I see them at night.

You may say they’re not real, but in the dark hours when you’re not sure if dawn will truly come, they’re as real as anything else. Wraiths, spirits, ghosts? Or the manifestation of a troubled mind? Survivor’s guilt the psychiatrist called it. I have witnessed true evil, and now I carry it with me, always ticking, like a pocket watch that never needs winding. It counts the minutes and hours till I see those tortured souls. Yet, they’re with me always. I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night. I wear them like a second skin.

I’ll never know if I might have saved more people–only that I was betrayed, and that I was fortunate enough to escape. Finding my betrayer has become my purpose for living. In the meantime, I see the dead. Every night.

(144 words)

A…

Poppy Day is Remembrance Day

In Flanders Fields

Artists: Michel St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

The 2 walls this mural is painted on must be 36.6 meters (120′) x  24.4 meters (80′). The 120′ is the parking lot side. I’m panning left to right.

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artist: Michel St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Turn the corner to find 80′ more along the street side.

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy van Leeuwen

Artists: Michael St. Hilaire & Mandy…

she was bad
dangerous
and beautiful
especially
on Halloween night
when her bike
came alive
looking for a
good time
people stood back
and watched her
ride down the street
her red hair fluttering
behind her
a smirk on her face
she was one bad-ass
biker
sipping on a Frosty
and doing her thing

Photo:  Mauricio Leduc
Unsplash

The trees are filled with blossoms
they wave beneath the pale sky
like pink hands of impish children.
Meet me in the orchard
before summer slips away,
I want to dip my hand in
the cold brook just to feel
the ache.
Naked among bird of paradise
sun-drenched thighs wet with dew
feed me sweet red apples
while they are nothing more
than fruit.