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The following is a work of fiction. A short story based on the photography of Bobbie Taylor

The grass around me is a luscious shade of green. The branches of the trees are full of mementos left behind by friends and family long gone; teddy-bears and love hearts intertwined with the leaves, moving as one in the gentle breeze.

People walk by me every day, but most don’t even look my way, let alone try to find out my name. People mourn, people celebrate life. They laugh, they cry. They walk in silence as they take in my surroundings.

I see them all. I hear about their lives, their losses. I hear their grief, and the respect they pay to my brethren with whom I occupy the same space.

I am invisible to all that walk by, save for those who know me. And they only visit me sparingly.

Leaves fall and crinkle by my feet. They die and become a part of the earth that surrounds me, feeding the soil, the grass.

There’s nothing to do all day but watch them and listen. And when they’re gone, I watch the clouds, as I cannot leave this place. Black clouds, grey clouds. Clouds full of rain, and those that are clean and fluffy, circling the Earth until they find moisture to soak up. And the cycle begins again.

Day and night. Sun and rain. Sound and silence.

Day after day after day.

So in this place, I’ve learned to take solace. I’ve learned to breathe in the fresh grass smell through my still lungs. I’ve learned to see the beauty in the space around me through my closed eyelids.

Yesterday though, yesterday was different. Along came an angel, dressed all in black. She did not simply pass me by, even though she never knew me in life. She did not ignore the letters on my headstone that spelled out my name.

This angel, this messenger of God was sent to me for a reason, I know it.

She cleared away the dead leaves that sat idly upon my unmoving chest. She took away the sweet wrappers and the cigarette butts that had been dropped around me.

She took care of me. Even though she may not have known it, she showed me what it was like to be clean again. A single flower she put behind my ear, and I felt like a child again; running free in that big old world outside of this shallow hole that I now find myself in.

I sang out in joy through the wind that rustled her hair. I cried out in despair knowing that soon she would have to leave me, and the clouds rumbled and rolled above us. I willed her to lie down next to me; to keep me company with her silent songs.

And so she did.

To my amazement, the angel sat gracefully on the grass beside me, and led down so that her head was next to mine.

She looked at me, with those eyes that were as blue as the sky; with those lips that seemed to plant an eternal kiss. Her hair spread out around her beautiful head and caressed my face with its tender touch. I smelled lilac and roses as she rolled onto her side to face me.

Oh sweet angel, I wish you would never leave, though I know you must. You cannot die here in this place of darkness and beauty. It will befoul you. Your grace will be lost into the memory of the earth and the people will sing such sad songs at their loss.

You will be doomed to rot and decay just like me; to stare into the empty nothingness and watch the clouds drift by as the people walk past, never bothering to stop and read your name. Oh sweet angel. You cannot do this at my will.

Look at you, oh how you fade. Your face already turns pale, and I cannot help but wonder why?

Do you do this for me? Did you hear my longing and my loneliness from afar?

Then, even as I looked, she vanished.

Not a trace of her was to be seen.

The trash and the debris that once surrounded me had now returned, and it was as though she had never come.

Save for the single flower that was still tucked behind my ear.

So now as I look at the sky; the clouds moving idly and the trees swaying in the wind, I see not the teddy bear that had been left hanging on the branch in memory of a child who had been lost. I simply see the dark beauty that was the angel, sent here to give me comfort.

She did not say a word, though I can still feel her voice on my lips. Her breath that smelled so sweetly is now imprinted on my face.

And now a year has passed since I saw her.

Once again I feel cold and alone.

Sing to me, oh sweet angel. Take my hand and lead me away from this place where the grass grows and the trees whisper. Show me where it is that you hide, and I vow to never leave your side.

And so, I hear footsteps approaching, though I do not turn to look. And there, the sweet angel, she comes!

I watch breathlessly as she kneels beside me, and she reaches out a hand. I take it in my own, and she pulls me from the dirt.

We walk hand in hand down the dirt path, glancing at the names long forgotten, and at once I feel their pain ease in my heart. Hand in hand we walk, then all went white.

And I realised:

Someone prayed for my soul.

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L.

Pray For The Souls The following is a work of fiction. A short story based on the photography of Bobbie Taylor…

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'Pride' by Liam Birkner, with Ben Goodenough

‘Pride’ by Liam Birkner, with Ben Goodenough

Here’s the blurb for my NEW debut novel: PRIDE! Find the link to download at the end of this post!

  “She remembered the way he used to wrap his thick arms around her so tightly that she’d felt that nothing could penetrate this armour that had been placed upon her shoulders through his protective embrace.

Nothing, except for Sean himself.

Now, ten years on, she knew him inside and out. She now…

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The Masterpiece: Part 2

The Masterpiece: Part 2

  The following is a work of fiction. An original horror story from my fucked-up mind. Discretion is advised.

And if you haven’t read part one yet, you can find it here.

  Jack Richards stood perfectly still, staring into the empty space where the demons had been. He could feel his heart thud-thuddingrhythmically in his chest, almost fast enough to be the backing to any heavy metal song ever made.

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The Masterpiece: Part 1

The Masterpiece: Part 1

The following is a work of fiction. An original story from my fucked-up mind.

Jack Richards once heard (he could never remember exactly who it was that told him), that alone is the saddest word in the English Language.

Now, Jack would disagree. Loneliness or lonely would be much more accurate.

There really is an enormous difference between alone and lonely.

Why?

Because Jack had been alone for…

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Website Update/ Tomorrow's Short Story Sequel

Website Update/ Tomorrow’s Short Story Sequel

Just a quick one from me!

The new layout of my website has now gone live, so come take a look! All ready for tomorrow’s highly anticipated The Masterpiece: Part 2!

But beware: reader discretion is advised; the story contains graphic content that some readers may find disturbing. So no children, and please don’t try it at home!

I’ll be re-publishing Part 1 at 6pmGMT for those who haven’t read it…

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I Love the Smell of Rain

I Love the Smell of Rain

The following is an original short story, written by myself: Liam Birkner. I hope you like it!

“I love the smell of rain.”

That was one of the first things she ever said to me. Like some ghostly apparition she’d come up beside me as I stared at the ruined lighthouse, feeling strangely contemplative as the water lapped gently at the shore, whispering sweet nothings to the empty landscape.

Behind…

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In Memory Of

Somewhere in the trees, birds sing the chorus of their epic song, and squirrels scutter up trees, across branches and through the tall grass that surrounds me. A stream runs gently, quietly a few metres to my right, fed by a reservoir that runs almost dry.

The sun is blazing down on the back of my neck as I sit here in this small, man-made clearing, just off the woods’ main pathway that seems…

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Commonwealth Writers Competition 2018 (Pray for the Souls)

Commonwealth Writers Competition 2018 (Pray for the Souls)

Back in October 2017, I entered a very prestigious writing competition, obviously called the Commonwealth Writers Competition. I sent in my absolute favourite short story that I’ve written, and to be honest with you, I set my hopes high. Very high in fact. My head was in the clouds…

And it stayed that way pretty much until Thursday morning. Whereupon I received an email from said competition.

Dear…

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Honesty

To be honest with you, whoever reads this, I don’t know what to write. And I think that’s mainly down to how I’ve been feeling. Or rather, the fact that I don’t know how I feel.

I know that when I started this blog, I had strong opinions on the monotony of daily working life, and I believed that you should never let yourself become sucked into that void wherein all you do is work, home, eat,…

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“You’ve got a broken heart, and I don’t know how to mend what is still beating. All I know is that even as you hide so much of yourself from my eyes, you cannot be the cursed being you say you are. How about instead of trying to prove me wrong, you try to show the world what a blessing you really are. I know, and I’ve known. But you still live with ghosts who wrap around your skin and predict your death. So just this once, prove me right.”

— Miriam Kamens

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Trapped

Hey everyone! It’s good to be back!

  It seems that my life has entered a new chapter in the last couple of months I’ve been away, and with that comes a new chapter for Whiskey and words!

  So let me start off this new chapter with a short story written by my fourteen-year-old cousin: Trapped. This story will also be published in a young writers’ anthology, and there will be more of her stories…

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Menerva Tau

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oh love, there’s stars on your skin and I know you thought they were craters for awhile but they are just the kisses of the universe on your very cheeks   oh love, those legs take you far strong and tight that the boys never liked they carry you home and towards each dream you will spin   oh love, your heart swells each night and sometimes it breaks for the cracks in the world but you piece it back together with each tender act of your hands   oh love, your mind is an ocean teeming with depths unexplored yet admired and you’re hungry for words that will brighten up the sky   oh love, you have never been weak nor anything less than the petals of a rose so tonight, bless your skin and the curve of your lips with every bit of kindness you have withheld until your body is content and your eyes are soft

Miriam Kamens, a valentine for myself (via bumbleblossoms)

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Left Hanging - Odobenus

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Last Line Tag

This is my first time ever doing this!

Tagged by @cog-writes​, last line :Fyr had never known a wyvern to have a name. He had never thought of them as intelligent beings. Uncollared, they were said to be volatile creatures, more intent to eat their master than serve them.

        Yet Balthus did not seem to be anything like his kin. Standing tall and proud; wings tucked in and his neck outstretched, he seemed to have an air of dignity, of nobility about him. Fyr felt no need to draw his sword, only the strange desire to… yes, to talk to the creature!  

I tag @lisa-writing​ @writerscreed​ @jabrownauthorofficial​ @wchwriter @writingwalkingcontradiction. No pressure!

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@jabrownauthorofficial of course I’ll review your book! I’m having problems messaging you on here and replying to you, so could you find me on www.facebook.com/lbirknerwaw and we’ll talk?

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I’m only following 67 blogs, I definitely need more blogs to follow

Reblog this post if you post any of the following and I’ll check you out!

mythology (all types; if we’re talking specifics though, I’m mostly interested in greek/roman, celtic and japanese myths and legends)

aesthetic (preferably soft or pale aesthetic, any aes will do though!)

literature

writing

original content creators (meaning if you create your own moodboards/edits/graphics etc.)

I would love it if my mutuals could possibly reblog this to help me out?