I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.

She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.

I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.

Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.

I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.

“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.

I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.

“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”

He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.

In my life, I’ve murdered three.

Fish.

___________________________________________________________________

Sitting by a steamy window,

I see my love

in embroidered dreams

walk right on by

and still I wait

alone, I cry

staring into someday.

Earth; living, breathing; possession

Fields of my forest ablaze

Blood of mankind; soot and ashen

Flames lick the lands as they graze

Smoke rises; flickering tendrils

Stench of the life wasting way

Tears gather; storm against evils

Rain sheds my soul on dismay

Soil, scarred and battered, now fragile

Receives not my cries; flooded; drenched

Ash of the flora once fertile

Parched and corroded; unquenched

Bitter, where once dwelt immortal

Spring never failed, though asunder

Death, now, by fire’s example

Echoes my angst; clapping thunder

Tender and weak, will find healing

Revolutions of time, slowly yields

Bruised by the heat and once reeling

First bud of wildflowers; Moor fields

Tossing trash aside

Without a second thought,

Adding to the rotting piles strewn about

Tearing apart the land

For selfish indulgence,

Destroying vibrant vegetation

Tainting the air

With manmade machines,

Polluting everything

Littering the waters

With human filth,

Slowly killing the life within

Someday soon, seething with rage,

Heart filled with anger,

Gaia will descend

To reap her final revenge

'The delicate green shoots grew

in the warm spring sunlight.

A vibrantly beautiful hue

spread across the new pink flowers.

The scent of mown grass and dry earth

bakes in the warmth of the sun.'

The book is snapped shut with a dry, rustling sound. Despite the vivid description, I can't visualise this lively world. All that I can see out of the window is a barren bleakness of rocks, and nothing even suggests that life would have been able to survive out there, once upon a time . . . and as I imagine the beauty and the splendour of nature that once existed I wonder how the extinction of life was ever allowed to happen.

***

fuck the plan—

you’re here.

you’re alive.

there’s time.

***

#micropoetry

#prosepoetry

I went into the river

I glided my fingers against its surface

I bowed my head and counted to three

waiting for my heartbeats to be heard

against the current

against the rushing water

wanting to silence the fear

and listen to a fading pulse

the world is too loud for those who sink without the fluster

or it can be so quiet that we no longer hear the sounds

without sight and hearing

we lose control

we lose our path

I went into the river

I glided my fingers against its surface

I counted to three

for now, I just stand in the water

and feel the cold current

against my bare skin

waiting, surrounded only by my pulse

slow heartbeats

and the rhythm of life

I listen with my soul

not being able to hear

trying to see with what I touch

without the power to feel with all that there is

regaining the strength

and remembering how it is to swim

and not just to float

Hours of practice,

years of lessons,

a long-awaited audition,

and a coming graduation.

A letter of good news arrives-

a scholarship to music school.

Love is getting to leave

my small town high school behind

and pursue the one thing

I'm most passionate about.

Love is working towards your dreams.

I confess (weakly) to you, what I could not, should not, say to others.

Though (I confess) at times, my confession is false, deceiving myself (yourself) and all others involved.

Because (anemically) I cannot look into my heart, to pull out the arrows (stuck fast) stained livid with your blood, and give them back to you.

If I could carve out (this stone) my heart, I would lay it on your altar (I would ) in return for the truth I owe.

But (cross myself) I just leave with the absurdity.

There will be no sacrifice today.