Candle

A soft night where the candle lashes at the ceiling

breaking and making, a hundred veils.

With the quiet flame mirroring every rising step

and every fall, and fleeing razor breeze

a melting darkness and shrinking quiet.

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The run

He ran as fast as he could. Quickly down the street and sharp on his turns.

He sped up and they sky got darker. The air in his lungs cut like glass and his feet threatened to buckle.

He leapt over a fence and broke into his own house; ran into his room as fast as he could. He woke himself up so he could stop dreaming all this.

Pocketwatch

My grandfather before me, like his grandfather before him had had the watch handed down to him. It was dull, old and heavy. The weight of our lives bore down on it and it threatened to drag us down any minute.

I was given the old watch and saw that it was counting down to something. They told me it would showed all the time I had in the world. I wore the weighted chain well, keeping it polished and stalling the fade of its metal case. I had never feared and waited till it stopped. Through the years I had acquired many memories and had nothing to regret. Eventually I had nothing to do but wait till it stopped, happy to meet my end.

Then it stopped and nothing happened. For the first time in my life I knew fear.

In the mirror hall

The mirror house was from those movies they told you not to watch, where frightened victims leave clouded mirrors while a man with a knife follows.

I remember the night outside, thick with mist and the moon dropping low like a spider ready to snatch it’s prey. I hear their shouts trying to find me. Their flashlights reveal armies of fellow pursuers all bouncing off the corners, all on their own quests.

 

I put my hand against the mirror. Its deceitful icy cold gave way to warmth. Mine.

Time has taken a thousand moons hence, but the mirrors cradle my sleepwalking soul, my happy silhouette, ever elusive across the glassy cold.