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My Candle burns at both ends, it will not last the night, But ah, my foes! and oh, my friends! it gives a lovely light! - Roald Dahl

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Life Metaphor: Life is a River

To me, I see life as a river.

Its not simple and straight-forward; there's always unforeseen circumstances, 'nasty surprises' and hidden blessings.

Don't get me wrong, you can prepare for it as much as possible but it will still throw things at you that you could never have predicted; weather, illnesses, the odd, sneaky whirlpool.

Lots of different ways to ride it. And you will compare your own to others... 'I wish I had her super yacht,' 'Glad I don't have his kayak!' 'Who rides a river in a barrel?!..actually looks kind of fun'.

What I'm getting at is there's different ways of experiencing it. All have their pros and cons. some involve racing the river itself, trying to get to the end quickest or just letting the river carry you along.

All this said, how you react to the river matters too, as to how much you'll experience it. You can stress and panic the whole time. Or! you can lean back a little and enjoy it where you can.

Just watch out for those undercurrents.

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Sock-Goblins

Deep in the heart of the forest, many strange and curious creatures dwell there. But none more unknown and puzzled-over than the ....

....dear little sock-goblin!

With its smooshy face, like that of a mole but smooshier, and its 'ittle, widdle paws and claws, the sock-goblin sneaks in the shadows between worlds, into ours (the human world) and steals its peoples socks.

Then it scurries home with its booty. With the socks made of polyester, its uses for its nests - nice and toasty ready fir hibernating in winter. And the socks made of natural fibers (wool and cotton), it eats. Num num nums.

THIS IS THE REASONING FOR ODD SOCKS.

Why else would we be suffering this conundrum?! You find the lonely member, missing its friend, and you search. You looks under the bed, in the drawers, under all the furniture. You looks under the very foundations of the house if you can, BUT NO. No sock! No trace. What happened? Did the washing machine eat it? I think NOTS....it is this imp that craves the cozy feet coverings.

Now, the sock-goblin is a small creature, as we've discussed. Small, petite, like a squirrel. Small body, like a fat racoon or spread-out flying squirrel. Its almost rectangular, like a sheet of origami paper. It has a small front pouch, like a kangaroo, for smuggling socks and holding young. Tiny clever paws for the stealing of the socks and opening of soda cans. Then, the head. Like we said, mole-like, if moles were like cats and dogs; pet-able. Smooshy. Adorbs. Oof! Medium eyes (not too big or too small) Long snoot. Like a mole? No! Like an elephant! Tiny elephant! And, like tiny elephant, tiny mouth underneath. For the eating of the socks! num num. Tiny teeth makes tiny marks (like that sometimes found in cheese). The sock-goblins eats like us. Sometimes they munch and chomp socks like pizza. Sometimes they slurp up the sock like spaghetti; they find a loose thread and <sluurrrrppp> gone!

They are a dear creature, is the sock-goblin. We must protect. SO, if you has a spare sock or an old sock, please. pop it on a plate with an egg cup of water - or gin! sock-goblins like gin - and leaves it out for the sock-goblin.

They will be happy and glad and maybe the sock-goblin brings you luck! or trinkets...maybe......

NJR

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SAME

Its all the same

Same routine: Get up, make the bed, get dressed, have breakfast, go to work, yada yada yada

Its all the same objects: That random coffee cup i got as a secret Santa's gift, the dying orchids from last spring, my travel mug to ease my climate anxiety about wasting plastics, etc etc etc.

Same subjects in the same conversations: hows work? hows the kids? hows the family? hows life? hows the new diet not working out? wanna go out? wanna see a film? wanna shoulder to cry on? wanna wanna wanna

Its all the same crap and yet its not all the same how could it be? You're not here.

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Meadows.

(Just a wee note: If you could imagine this takes place in a fantasy-like realm, this D&D style, medieval mixed with magic. Hopefully it will make more sense. Ok, thanks, bye! - NJR)

(TRIGGER WARNING: If you're squeamish about medical stuff, maybe don't read this. Don't do that to yourself. If you think this needs other/more trigger warnings, drop me a message and I'll add it.)

'Meadow's Practice' Had been a part of Barker's Street since anyone could remember.

Back in the day, as it were, Dr Peter Meadows was a well-known, well-experienced, well-learnt and well-loved member of the community as the local healer and helper of all things health related. If there was something wrong with you - anything at all! - he either would have or find a solution.

He donated blood, plasma and any other bodily fluids (yes, even that...) whenever physically possible. A favourite, humorous tale told was when he had tried to give blood multiple times in one day, and his own nurses didn't recognized him in his disguised until he correct one of them on comforting a fainted donor.

But many feared his retirement. None more so than Dr. Meadows himself.

But he was a smart man, was Dr. Meadows. He'd given his whole life and soul to the people of Barker's street and beyond. So he decided to give his body too.

He had assistants start with taking as much of his fluids (blood, plasma etc.) as he could get away with between surgeries, and he started with his limbs: hands and arms, feet and legs. Then he went with hair and skin grafts. A lucky individual got 'lil' Pete' (what became of him is a mystery to this day*).

At this point, the blood donating stopped and the torso was opened up. Organs were taken and treated before they were stored. It was around this point, they took the Doctor's eyes. Before he lost all ability to communicate (around the teeth and tongue checkmark), Dr Meadows instructed his assistants the rest of what to do. The rest of the organs packed up, teeth, tongue, any of the of the rib bones or hips (if they survived) and last, but not least, skull and brain.

The brain was to be given to his esteemed colleague Dr. Hugo Eaves (for research purposes) and his skull to his ex-wife Marrissa Evans (out of spite).

Now. Here comes the weird part. As stated before, Dr. Meadows gave his EVERYTHING to healing, including his soul....but, even after he died, people still needed healing. There was still unfinished business (if you will). So his soul never rested. His spirit. In other words, his ghost.

The thing with ghosts is its easy to possess people. You just got to keep your fingers crossed and hope someone stumbles onto you. Or takes one of your possessions home so you can follow them. Which is why it works with something personal that belonged to the deceased. It also works on people you share DNA with. Like family members. Descendants. And people who've medically received your blood and/or organs. And/or any other part of you, for that matter. After all, even before chopping himself up, Pete Meadows had been a donor since he'd been able to. He'd Given Everything.

That's a lot of Pete!

That's almost, oh, I don't know, half the population of the Pete's home city.

And so...

Whenever someone is even the tiniest bit ill, the nearest poor bastard with even the tiniest bit of Dr. Meadows in them, get their bones jumped by the good doctor's ghost, he wanders up to the 'patient' and has them right as rain. By any means necessary.

*if you're curious, lil' Pete had been stuffed and mounted on a plaque, like a hunting trophy and is taken down for 'special occasions'. All this be a devoted 'fan'.

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Another small Snippet

I was never your lover

only ever a pet

kept and barely fed

on the affectatious cold shoulder

that we took turns crying on

only difference, i paid rent.

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Just a Snippet

I asked around and heard tall tales

that you, just like every other male,

have had your head turned by a 'juicy piece of tail'

and as the anger flashes

and the eyes turn red

i begin to plot your murder inside my head.

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Bloody Mary

I'm all the Halloween's you've ever had

wrapped up in leather and lace.

come close and i'll, snap, shut the trap, bite the hand

that fed me kindness and caressed

my cheek you cut with your words.

Your green, black-and-blue, eyes quiver behind

the snarl from your lips, teeth, tongue, nose even.

I laugh, bark, sing in my

kill-em-with-a-glance kit.

Muse - Darling I'm a nightmare dressed like a daydream (Blank Space by Taylor Swift)

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Pen Ink and Cake Crumbs is how i plan to survive my 30s - NJR

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Out of the Window, Along the Canal

Comfort envelopes you like a thick cloud that lazily slumps off as you stretch, feline-esque. The air is a delicious soup of fresh coffee and good cooking 'sizz' that wafts up to you and hugs your face, almost smothering. It is divine. (It is a divine death)

Blinking sleep from your vision, you are greeted wit Calm and Peace, lounging in the kitchenette, like they don't own rent. Sunshine walls, spick and span floors, everything is Simple. A fresh page to write the day on. It tastes of Oppurtunity with the tang of Potential. As if life has been submerged in syrup and so forcing everything to move slo-mo style. A pleasent pace, you muse as ypou flop out of bed and flip over to where the kettle waits for you with a wink. Click! Hmmmmm, it hums, purrs and sings along to the shrugging on of the dressing gown and the sighing balconey doors as they open to greet to the world.

Looking out at the picturesque, postcard scene; the watercolour smudged houses above the crystal clear canal cruising and cutting through the otherwise solid surroundings.

You breathe deep, and as if to inhale the whole setting into your being, and let out a loud sigh of release; the completion of a pilgrimage.

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How to be a writer

Will require writing utensils and something on which to write

(Avoid Tech: type-ups are for draft 3)

in this example we'll use a biro (well-loved) and notebook (one of many).

Find a quiet place;

a room of ones own, a booth in a cafe late one evening

or maybe a secluded spot in a wood somewhere.

With the end of the biro, open a vein.

let the stardust and ink of your heart, your inner stories, bleed out.

Splatter the pages before you.

Don't shy away.

Don't turn back.

Be brave and go all in.

Leave nothing out.

Then, when the well has run dry,

and the pages are tacky, kissing your fingertips when you test it,

Slice out the dead lines, Kill your darlings,

destroy the original to create perfection,

And when you're happy with it,

Close the book, put it in a drawer and lock it away forever.

Never to be seen again.

-NJR

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The City

: Somewhere, tucked away in some unknown part of the city, you are likely to come across this scene and character.

(another 'Dark Times' piece)

The writer sits in the corner of the bar, hands covered in ink and pages covered in scribbles. The ideas on which are not necessarily ideas that could go anywhere but, as the writer would say when commented on, 'it is better to write utter rubbish and non-sense than to not even pick up a pen'. A pot of tea and a side of sweet potato fires keep him company as he attempts to mine for gold in the grey matter of his mind. He allows it to drift from time to time, like a boat in the ocean, searching for the promised land of inspiration, tucked behind the horizon.

He finds moments where he is lost in his writing (like that boat in an ocean metaphor) and then he is rudely returned to his present environment; a noisy, busy pub, in the middle of a Saturday.

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How To Live A Lesser Life

When someone begins to pry,

clam up.

when someone points out,

hide.

When someone questions,

evade.

When someone starts a debate on a 'touchy' subject,

change it.

When someone makes out uncomfortable,

leave.

Never stand up. Not for anyone. Not even yourself.

-NJR

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Bearing Fruit

(Another Darek Times piece)

I walk into the garden of my mind. It needs seeing to; too much overgrowth, its unkempt. I walk over to the people I've known and know. A few have turned to weeds so I grab them tight by the neck and rip them out. Some roots still remain but I'll get rid of them too, in time. Some people have become trees and therefore more difficult to remove. One particular oak looms above, casting a shadow over the whole garden. Over the years I have watered it with my tears which has only made it stronger. Not allowing despair to drown me, I stare at the tree. Then I begin reciting everything that person did me wrong. Everything they caused me heartache and pain. And I, in turn, apologise for all my wrongs, out of pain and anger. With every word the tree gets smaller until it is just a sapling. I gently remove it from its plot, take it over to the garden gate and place it in the wild, where it cannot harm me anymore.

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10 posts! oooooh, that was quick! Full steam ahead!!

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Growth/ Decay

(another prompted piece from 'Dark Times')

This is a time for Learning, healing, evolving, For being better. Better than before; Better individuals, Better as a press. Get rid of 'Selfish', 'Greed', 'apathy', 'ignorance', Let go of shit traits, Like a deadened branch On an old oak in need of Deadwood cleared away.

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I See Your "Anger Issues" And I Raise You PURE FEMININE RAGE. - NJR