all over and out. He wouldn't do it again, he wouldn't wait, this was something that did not need to be undone, but something to be built upon.