Tanka: Bloom

daintily
curling your petals
are you not the pejorative
that blooms
from the sunrise?

Tanka: Moth

little moth
hiding in the sunset…
with nightfall
comes the whisper of your wings
at my window

Poetry: Butterflies and Rain

i painted butterflies
onto leaves
that only
knew rain

until someone told me
that small things don’t matter
now i have a garden full of rain
and heavy words

Haibun: Monochrome

Rain falls blue on the pavement, blue on the flowers, blue on the graves of yesterday. It slides down umbrellas and slips into portals known only to the sky. I would follow it, if I were liquid enough. Instead, I drift nearby, a little grey cloud that can’t let go

if only i
was colourful
monochrome spring

Photography: Dancing Flower

I like the movement in this shot. It’s like the flower is dancing. This little daisy reminds me of a ballerina.

Photography: Hidden Beauty

This is another spring flower shot. It’s also the first time I’ve tried editing with Adobe Lightroom.

Photography: Spring Dreaming

I went for a more artistic feel with this shot. These flowers are tiny things, but they are beauties. It’s amazing the things you find when you look closely.

Haiku: Woodland

the rabbit’s pillow
made of spring
woodland blues

Photography: Pretty in Pink

The colours are coming out this spring. Bushes are already in full bloom. I was wrong to worry that everything might be upside-down this year. Spring is just as spring-ly as ever.

Flash Fiction: Dark Dreams

I tried to tell them the city was falling. They wouldn’t believe me. They wouldn’t believe the dreams of a crazy sorceress. But all my dreams come to pass.

Let me tell you something about sorcery. It isn’t an exact science. It’s something that just happens, and no one really knows how. Some people don’t believe it even exists. They think it’s all hocus pocus and magic tricks.

I was three years old when I had my first vision. My mother was on her bicycle, riding past a hedge of indigo blossoms. The hem of her skirt caught in the wheel. She ended up in the grass, under a shower of indigo petals. I woke with my face wet with tears, thinking of her bruised cheeks.

When I told my mother, she kissed my cheeks and told me it would be alright. Dreams were just dreams. Three months later she was on her bicycle, riding past a hedge of indigo blossoms, and her skirt caught in the wheel. She looked at me differently after that.

When I dreamt of rotting walls thirty years later, I woke struggling to breathe. People were coughing, their eyes bloodshot. What were once trees were now lumps of black gunk. Somewhere in the distance, a child cried.

I had the dream three nights in a row. On the fourth night I dreamed of sugar-pink mushrooms. Their undersides were sticky and black. When they burst, black spores shot into the sky.

It’s a fungus, I told my mother. It lives in the forest. It comes from an island off the Thespian Coast. A traveller brought it here on the back of his shoe.

I contacted scholars, newspapers, government officials. Anyone who might listen. There was a fair bit of scepticism. No one knew of an island like the one I’d dreamed of.

One scientist did take an interest. He knew of sugar-pink mushrooms in the forest. They were multiplying at an alarming rate. But so far, their spores hadn’t caused any damage.

The government wasn’t willing to invest in an eradication scheme based on the dreams of one woman. My mother and I destroyed all the mushrooms we could. A small but growing group of believers helped us. It wasn’t enough.

I’m standing in the ruins of my city. A cold wind is rattling the bones of blackened buildings. Somewhere in the distance, a child cries.

All my dreams come to pass.

I couldn’t take it out on the officials who’d shrugged me off. Most of them were dead, their lungs blackened by the spores that once lived only in the forest.

My mother is still alive. Several of our supporters are too. We’d protected ourselves with masks and anti-fungal treatments.

If only the others had listened. If only they’d trusted in my dark dreams.

The thought is in my mind. It has been for some time. I try out the words, just to see how they sound. To see, perhaps, how they feel. My throat is hoarse. When I say them, the words are almost a rasp.

I told you so.

The wind picks up. The words slide into it. Then, like everything I’d ever known and loved, they were gone.