Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Contents
Introduce Ourselves 4.
Interview - Paul Tinworth 6.
VelvetLungs 10.
Stills Competition 12.
CheekyChen 16.
Videos Competiton 18.
Story Board - Animuser 20.
Music Competition 22.
Robyn Jones - No Sun to Warm Our Hearts 24.
Daniel Grosvenor - Don’t Drink The Water (Chapter) 26.
Tade - Bone Fragments 28.
Syd - Reflection: A Novel (Chapter One) 32.
Taymaz Valley - Butterflies 36.
Pete - When I am Tired 40.
Applause-Junkie - Topaz Prologue 42.
Wirrow - Some Late Night Thoughts 44.
Fern Yates - Teddy & Francis 46.
Rosiemarie Short - New Forest 1992 52.
Luke Rowett - My Legacy 54.
Haiku Off 56.
Robyn Jones - The Writer Back
Tailcasting is all about throwing out your creative work and seeing what
happens. As the site develops we are looking forward to getting to know
you more and letting you know a bit about ourselves (we have to throw it
out too!). The Cast comprises Jon, Olli, Paul and Pete (see mugshots). You
can get a bit more info on each of individually here.
Our goal is to create a brand new community site where you are defined
only by what you do (and not what you say or think about yourself). We
want Tailcast to be a shiny new playground for you creative people to
hang around in, publish your work, collaborate on projects and create
your own communication channels (much more on this in the future...)
and generally have fun whilst making some money from your creative
output.
Ch...ch...changes
Last month we decided that it made sense to have one site for writers,
musicians and artists and so it has been a bit of a wrench for our writers
who were on a different site. Thankfully most of them are really pleased
to now be on tailcast given the quality of the community here and it is
great to see the interaction between artists and writers. Watch out for
June’s special Collaborate competition where we will be looking to pair
up artists, musicians and writers to create new videos (with some prizes
thrown in of course).
4.
Beach Kissing - Oliver Day
Competitions - Introduce Yourself
We are giving away a total of £500/$1000 to winning members who
upload a short video about themselves and their work as an artist,
animator, photographer, musician or writer. Make it smart, honest,
touching or tortured.. as long as it is creative. Entries in by 25th May.
The new platform is not likely to be ready till July but we will upload
some images from time to time to see what you think.
Editorial
When the new site launches there will be much more space and
attention given to music, art and writing (each will have its own mini-
site). As the site grows we will need help to ensure the best new
content gets featured and therefore gets a chance to be seen. If you
are interested in helping us in this we are looking for volunteers. The
role will involve receving email updates in categories which you have
an interest in, coming up with cool competitions, suggesting which
content should be featured on homepages, subpages and in the
magazine and generally helping us ensure the site develops in a way
that maximises promotion of our member’s great work. More info to
follow, in the meantime if you are interested please ask to join the
“Theditors Group”.
Hasta Luigi
the Cast
5.
Paul Tinworth
Ramblings of a Lightstalker
Name/screenname … Paul Tinworth
Born/Home … Born in Essex, currently living between South Wales
and Cornwall (United Kingdom)
Career/about me … Undergraduate student, former sailing
instructor, and amateur photographer
Who or what have you sacrificed for the sake of your art?
Time! Always make time for the things you enjoy. (I’m fairly certain
money comes into it as well...)
6.
Is there an art form you don’t enjoy?
In all honesty paint has never has any effect on me. I have respect
for those who paint, but I just can’t get excited about it. Different
strokes for different folks (pun intended).
What would you like to see in the future from Tailcast (on a broader
note, what are your thoughts on social networking sites for creators
in the arts?)
I’m looking forward to a more intuitive, social Tailcast that’s slightly
more friendly to the eye and cursor, but my main concern is
devolving the ‘stills’ category; there are so many talented folks here
that it just doesn’t seem to do them justice to lump all the aesthetic
arts under one heading.
How did you discover your talent for art, what do you enjoy about it?
There’ve always been cameras in the background for me, but
it wasn’t until a year after I bought my first digital and film SLR
cameras that I really began to appreciate photography. At the risk >>
Patriot - Paulish
2.
VelvetLungs
Jabez and the Grocery Store Popstar
I don’t know
I don’t know anyone here
my lips are bright
I can only feel the weight of color all around me
ribcage, soul suspended in the space between
a liver soaked in alcohol and lungs
on the baptism list
signed, mr. and mrs. applicable.
forget me. forget the stinging hazel/curtain lashes
batted/batting/playful/de sperate
theres a hole that drains the tiger and clover fields
with an assertive, no, thank you, young girl in my bed,
clothed only in the static of her hair.
river of blonde girls,
skin ripening and spoiling in a florescent merciless haze.
prayer and worship and bake and self-mutilation
this unknown omnipotent God in a bottle of tanning oil.
I want to snow on you. a painless, quick frost
pale pink and shimmering on a tree that sings for you.
blood whispers, disease embedded, ready for child.
motherless, you were an idea.
you were my caption for twelve seconds
I want a God who writes me lullabies to the rhythm in my veins.
Collaborate, procrastinate, impregnate the soil with times new roman, extra-bold
who circumcised my roots?
lay with me in april grass.
18.
‘art vlog’
velvetlungs
19.
Story Board
Flies are ace!
Animuser
20.
Music
Elora Dannon
Elora Dannon is/are Tommy and Steve... They have
been writing songs together since 2003... They
have compiled 4 albums to date, with another in
production... Tommy currently lives in New Zealand,
and Steve in Mexico... Thanks for listening...
Cheesyfingers
My Name is Robert Waddell, formerly Pyatt. I am
a 40 yr old, Singer Songwriter, Musician, Amateur
Photographer,Artist..Father, Grandfather, Husband,
Brother, Cousin, Son,...I am a father of a 16 yr old girl
and a 11 yr old boy and a 10 yr old boy and a 23yr
old man now.I am also a grandfather of a 1yr old boy
named Jordan..
Elliott Boswell
You don’t have to have a background in art history or
formal training to appreciate art, I says Elliot Boswell,
Boswell Gallery owner in Decatur, Ga . Making art
available to all is central to his philosophy on sharing
the beauty of art.
24.
and a tunnel, like a mine. We approach it and the arctic scene fades
away. We are in darkness. The only thing illuminated is the tunnel
and cart. Now we are closer, it takes the form of an old fairground
ride, a ghost train. The tunnel entrance was an arch with a painted
sign. The paint had faded, and the sign looked at least fifty years
old. The ride was clearly abandoned, dusty and in need of repair.
We felt drawn to the cart, and without thinking, we boarded it. As we
did, it began to move. It started slowly, and then gathered speed.
We moved in darkness, the dust overwhelming our senses. There
was a smell of burning, but no fire. As the cart twisted out of control
ricketing down the never ending tunnel along the wooden track,
the darkness was softened as a candle-like light spread around the
tunnel. We watched as old paintings of clowns and circus animals
appeared on the walls. And a slow, steady tune grew into the scene.
It was striking-pipes played a fairground tune. And the cart went
faster, the lighter flickered quicker, the song gathered pace. And
the cart grounded to a halt. A boy with a mans face stood holding a
torch. His monotone voice filled the tunnel.
‘Thank you for riding your soul. This way please.’
The ghost walked towards a ladder. We climbed obediently. As we
reached the top, a blinding light surrounded us. And then we were
falling. Falling.
Whatever you do, don’t drink the water. It’s the single most
dangerous thing out there.
We weren’t sure why, but we were being chased by men with guns.
Fresh-faced backpacker virgins, clutching everything they own
in easily stealable rucksacks, are easy prey in any country – and
robbing tourists is a first-come-first-served market. They’d spotted
us getting out of the cab and had given chase before we’d closed
the door. There were around twelve of them: drunk, frenzied Thais
in masks, their dress a menacing amalgam of tribal warriors and
Calvin Klein models. Designer jeans below mud-spattered bare
chests adorned in hand-crafted jewellery. If it had happened to
someone else I would have stopped and stared at these artistic
madmen, but as it was, they were clutching weapons and heading
straight for us. Realising we were about to be beaten and robbed,
we grabbed our backpacks and ran out into the road. I’d been in
the country thirty minutes and had already done enough to give my
mother a seizure.
I used her brand new kitchen set, except it was not brand new. It
was forty years old.
It was new forty years ago, a wedding present that Clare and I
decided not to open until we moved into a ìproperî house, one that
had a ìproperî kitchen. The kitchen set knives
were stainless steel, high gauge, powerful grips, shiny. They had an
electric sharpener and magnetic rack. Youíd think for the work at
hand the meat cleaver would be best. It was not.
There was only one bone left. It was twenty-two centimeters long,
which, from my studies, was just below the average length for a
right humerus. The left humerus had gone 153 days ago. I could
now comfortably say that a murdererís carcass takes 402 days to
dispose of.
It was tiring, frustrating work when I started. At first I tried the meat
cleaver, but it wrecked my shoulders and elbow joints, me not being
a professional butcher. Then I tried one of those electric blades with
two serrated edges and a vibration that rivals the highest setting on
the spin drier. Good for soft tissue, but useless on bone.
I never remarried because who do you marry after Clare? She was
light and darkness in equal measure, the embodiment of that Yin-
yang symbol you see everywhere. I lived with her for three weeks,
and that wasÖwell, that was enough.
28.
A cut along the head of the humerus opened the cavity, where the
bone marrow used to be, which was now home to the foulest of
odors, swiftly yanked upwards by the extractor fan in my kitchen.
There were probably easier ways to have done this, but none that
would give me half the satisfaction. Somewhere in the aether this
manís soul wafted back and forth, or he was in hell or purgatory or
wherever putrid lives went in his chosen religion. I often wished he
would come back as a ghost so that I could torment him.
I had assurances about that; the living can torment the dead.
We did many things, Clare and I. What I missed the most was her
nuzzling my neck from behind while I cooked.
I took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air of the early morning. The
bright sun had barely peeked over the mountaintops and I did not
have to use my flashlight anymore.
Every morning I got up around five and walked about a half a mile
behind my house to the Magnolia Grove (I just called it the Grove).
Magnolia trees were lined up in countless perfect rows. This was
the best time to go…in the very early morning, when the first rays of
sunlight shone between the thick, mysterious branches and through
the translucent, bowl-shaped leaves. So beautiful was the sight, it
nearly cast an eerie feeling.
As I thought about the strange dreams that haunted me almost
every night, I racked my brain for something to write about. As I
realized I had nothing to write about, my poetry journal fell from
my hands and tumbled to the ground. Everything had already been
written by others before me.
Things unknown to man… I tried to give myself a boost. Unknown…
what do we not know about? What do we not see?“We do not
see…” I whispered to the tree, “Air. Air cannot be seen by anyone.”
Suddenly the urge to write the poem overcame me, so I swung
onto another branch protruding from the one I sat on, and dropped
to ground eight feet below. While I climbed back up into the tree I
thought about the words that would be on the paper as soon as I
pulled the pencil from my sloppy ponytail.
I situated myself on another branch, higher than the first time, and
this time about halfway up the tree. My poem-tree, I thought happily,
leaning my head back on the smooth bark of the Magnolia. “Do you
give me the power to write?”
More questions hit me. I’d have to make a list.
“Magnolia, who has sat upon your branches?” I jotted it down on the
pad. “What words have been exchanged here? Has anyone cared
about you as I have? When were you planted, and by whom?” The
words couldn’t get onto the paper fast enough. “Are there carvings
beneath your flesh, perhaps put there by lovers who spent their last
moments here? Has anyone or anything fallen from your limbs?”
I grinned to myself. This was brilliant. The series on the Poem-Tree.
The Magnolia. And it was all mine.
Then I laughed. Not a chuckle or a giggle, but a loud, joyful, musical
laugh that echoed around the Grove and resonated through the cold
air. This was all too good to be true. The trees…they had a power of
their own!
“The power of trees,” I whispered, and added it to the list. “These
are all unknown to man. But what of nature? What have we not
discovered?” I contemplated this thought for a few minutes, and
when I was unable to come up with an answer, I simply added
it to the list written in my brown leather journal. The questions
and poems on the pages inside were my life. They contained my
feelings, my stories, my past, and hopefully my future.
Yet I had no one to share them with but the trees.
I sighed sorrowfully, wishing there was someone here with me, to
share dreams with and talk about other things. But since there was
no one, even at school, I took in the cool air and made a mental list
of the small things I was thankful for.
I must make the best of things.
This is what I would do.
And I laughed again.
34.
Cypress Creek, Land O’Lakes, Florida - Armida
Short Story - Butterflies
Taymaz Valley
I was sitting in my badly lit room, with a glass of red wine, smoking my tenth cigarette of the day. I
had already finished a bottle, and I was into my second bottle of Pinot Noir. Jean-Dominique Bauby’s
celebrated novel was in front of me half open, half read. I wanted to savour every word of that tortured
man, so magnificently written, so immaculately described. In my drunken haze, I had let my mind wander
off to that great city of lights Paris, picturing Seine, strolling around the Luxembourg Garden, visiting
Oscar Wilde in Pere Lachaise Cemetery and telling him that he was right about Love; when all of a
sudden, out of nowhere, appeared this small butterfly, coloured with the same splendour of a rainbow. It
circled my room a few times, getting a feel for the place, seeing everything so familiar and unbearable to
me, anew and fascinating. I watched it in amazement, bewildered by the fact that no window was open
in our small house, and I had the curtains drawn as I had come to despise sunlight.
Yet, this papillon had appeared in my room. In my room which smelt of melancholy and despair, in which
I had been imprisoned by a self convicted solitary confinement sentence, enforced by my own sense
of contempt for this wretched, unfair world, occupied by uncouth, conniving men. The butterfly finally
and nonchalantly landed on my half open copy of “The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly”, and at first the
importance of this ironic coincident was lost on my then numbing mind, full of sorrow and self loathing. I
stared blankly at the scene for a few minutes, in trance. In transit from Paris. And, finally a knowing smile
found its way across my lips. For you see, that butterfly had reminded me of she.
She, who had been part of me for a short period of pure joy and happiness. She whose body I made
inseparable from my own for as long as I could. She, who had made my life meaningful, even for a short
while. She who by leaving had made me attempt my own death, as the idea of being without her had
driven me insane. I shall not tell you her name, simply because her name would not inspire the same
emotions, lest you have experienced her love like I have. She does not belong to this world with its
benighted worldly problems. What importance is a name, unless you are able to catch her attention,
so that you could at least find a meaning to this insignificant life. No, she shall remain nameless, for
you see, her name meant much more to me than just a meaningless unappreciated label. It would be
wrong and dirty to separate her from my own thoughts. And now, even though she has gone, and we
are physically apart, her memories and sprit are still one with my own, and I am going to try and put to
words the significance of that spring day.
I met her, like many meet their love, by chance, and in the most unexpected way, in the most unthinkable
place. I met her, walking down Boulevard St Laurent, downtown Montreal in a hot summer day. I was
looking for a friendly face to direct me to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, when I saw her walking
away into the distance. I noticed the butterfly tattooed on her shoulder first, and as if under a spell,
I was pulled toward her, unaware of my feet, which as far as I was concerned were walking mid air.
I reached her, and felt for the first time that soft perfect skin. I had touched her on the shoulder. She
turned, and I was happily lost in depth of that hazel labyrinth of her eyes, swimming in a sea of emotions
and wonderment. She must have felt my total surrender, as she smiled, and I shan’t forget her lips so
enchanting and bewitching. I managed to utter some words unconsciously, and I was then asked to
follow by her. We flew like two doves, never taking our eyes off each other, till we reached the Museum.
At the foot of those marble steps, I panicked for the sake of losing her, and begged her to join me for a
tour of the galleries, which she agreed upon.
We walked down those gallery corridors, surrounded by past’s great masterpieces, yet the only fine
work I was interested in was the contemporary beauty walking beside me, whom could have only been
created by the Gods themselves. After we reached the end of the gallery, I asked her to join me for
hot beverage, which she accepted. At that cafe we sat, looking at each other with affection, talking
and laughing like fools in love. I spent the next nine month with that splendid creature. It was truly the
happiest time of my life. We were content together, full of comfort jut being. Days past, with I at my
writing desk watching her lying half naked on the bed reading Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Eliot and Plath,
smiling sometimes, trying to share their genius with me; and I would smile back in incantation and tell
her she was delightful. The mornings she had to leave to attend her classes at the University, left me in
despair. Depression would take a hold of me, and breathing would become a chore. I had memorised
her timetable, so that I would know when her classes would end. I would add around half an hour to the
final minute of her class, and wait for the sound of her footsteps, which like a hard drug would bring me
instant pleasure. I was addicted to her, and just like an addict I would crave her presence and her touch.
If she was late coming back, my mind would wander to the darkest depth of fear. Fear of harm having
befallen her; fear of abandonment; fear of solitude. But she did return, and with each return she made
that day glorious. All I wrote in my time with her were love poetry. Line after line I wrote her name. Her
name had become my escape from the world. Those letters, so fine and poetic had formed a rope which
tight around my waist, pulled me away from this abominable world, and carried me to safety, away from
the dangers of loneliness.
We lived humbly. She, a student, and I, an unpublished writer. We would stroll down the Port of Old
Montreal, feeding birds. At nights, we would visit a small family ran bistro, and order the cheapest bottle
wine. I had started learning French, and could comfortably pronounce and order food from the menu.
I had even attempted reading Baudelaire and Hugo the way they were meant be read. Montreal Cafes,
with their wooden chairs, and their flavoured coffees are made for lovers. Life came easy to us, and we
37.
embraced it with open arms.
No one had prepared me for such heart wrenching experiences as endings are, and inevitably all good
things must end. Our ending began with a letter which offered an opportunity to work alongside some of
the great minds of the twenty first century; something which was everything she aspired to. Something
that an ordinary, inadequate mind like mine would never comprehend. This was a chance for her to be
somebody, who is admired by many successful men; and my dreamy beggared admiration for her was
just too insignificant at that moment, and it did not suffice. I begged her to stay, knowing deep down she
should be more. I knew I could not give her a life befitting an angel. I knew then and know now, that I will
never be able to live a comfortable life, and be able to easily provide for another.
So, I had to let her go, whether I liked it or not. I was ended with. Tossed aside, and buried miles under
the clouds where I had been so bold to reach. I was once again where I belonged, down on earth with
other mortals, some of whom I dare not call human. Down in the mud, tasting dirt, crushed by the weight
of daily struggles. She was gone within a week, leaving me in charge of our small flat. The place became
a nightmarish space, with bare walls and haunting memories. I drank myself to sleep every night for a
week. Refusing to eat, refusing to go out. Bitter tears fell from my eyes. Sadness engulfed my body,
gnawing at my flesh till solitude filled me in.
After a week, I could not recognise myself in the mirror anymore. All that was left of me was a blurred
image of a broken man. I decided that I did not want to be part of this world anymore. I could see no
chance of improvement, no light in the distance. My purpose, so bound to her, was then pointless and
insincere. How could I live knowing that I would never be happy, never feel the same. So, I decided to
end my life; end it with extreme prejudice; end it as easily as she had ended with me.
I opened the flat window, and stepped onto the edge. I lit my cigarette, and inhaled as hard as I could,
letting those smoky fingers caress my lungs. I dropped the cigarette, and watched it make its freefall till
it disappeared from my vision. Tears gathered in my eyes, even though I tried to resist it. My mind started
wandering off. I started picturing her and me, just being together, and my body let out a cry previously or
since unheard. In that moment, nostalgia took a hold of me, and all I could do was to picture London, my
home. I could see the street that I had grown up in, with its shops and houses. I could hear sounds of
laughter and birds. The sun had come out, and its heat warmed my battered face. I thought it wrong to
end my life in that strange city. I did not belong there. It wasn’t home. So I climbed back into the room,
and sat on the floor, wiping the tears from my eyes. I came to the conclusion that I should return to
England, and let my fate be decided.
That spring day, was four years and three month after I had returned to London. And I had spent it
thinking of her. I used to walk around London, just watching people. I used to see her face reflected
on others. I would walk up to strangers and asked them whether they had seen my love. I spent hours
38.
feeding the swans, so that perhaps I would feel her presence again.
I missed her dearly. Day after day I felt worse. Whomever said that
time will heal all, was never in love. I would read the classics so that
maybe I would find some advice for my broken heart, but alas, all
that I read would bring me more alienation from the world. I was
incomplete without her. I missed her with all my being. So I withdrew
from the society. I stopped receiving visitors, and stopped writing. I
drew my curtains, and stopped the sun shining into my life. The time
stood still for me, and day and night lost their meaning. Till that day
in spring.
I gently trapped it inside my hands and open the curtains, and then
the window. I took a last look at it, and let it fly out into the distance.
The curtains shall never be drawn again. The butterfly of my love
had lived its short life, but I take comfort in the fact that there will
always be butterflies for all, as long as there are springs to come.
39.
Poem - When I am dead
When I am Tired Bury me
Pete
Beneath a tree
Just a clearing
I will eat
The sun
And be full
With my breath
Or
Just let me sleep
44.
god actually being a bunch of angels raining down on me to
people in suits around a large the sound of cathedral organs
desk all shouting out ideas and adopting a pose like the
to one guy with a typewriter, shawshank redemption poster,
like the writers of an american
comedy show, the president sneezing halfway
through addressing the nation
being too scared to kill a about some global catastrophe,
fly incase its a reincarnated
friend desperately trying to raining upwards,
communicate with me,
if everything floated,
fields of rusty old radio antennas
receiving all the celestial signals opening an old chest and bats
of our solar system, fly out,
being chased but forgetting how taking a nap on the couch and i
to run, wake up floating through space
forgeting to breathe,
49.
Wirrow
Gobblynne
Chapter - Prologue
New Forest - 1992
Rosemarie Short
Her breathing was ragged. The shouts of the enemy were getting closer - and she’d run out of places
to hide. Backing away from the entrance of the wooden barn, she pressed herself against the farthest
wall, and prayed. Her heart hammered as she heard someone try to open the door. The tugging on the
handle soon turned into banging on the thick wooden door. It would offer her no lasting protection. Their
formidable numbers would guarantee their success in breaking down the door. It was only a matter of
time.
Sliding down the wall, she clenched her fists, futilely trying to gather together any last remnant of power
from inside her. She knew it was hopeless. Her powers had long since been used up, towards the middle
of the battle. That had been nearly three hours ago now. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself not
to think about her husband. Blasted in the back with a bolt of Electric Fire. She had seen him fall, heard
his last whisper of breath…
A small spark emerged from her right hand. Barely anything. Despite the desperateness of the situation,
she allowed herself a small smile. For three years, she had been one of the best Casters in the entire
Resistance. She’d trained many young people in the art of discipline, the art of holding something back,
just in case. Now, because she had ignored her own most important lesson, she was going to die.
In the back of her mind, there was a small thought which wouldn’t go away. She would be glad to be
dead. To join her husband, and escape the hell that England had turned into. Hell on Earth. Yet there was
something which held her back. Something which she felt she had to live for. Her daughter. Alexa was
only six months old. She’d never know her father, and now, it looked like she were to become an orphan.
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she tried to focus on the increased banging on the door, her final, failing
protection.
There was an enormous bang, and the door caught fire in several places. She’d wondered how long it
would take for them to use Electric Fire on the door instead of countless pointless Razing Curses. She
carefully pulled herself up from the floor. Her pride wouldn’t allow her murderers to see her exhausted
and defeated. She wanted to face them. The door blew off it’s hinges, weakened by the Electric Fire and
Razing Curses, and splintered into hundreds of small pieces. They whizzed towards her, many causing
small cuts all over her body. She didn’t flinch. For some reason, it was important that she seemed
strong.
Five men and two women poured into the barn. They formed a jumbled semi-circle around her, blocking
off the only exit. One of the men stepped forwards, his black eyes glinting with the reflections of the fire.
It looked to her as though he were filled with flames, and she clenched her hands to fight off the fear.
“So,” he murmured, his voice smooth and calm, “This is what the infamous Lianna Hawke has become,”
he let out a small snarl of laughter, and then continued, “I was expecting more. However, sometimes
the reputation of Casters is a mere… fabrication.” Lianna fixed her eyes upon his, and replied with a
fierceness in her voice, “You must be used to that kind of thing Aaron. You never were as impressive
in the flesh as your brother.” Immediately, Lianna knew she had struck a nerve, as she had intended.
Aaron’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he fixed her with a look of pure venom.
“My brother,” he hissed, “Was nothing. He betrayed his cause and showed himself to be what he truly
was. A coward. His death was no loss to me, and even less so to our parents.” He breathed carefully,
as though releasing his anger, and favouring it for the same cool, composed demeanour as before,
continued, “However Lianna, enough talk. You surely know you cannot delay your death? You chose the
wrong side and now you must pay the price for it.” He walked forward, and threw a bolt of Electric Fire
at her. It was strong, but not enough to kill her. Instead, she fell to her knees, biting her lip until it bled so
as not to cry out.
Aaron walked forward, and lifted her chin, so that she was looking straight into his cruel, hard eyes. “You
should have stayed, Lianna,” he whispered, “You should have married me.” She looked up at him, and
spat in his face. Aaron barely flinched. He merely raised his free hand and wiped his face clean. “You are
not the… man you were Aaron,” she gasped, trying as hard as she could to fight the pain, “You… died
the day you joined…. the Government, and… now I don’t know who you …are anymore.”
He looked at her for a moment more. Behind him, the men and women who had entered with him
were exchanging glances, and some were muttering excitedly. “Enough!” he shouted, ending all
communication, verbal or other, behind him. He pushed Lianna away from him, so that she was half
lying, half sitting on the floor. He stood before her, staring down at her battered and broken form.
“Goodbye Lianna.” he murmured. Aaron raised right hand, and from it came a bright light, so bright
those behind him shielded their eyes.
Lianna Hawke’s last thought was filled with wonderment. For a moment, she thought she had seen the
boy she had first met when she was eight years old. For a moment, his eyes had softened, and he had
looked as though he…felt something. Some kind of sorrow at her death. However, before she had time
to ponder this, her vision filled with a dazzling light, and she knew no more.
55.
Haiku off
“ ”
following Haiku on ‘Rain’:
He weeps so often,
this god to whom our lives are
insignificant.
Chukwuma
Rain
“
Christianity!
Born when Pilate washed his hands
”
Died when I washed mine
John Woudberg
Easter
”
Haiku butterfly arc, twist,
Settle on the page.
Luke Rowett’s ‘
The Haiku’
57.
The Writer by Robyn
I twist, I turn
I search your mind
For that strand of imagination
That spark of a dream
Which will shape your story
Make your mark on life