Category Archives: Stories and poems

Micro-Fiction: ‘Hiding from the World’

Hiding From The World

The grass fringing the lake is my sanctuary. It offers me stillness, isolation from the noise and busyness of the world. For now, that is how I want it to be. Just me, the forest, the mountain, the waders and birds of prey … and the lake. Even the sky is my friend today, its cloud leaking onto the higher reaches of the mountain. I feel it reinforcing my separation from everything else.

I have left the electronic world behind, turned my back on its insistence, its urgency, its pleading. I cannot be found. I cannot be called back. This is where I need to be. Before it is too late.

Here, I can breathe, and my lungs expand with ease. The mirror in my cabin reminded me this morning that I haven’t shaved for three days. But despite the stubble, the face looking back at me seemed younger. The V of lines on my forehead had vanished, and my shoulders seemed lower and looser. It had taken me a while to figure out what else was missing … then I realised it was the haunted look in my eyes, the pain I’d carried with me for ten years absent for the first time. Instead, I saw a clarity, a brightness, a hope.

I will have to go back sometime; the boat passing by with its chattering teens illustrates that quite clearly. This is not my own paradise. This cannot last forever. I will have to go back soon.

But not today.

***

Words © Joanna Gawn

Image: FreeDigitalPhotos.Net

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‘Illusion’ and ‘Tick Tock’: Two Haiku

Illusion

Time is illusion

Your Future slips into Now

Your Now is soon gone

 

Tick, Tock

Tick, tock, never stops

Measure of life passing by

Each second treasured

***

Words © Joanna Gawn

Image from FreeDigitalPhotos.Net (please see blog post of 5 May for direct link)

Micro-Fiction: Countdown to Three O’Clock

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six……Why do seconds take so long when you are waiting?  She said she would be here at three o’clock.  Just a few seconds more.

My dream, my angel.  

Well, yes actually; both.  An angel that appears in my dreams.  Her last visit was only a few hours ago in my waking-dream time and she said she would return when I was fully awake – now! at three this afternoon.

Warm air drifts past my neck and the hairs rise on my arms.  I am sweating and my eyes start peering around, popping out of the sockets.  Nothing except the feeling and expectation of more.

I feel a touch where no one except me has touched before. I see no one.  Nothing. But I feel the presence.   

Close my eyes, focus internally, back to dreamtime.

The touch becomes firmer, almost a grasp, and I am responding.  I smile and squint through tight lids.  

A golden aura, crimson and silver wings from the clean uncluttered shoulder line. Blond hair falling around the neck.  Blue eyes looking directly into mine. The lips, oh those lips. I lean forward to meet them and the draft of air increases to a breeze.  I am drifting before it with no power of my own, losing all. Feeling the lips. A sigh behind draws my attention and I glance back seeing my own image.

 The breeze increases.  I am gone.

***

Words © Ron Dickerson

Image from domdeen at FreeDigitalPhotos.Net (we will use it again later, for some haiku by Jo!)

The Rudolph Promise + Festive Fun Frolics: Two poems for December!

As is traditional for us at this time of year, we are sharing with you a couple of short pieces – both poems, this time – of a ‘seasonal nature’. We hope you like them! They’re just a bit of fun, not meant to be taken too seriously!

Joanna’s poem: THE RUDOLPH PROMISE

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My Rudolph jumper (made by Mum) is splitting at the seams!

I’ve been trying to ignore it – but I do know what this means:

Too many mince pies eaten (and some custard creams)

I’m even seeing Christmas cake dancing in my dreams!

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So once this week is over, I shall have to make amends.

A diet will be needed, or this gift from Mum will rend!

It’s just so very difficult when all my lovely friends

agree that on those sweeter foods our happiness depends!

.

But this cannot go on – there’s no way I can deny

that my clothes are getting tighter, and more I’ll need to buy.

So to save my pennies and my health, I will resist that pie,

even though I’m leaving now to have a little cry…

.
Ron’s poem: FESTIVE FUN FROLICS

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Festive fun frequents

Frightfully funny fellows.

Faces fixed focus

Fone fingers flicking.

Fretting following failure

Form further features.

Formulating future facts,

Forever feeling fortunate.

Fabulous famous followers,

Feathers fluttering frantically,

Frolic furtively forlorn.

Falsely farming favour.

Fostering frugal fondles.

Fruitful foreplay fragments,

Flounders foundation fidgets,

Fighting fiddly fidelity.

Flags flakey fingers,

Freezing Friday fortunes.

Fateful fake familiarity

Finally feelings freefall.


We both very much hope that you have a wonderful Yuletide and hugely enjoy any celebrations you are part of. We both celebrate Christmas so will be taking some time off with our families – and to recharge our creative batteries. But we’ll be back in early January. Have a magical New Year!

With lovelight blessings,
Joanna and Ron | The Lazuli Portals

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(1) The Faceless Door and (2) Masks and Barriers: Haiku

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The Faceless Door

What hides behind you?
Secrets and lies, hopes and dreams?
Your story untold

–o–

Masks and Barriers

Step inside, softly
Find my reason, search my soul
Accept the real me


Words © Joanna Gawn, inspired by image by bigjom via www.freedigitalphotos.net

Stains: a micro-fiction piece by Ron

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Stains

Through this closed window is the way to see it all. The lives of those past who left their mark inside.  The rabble who now infest the home of generations.  And, if you look closely, you may see the many futures open to each inhabitant.  

Those there must choose as their ancestors did before. Will their dreams materialise, if dream they still do!  Yet the action each takes, be it Sonic or homework; which food or which wine; to smoke or to not; to leave or to stay, can create a new world in which they then exist.  Though each can then change and move another way.  

The vibration they leave remains as a stain.  Each choice that is made sends ripples around.  Each swell, big or small, will move all it encounters.  Be it little or huge nothing is ever constant. Reactions may be the same: to be buoyed or deflect; to go under or to swim; bob around waiting or speed off under power; look to horizon or to the depths.

The choices they make can drown in the tide of others’ actions.

Where will the rabble be in ten years, or an hour?

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Words © Ron C. Dickerson, inspired by image, by bigjom via www.freedigitalphotos.net

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We’ll be using this image again soon, as Joanna has written a couple of haikus using this picture as her focus. 🙂

Cool, Calm, and Collected: dark micro-fiction

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COOL, CALM, AND COLLECTED

Toast; sausages; freshly-brewed coffee. Those are the scents which greet me as I walk into the restaurant. I have already shaved, my bathroom mirror reflecting a can of hairspray, a bottle of perfume. Female toiletries in my suite … a culture shock, really. But I’m becoming familiar with them.

She is already here, sipping from her cup in that elegant way she has, although I wonder if she is as aloof as she tries to make out. There is a coolness about her, always, as though she considers herself too precious to be touched.

She catches my eye and a slight smile is sent my way. I mirror her expression, wondering what she is thinking. I imagine her thoughts to be already in motion: the day’s appointments, the contracts to be signed.

And yet … I know how her skin glows in moonlight; how her fiercely red lipstick tastes. I know what perfume she wears, what size shoes are cupping those graceful feet.

I know her.

I turn to the breakfast bar but I am aware of her still. She drains her cup. She replaces it onto the saucer. She wipes her hands on a pure white napkin and discards it on the table. As usual, she departs without a backward glance.

Her table vacated, I sidle to it with my grapefruit and my Earl Grey. A waiter swoops toward me to clear her debris. There is confusion as my breakfast things mingle with hers. An apology; an acceptance.

I eat my grapefruit slowly. There is no rush now. She will check out today, move to yet another hotel. Once I have dyed my hair, removed my moustache and my spectacles, I will follow. She will not recognise me.

The clatter and hum of breakfast chatter starts to fade as patrons return to their rooms. My meal finished, I am among them, the napkin tucked into my pocket.

Upstairs, I add the napkin to my tally: the lipstick, the hairspray, the perfume.

I wonder … has she missed them yet? Does she blame the maids?

I laugh softly, and begin to pack.

I know her.

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© Words: Joanna Gawn, inspired by the image, by tiverylucky at http://www.freedigitalphotos.net