Forgive me if I write this note in blood, for I have no ink with which to stain these pages. Thus, I pour myself upon them for you. Everything is for you.
My arteries have an endless supply of the stuff, even if it is not always my own, rich and unctuous. I would prefer the midnight depths of black, but what choice do I have? This place is ill-lit and blood shines brighter.
People take notice when words stand out from the crumpled, milk-white pages of another ruined book. They eye them not with the same suspicion as leaking red, but as though written by a doctor, important and necessary etchings. I am not a doctor, though. Nor am I necessary. I have been told this my entire life.
It has taken so long to slice the required vein, to drain myself, that I have now lost the will to write. I could record my voice, shout even, but the written word is so much more preferable. Dickens’ and Shakespeare’s works would not carry the same kudos if unavailable to the masses. Damn this endless malaise!
Hours have slipped past. I have no words left to impart. Unless I have, and you read them already, here and now. But words must carry details, information, promises and rewards. These words carry only doom. I apologise for this. Doom is in my nature.
I close the book. Stitch up my wound. Mire in melancholy just a little longer. But time is something I have, and it avails an afterthought.
I reach up from the depths and twist a star; they never like this. The brilliant beam of molten silver this act avails makes it all worthwhile. I step out into this mercury spotlight and steal said luminance. Or displace it, I’m unsure which?
Only light reveals me, for I am the darkness it would otherwise banish. Light is always the key, not words, nor books, nor me. And I realise as I hum a tune to the other so high above that I don’t need to leave a note. I am not required to forewarn you. Eventually, we shall meet regardless, and you and I can share as many words as we want for as long as we want. Or not.
I bow to Eternity. I wave to Infinity. Neither wave back. I then depart stage down.
‘Death has left the building!’ I wish to scream.
Instead, I snigger at those pathetic fools I wished to please, to reassure, to inform. Death never leaves the building, you see. He, by which I mean me, just waits outside the door.
Now, I am home. I am bleeding freely, if inwards, not out. Perhaps I shall write about it. After all, I bleed only for you.
Thanks for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
the darkness rises
ushering the day aside
with subtle shadows
Thank you for reading
Richard
The butterfly moon is not a moon per se, rather, a moment in time. A release of magic upon the sky. Those few minutes where a bejewelled night begs for more and those who watch her weep.Â
It begins with the moon.
She rises high, like a breaching whale who forgot to turn back at the waves. The gentle, titanium giantess flies, flies, sweeps into the sky to float as effortlessly as a child’s forgotten balloon. There she hangs. There she gathers the energies of the universe, brightens, lightens, burns milk-white. This is seen. She is always seen.
They appear as coloured raindrops falling up, not down. A few at first, the shoal gather pace. Vermillion and emerald, sapphire and citrine, wings flap and feelers feel. The moon gleams all the whiter.
They swim rather than fly. The moths and butterflies, for the two are inseparable on nights such as these, flitter and flap their way towards an obsidian sky the stars have vacated. They have bowed down to their celestial mistress, as have the spinning galaxies themselves. This night is aflame in the vivid colours of nature. Oh, what a joy for the milk-white queen.
The little ones circle her as a tide of fairy lights. They bob up and down as if blown by some unfelt solar wind around their cosmic Christmas tree. So pretty. So exquisite. The moon is, of course, the crowning jewel upon its topmost heights. This is what it has waited for, our moon. One moment in forever to truly enjoy the view.
She weeps silver tears at their passing. She fills the oceans, rivers, lakes, ponds, and the liquid souls of those who watch in awe through open curtains. Alas, it does not last, but the best things never do.
They do not fly down, but take one last farewell lap and head off into eternity. The moon waves each one goodbye.
As do we.
Never forget the little ones, they’re just as important as you or I.
Thank you for reading
Richard
I enter the fade like a fog the night
A ghost shrouded in net curtains
A dream made nightmare made more
Where hollow eyes look up, not down
Dark patches of midnight blotting a weeping moon
Here, purgatorial blooms proliferateÂ
Surging in reckless monochromeÂ
Sprouting wherever with no desire for shade
Never accepting death’s cascading sorrows
Never believing the simple truth
That there’s nothing to feel but feelings themselvesÂ
Because there’s nothing to feel at all
Thank you for reading
Richard
The whispers curled around his ears, like ivy around a tree trunk. They clung there, tightening in ever-increasing desperation, whispering non-stop, persuading. Even the rabid north wind couldn’t dissuade them, cool them, freeze the words on their lips, though it chilled Robert to the bone.Â
Living with ghosts. Don’t we all? Yet for some, they writhe more than others. He was born to them, for the last of his family gave her life to secure his. Didn’t she? Ghosts surrounded him from then on. Some were welcoming visitors. Others less so. No one saw them but Robert. No one heard them, nor him.Â
He realised the whispers were his own when the mirror failed to mist. It was bitter that day, and all those beyond the window exhaled ghosts. Robert, however, had no ghost to exhale, no spectre to coddle, no banshee at which to scream. He was merely a whitening shadow, who whispered to the stars and the moon.Â
He’d never been a baby. Not to his memory, anyway. Neither had he been a child, nor lover, nor husband, nor parent, nor endlessly aging old man. But he was, and that was something. Wasn’t he? He told himself this as the whispers became louder and his family, at last, said, Hello.
An End.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Whiskey eyes smoulder
From beneath a raven fringe
Intoxicating
Never did like the headaches
Which is why I quit drinking
Thank you for reading
Richard
Hi Everyone!
Many thanks to editor Manuela Timofte for publishing my latest poem, Deathly Opium, on Gobblers and Masticadores. As always, I hope you enjoy.
Please do take a moment to look at the other wonderful works on offer.
Deathly Opium: HERE
In other news, my collaborative work with the fabulous Gina Maria Manchego, The Poetry of Pronouns, has just had its second book accepted for publishing. As soon as we have a cover and more information I shall post them. A very big thank you to all who have enquired as to when this would be. Both Gina and myself have been overwhelmed by the responses to book one.
The Poetry of Pronouns, Too – Prose: She. He. They.
Available soon.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
A big thank you to editor Barbara Leonhard for publishing my latest short fiction, The Space Between Breaths.
I hope you enjoy the piece. Please take a few minutes to sample some of the other fantastic stories and poetry on offer.
Available Here: The Space Between Breaths
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Gobblers & Masticadores – latest post
A big thank you to Editor Manuela Timofte for publishing my latest post to Gobblers and Masticadores. It’s always a pleasure to contribute to this wonderful magazine.
Please find the short piece: Here
Please do take some time to look at the other fantastic contributions.
PS The above short is from the tentatively titled An Anthology of Death.
Thank you for reading
Richard
Richard M. Ankers
Richard M. Ankers - Storybook 
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