An Unmoored Vessel
I squint and face the morning’s reckoning.
Cast free in the chill of night by unsympathetic tides, my bearings now uncharted.
The first flares of morning light bring stark contrast to a lonely sky, forcing open my reluctant eyes.
The stars wink adieu, leaving my fate to a revealing sun.
I squint and face the morning’s reckoning.
He Alone Sees
“His wife had gone; he had stayed, neither by choice.”
His wife had gone; he had stayed, neither by choice.
I watched him walk toward a place only he could see, more distant each day.
Photos fade before dimming eyes, music falls flat to distant ears. Further, he walked.
Today, he followed as she took his hand across the horizon.
Five Steps to Thursday
“In denial, we raged against imagined masters pulling dark strings.”
The announcement came in every form and every language. Few remembered from which source they’d heard the news. It was the same everywhere—no opinions, biases, or debates: ‘The World Ends Thursday.’
In denial, we raged against imagined masters pulling dark strings. None were found.
Angry streets burned. Abandoned stone monoliths of authority were battered. Our leaders had simply gone home.
We made bargains with our gods and devils. Our contracts returned unopened.
Depression discarded our fairies, our hopes, our dreams of magical endings.
With fate accepted, it was with peace that we watched our stars blink and fade to black.
Title: Distant Ember
The last of his kind. A gift to the future.
He, born to dirt, smoke, and blood-stained rocks, watched his clan diminish in this harsh environment.
Now alone, longing to share his fire, he searched empty horizons.
His journey, inscribed in etchings and ochre on cave walls.
The Neanderthal's light dimmed, never knowing his distant ember would reach us.
Title: Shelf Life
We live, through that which we leave behind.
After decades of research, rewrites and rejections, sleepless nights, and crippling self-doubt, my novel releases tomorrow.
As doors unlock, signing pen in hand… a gamma-ray burst—life on Earth, gone.
Behind now-wide-open doors, through which no human will pass, rests my book: The Universe Hates Me.
Moments of Impact
Any moment can be a moment of impact.
Driving home, work remains my passenger.
Time slows, and sound hollows. Glass floats before my eyes—what's happening?
Another car striking mine.
Goodbye, my gentle daughter—another cup of tea, please.
Goodbye, my playful son—one more game of catch.
Thank you, my loving wife, this morning's kiss still lingers.