The Question

There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me indigestion,

And stealing my control,

It’s lighting up the darkness,

With incandescent beams,

Trailing flames of radiance,

That scorches all my seams,


There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me inspiration,

And freeing my control,

Words I have not spoken,

Remain a silent plea,

For caresses purely vocal,

Can only torture me,


There is a question,

That is burning in my soul,

Giving me stimulation,

That you alone control,

Tasting your intention,

Given by a languid touch,

Fuels the burning question,

Am I really good enough?

Moulded Muse

Maybe it’s just me but time seems to be moving much faster. My only consolation is that my weekly addiction to ‘Friday Fictioneers’ comes around quicker as well. Get yourselves over and join Rochelle Wisoff-Fields eclectic band of storytellers. A 100 word flash fiction based on the weekly photo prompt provided.

This week’s photo comes from Renee Heath.


He gave her till sunrise or till the candle burned out. There was no clock, no hands to focus on. No beat of the minutes from one hour to the next, only the relentless invisibility of anticipation and fear.

She heard a noise. The barest scent of sweetness fanned her cheek and she drew the cover closer. Dawn’s early blaze lit one corner of the bedframe.  Then the chloroform, sweet and pungent, covered her face. Sunrise disappeared into darkness.

He laid the wax over her still warm skin as he whispered “You did say you’d die to see my next piece”.

When Darkness Falls

Slumbers corrupted,

With dreams that can burn,

The fire,

The passion,

The need that we spurn,

Invading the weary,

The empty forlorn,

The tired,

The neglected,

The ones on their own,

Arousing suggestion,

With affected controls,

The weakened,

The frightened,

The malleable souls,

Exalting the wicked,

The devil’s own spawn,

The evil,

The sadistic,

The dark before dawn,


Shackled expression,

Of surrender enforced,

Come to me swiftly,

And show no remorse.


You Are My Addiction


You are my drug,

My addiction of choice,

Chains of my capture,

That wrap me in vice,


You are the languor,

That seeps in my soul,

The stillness of torpor,

That takes my control,


You are the liquid,

Secreting my tongue,

The taste of elation,

The devil has spun,


You are the hunger,

My body is craving,

The bread of my being,

That feeds the enslaving,


You are my Sun,

My moon and my rain,

You are my weakness,

And I’ve no one to blame.


Little White Lie


A little white lie,

Has a life of its own,

A house in the country,

Where secrets are grown,

And red brick intentions,

Surround a closed door,

Where mist at the window,

Is the deceit we ignore,

There’s a path that meanders,

To some other place,

A fence that is painted,

With fears we can’t face,

And a stream in the garden,

That ripples mistrust,

Where a bridge of assumption,

Has let the truth rust,


But the little white lie,

Is facing exposure,

For honesty is coming,

And it’s bringing foreclosure.

I’ll Love You Till..


I’ll love you till,

The stars above,

No longer light the sky,

I’ll love you till,

The moon smiles back,

And never question why,


I’ll love you till,

The ocean weeps,

No tears upon the shore,

I’ll love you till,

The mermaids sing,

And never ask for more,


I’ll love you till,

The seasons pass,

No summer, rain or shine,

I’ll love you till,

 The end of time,

Just knowing you are mine.


I’m holding on by a whisper,

To a love that I’ve barely known,

A feeling that grows as I linger,

And a sense I’m no longer alone,

There’s a touch of sinful intention,

And a breath of seductive intent,

A heat that thrives on invention,

And a flame that delivers consent,

For passion is born of belonging,

And desire is fed by assent,

Hope is ignoring the warning,

That goodbye is tomorrow’s torment.

The Bar

Time again for ‘Friday Fictioneers’. The addictive weekly photo prompt to write 100 words of flash to beguile and entertain. I don’t always win my objective but the fun is in the taking part. Get yourselves over and join in with Rochelle Wisoff -Fields merry band of fiddlers.



Photo : Bjorn Rudberg

She sat in the corner, part of the crowd but always alone. A heady elixir of age and regret, memories and time, seeped up from the floorboards and a fragrant patina of whisky and rye layered the oak that ran across the bar. She teased her fingers over the grain as the soft lilt of laughter and a long forgotten melody floated in the air.

She turned. It was almost a taste, a scent, a touch to hold onto. Alas, the mist swiftly fell, and she moved back into the shadows. No more than an echo from some other time, some other life.