Cherrypicked stories

What foolish whim brought me to take the path through the park tonight? I should have taken the longer route home, safe in the bright lights and crowded streets. Instead I was lured by the promise of fresh air, breezes gently caressing my face swirling my long chestnut-coloured hair around my face in a merry dance of freedom. The October night is full of sounds, drumming on my sensitive ears like rain pounding against the windows I can never hope to see. I hoist my gym bag over my shoulder, taking comfort in the contents, knowing I have done all I can to protect myself from harm.

My brother's home is his fortress. The drive is a runway. The garage is a hangar. Cars and SUV's ready for deployment.

I don't know if this works or not, but I'm kind of fond of it.

This is a speed poem, For the record, if anyone can figure out what is going on in the poem, it did not happen to me. It did however happen to a close friend. It is sad that I felt the need to justify, but there you go.

I live in a case of cloth, every day swaddles me closer to my breasts, to my breathing. I leave the house with my butter bean eyes, casseroling the sky, mostly looking out for sin. People often ask me if the abacus under my eyes,

She watches the removal van gurn and growl down the road containing a whole load of something and nothing.

While on a library dig, the team unearths, unexpectedly, ream after ream of things called 'poems'. Stumpy wedges of writing that serve no practice use. Excited as mice, the expedition dredges up more of the stuff. It must have a purpose. Probably primitive leisure. Let's juice it for clues. Send back the sherpers.

He had said, "Draughts...are for doorways and windows and necks and shivers. They come they go..."

It was on the seventh day when people began talking about it, and the news reporters were inventing and interviewing cloud 'experts'...