Tag Archives: Blood


I take a turn, my feet pace

To a double beat

Down dreary street

I’m clipped of all good fortune

My lip is blue, broken

From the devil’s punch

Blood-winced, I wail,

Like a big-mouthed lion with a repressed paw

I take a turn, my head raw

Up to my latched room

Where I subsist

In pallor



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Immortal Love

She narrates a passage from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet; and her heart simmers as he watches her lips, with his ancient eyes.

‘A tragic story, my love,’ he says, brushing his fingers over the calligraphic text.

He bends to kiss her. She gasps, and feels blood trail down her neck. She watches it drip onto the page and expand like large ink spots.

‘You’re now immortal; and my death will shortly follow,’ he says.

He falls to the floor; and she watches his face turn pastel.

And on this day, every thousand years, she lights a candle in his memory.


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Jessica turned on the bath taps and poured bath crème into the running water. Sweet magnolia filled the room and it alleviated the pressure in her head. The past two years had been stressful and unbearable in the office, and sometimes she wished she could fly away to a faraway land, to escape her monotonous life. She brushed her hand through the deep steaming water and turned off the taps. She lit tea-lights that were scattered around the bathroom, undressed, and slid into the bath. The water melted away her aches, and she closed her eyes and began to dream of her ultimate, faraway life. She imagined living in a cottage, in a meadow, surrounded by butterflies and deer. She imagined reading a favourite book as she watched the sunset on the horizon. She dreamed of a husband and children, and a home full of laughter and happiness.

She was suddenly broken from her reverie, when she felt a sensation on her back. She stood up, her heart pounding. Bath water cascaded down her body, over the bath, and across the floor. She grabbed a towel, stepped out, and wiped the steamed mirror with the back of her arm. She looked at her back in the reflection and saw two large red blemishes either side of her shoulder blades. They began to itch and she scratched them with her nails, until she was digging deep into the skin. Blood trickled from them, and she watched as white hairs began to grow from the wounds. She pulled them to try to remove them, but they stretched into long fine wires. And she realised that they were not hairs after all, but long white feathers. She was growing wings. She screamed and closed her eyes with disbelief. After several seconds she braved one last look in the mirror. But upon opening her eyes she saw that it had steamed up again; and in the steam were five scrawled words… five words that would change her life forever,

You are free to fly.


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The Dying Swan

The haunting notes of Tchaikovsky satiates the emotions of its listeners; and as the dancing swans pirouette effortlessly and transversely upon the stage, the spectators will gasp in horror as the one I love falls to her death. I have witnessed her demise a thousand times; and my heart never fails to be wounded. Her blood seeps through layers of tulle and feathers, in the same moment that her dark-shaded eyes close and the curtains fall. As I rise from my seat for what will be the last time, I enter the dark streets alone; knowing that her gaze had never met mine, knowing that she never knew how enthralled I was by her beauty.


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The Raven

That day had been notorious. I had strolled across the tribe-island where I had glimpsed a raven perched sternly upon a birch branch. I had gazed at it but had not met its eyes. My grandma had warned me over again as a young boy to never look, not even in a time of weak curiosity. I would question why and she would reply, ‘Danton, it will bring with you much danger and bad luck. The red gleam of light that comes from a ravens’ eyes will weaken the soul of any that look into them; just like the sun is danger to eyes on a searing day.’ I had gazed at the black plumage of the raven perched there as I recalled her words, and my feet had become unsteady with terror. It had begun to squawk, to make a racket with its heavy wings; then it had flown from the branch, over the bank towards me; the shadow of its span had buried me into darkness, and my legs had begun to crumble beneath me. Its sharp beak had struck my head many times. I had fallen to the ground in pain, in silence, frozen with fear. Then it stopped, and as I looked at it I had witnessed my own blood stains drenched in its feathers; red on black luminous plumage; so beautiful, so ugly. Then it had flown into the sunset horizon, leaving me marred with its violence. I was twelve years of age on that notorious day, and there has been no day pass since, when I haven’t looked a raven in its eyes.


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Paige’s soul sleeps somewhere numb, somewhere cold. Her dark, disturbed visions summon her to the razor. With every cut, she bids her blood to run. With every failed seep, she utters her mantra.

“Life won’t let me go. I cannot respire. I cannot perish. Forever, I shall suffer.”


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