Nothing good by Andrew Shephard

I try to write but nothing good will come

and when I speak the words stick in my throat

yet still this dream that something must be done.

Although you hear me say I’m having fun

cold blood is spilled for every word I quote.

I try to write but nothing good will come

just futile rants, blank pages overrun

with streams of adjectives to self promote

but still this dream that something must be done.

Dramatic night spins threads with scenes begun

but dawning light sinks lines that do not float.

I try to write but nothing good will come.

 

Though thoughts are light my pencil weighs a ton

grey fog obscures the last few words I wrote

but still I dream that something could be done.

I fear it is the same for everyone -

shouting, ears covered, pleading for a vote.

I try to write but nothing good will come

yet still this dream that something must be done.

This poem, a villanelle, is dedicated to every writer who has struggled to put words on the page or been dissatisfied with the results when they have.

Scarred by Nick Stead

For years my soul was a raw and bloody thing, fresh wounds opened every day, fresh torments suffered that far surpassed those of the flesh. Pain that runs deeper than any which nerves could ever transmit, my heart and mind sores never allowed to heal – for the first part of my life, this was all I knew. I was the very epitome of misery and anguish, never to know true happiness, never to know true love. Never to laugh or cry, or know what it is to be human. There was only pain and suffering of the kind that damages, the kind that marks. Until I met her.

She was divine perfection with a heart that held enough love for us both. Every moment spent with her was a drug to subdue the agony at my core, every caress a healing touch, every laugh a salve to soothe the worst of my aches. And gradually the lesions began to close and scar, the pain no longer constant but only an occasional discomfort. She was my angel sent to raise me up out of Hell, and for a time I knew peace.

I am damned, I know that now. What exactly I did to deserve this cruel existence I cannot say – punishment for crimes committed in a past life perhaps? No matter. I am damned, and suffering is all there is. To think any different is foolish, so why did I let myself believe a beauty such as she, so kind and caring and filled with all the pieces my damaged soul lacks, could ever give one such as I a lifetime of paradise? I should have known she was only a temporary reprieve, should have known it could not last. I should have seen it coming when she left me for another.

And alone again, old wounds re-open and bleed anew. Yet the torment is made all the worse for that taste of what life could have been if only she’d stayed, if only her love for me had lasted. So I find myself turning not to some divine being, but to darker forces, for it is surely to them that my soul belongs. I plead for them to bring her back to me, beg for them to grant me the closest I will ever get to paradise, damned or no. And he answers.

“She is nearer than you think. Go to the park.”

Most men would have felt terror to hear such a voice, but I have never been most men. I venture out for the first time in weeks, only to be confronted by a sea of couples enjoying each other’s company on this Valentine’s Day, the sight acting as salt in my open sores. I falter and almost lose the will to go on, until the voice sounds again.

“Go to the park.”

The power that resonates through every word gives me new strength. I do as he says, and the next thing I know I’m feeling that strange jolt in my stomach at the image my eyes are presenting me with, for there she is. Her new man isn’t with her, yet she never once looks over at me as I approach, not even when I say her name. A new cut to my heart.

I’ve almost crossed the distance between us when the blade appears in my hand, a gift from my dark lord. The rest is a blur as I thrust in and out, no longer with the warmth of life but with the cold touch of death, far more fitting for the broken being I am, a freak who has never truly lived but only ever existed. I lose count of the number of times I pierce her flesh, opening the same wounds I must live with until she feels the true extent of my pain, inflicting the same torment she has pushed me back into. And she bleeds enough for us both. As she did last year. As she will again. And for the briefest of moments, I am healed.

03:18 by Dave Rigby

So you’re down here. You couldn’t sleep either.

Not after that bloody light.

What light?

Come on! It was you who woke me up telling me about it.

Hang on – that was a dream – there was this really bright beam shining down just outside the bedroom window. It was in my dream so you can’t have seen it.

It was still glaring when you woke me. Weird! But it was no dream. I’m making a cup of tea. Want one?

Please – and a slice of granary toast if you don’t mind, with jam. It was a dream to me. Can you switch the radio on while you’re over there? See if you can find some nice calming music.

Hey! One thing at a time. Where’s the jam? Oh you put it in the fridge again. Doesn’t need to live in there you know. That’s odd the radio doesn’t seem to be working. You know that thing where it comes on and then goes off almost straight away. Well now it’s decided not even to bother coming on.

We’ll have to get a new one. I’ve been saying for ages. Oh Chewy! You’ve decided to join us. Must have been the mention of food.

Well – he can’t have any. He’s enough of a barrel as it is. Any texts, tweets or emails to entertain us?

Wait a minute…well, just for a change there’s no reception down here. I’ll go up to the balcony. That usually does the trick.

What about your toast…it’ll get cold…. might as well speak to myself eh, Chewy. Here’s a bit for you, but don’t tell Mark. That’s odd, TV’s not working either. The whole place is packing up. At least the kettle and the toaster are providing a decent service between them, so we won’t starve... what are you doing up there? …Mark, come on. I’m not that bothered about who might have been trying to communicate with us … wait a minute …it’s that damned light again…I can see it from here…where’s it coming from? Chewy… go find Mark, go on, find him…

…now even the dog won’t come downstairs and just when I’d managed to get comfy...right I’m coming up…why do these stairs always seem steeper at night …Chewy stop your whimpering I’m on my way…what the...

+ + +

So your mobile wasn’t working, but the landline must have been because you managed to call us on it. Is that right sir? OK. And you couldn’t turn on the radio or the TV. I’m not sure these facts are of any relevance, but you tell me you think there might have been some kind of electro-magnetic force interfering with incoming signals. I have to say, sir, we don’t get a lot of that around here. But I’ll make a note of your comments. Now, could you describe again what happened when you went upstairs and out onto the balcony? Are you alright sir?

No I’m not. I’m desperately trying to work out what’s been going on. The light beam…the first time… it was in the bedroom… then I saw it again when I was downstairs. Mark was upstairs by then…went to try and get phone reception…it’s not good down here, better on the balcony…but he didn’t come down…so I went up there…well I sent the dog up first… but when I heard him whimpering… I thought I’d better investigate  ... no sign of Mark or that awful light…balcony door open… this card on the balcony table ... like a business card… ‘03:18’all that’s on it…well you know… you’ve seen it…and the card…it’s not paper or plastic…don’t know what it’s made of... 

And what time was it when you made your discovery?

That’s another weird thing... his phone was still on the table…03:20…and he’d been gone maybe two minutes. So the card was timed to the exact moment of his departure.

Departure? What do you mean by departure? You claim he was on the balcony. Where could he have departed to sir?

I…don’t really know... it sounds ridiculous... I can’t help thinking something really strange and awful has happened.

I would agree with you sir, but I don’t think it has anything to do with aliens from outer space. It’s much more likely to be something to do with you.

Evidence

Creased white leather unsullied

by the morning dew

protects the crumpled tissue,

stained red where she’d patted

her lips: ‘New Blood’ by Rimmel.

Lurking inside they find

a few coins; her student card

proclaimed she’d taken charge

of all her eighteen years,

controlled their adult dreams and dangers.

One strap flung carelessly,

the other still clutched

in stiff fingers.

Her scarlet life spreads out

and her cheap perfume lingers.