Ashes and Silence
Empty: the room. Empty: the house. Empty: my heart.
Three months earlier, I had a vision: fireless smoke swallowing her house. The next day it stood untouched; I told myself I was hallucinating.
A week later, flames took it. I shoulder-barged the door. She lay in her bed, peaceful, untouched by heat.
Only when they carried her out did she burn—down to ash.
They dropped her stretcher in horror and I shrieked as her ashes blew and danced in the wind amongst the leaves. The wind whistled her name in my ear and then three words that chilled my spine.
Leave. This. Place.
I dropped to my knees and howled to the moon.
The Station That Time Forgot
The cold autumn breeze whistled around the empty station. The sun was rising. It was another peaceful Saturday. The station and all in it, was still. All but the starving rats that scurried from corner to corner in search of a decent meal.Also, the air was sticky and humid. Not a typical autumn day. It was October. October 31st. A year ago this sad, lonely and hollow station, was once a busy, lively and energetic place.The sweet smell of pastries from the shops, the children waiting with demands that couldn't be met. The shiny floor still smelling of cleaning liquid... Back then time still flew, and its wings never broke.Not till now. And now, the staircases are just planks of metal with sad souls wandering around. The door handles were cold, spider webs in almost every corner. In every nook and cranny.The floor was still shiny, everything was. The huge old clock with glaring gold trimmings was still in place, staring at the empty building. There was a courtyard, in which sunlight shone down from the glass roof. There was still an occasional shuffle to be heard at some part of the building.Dust motes still in the air, everywhere but the courtyard was dim. The station was lifeless. It was as quiet as a graveyard. It was a cemetery. A cemetery of messages that never got heard, dreams, opportunities, happiness.All buried without a second thought. Buried in the dull dreary darkness, bound by chains of doubt, fear, oppression. Some had walls built around them—walls of anxiety, anger, regret.And now time no longer flies. It just sits there. It's wings of hope and optimism, broken and cracked, by unenthusiasm, regret, and negativity. Now time watches once again. Never to see the sunshine again.
The Last Memory
The old oak door creaked open as the hinges of the door squealed in delight. The sound was agonizing, but bearable. The door drags along the wooden floor.Dust motes floated gracefully through the air. The dusty blinds are shut, with only a small crack of light. But opposite there is a window with yellow moth-bitten curtains. The air itself has a dusty ancient smell. The smell of memories waiting eagerly to be found.And there it is. Her bed. It's the one thing that looks decent, like it was made this morning. Yet three years ago, this morning, she'd be in a coffin for a one way trip 6-feet into the ground. And never to see the light again.The ancient closet is stood imposingly against the wall. Inside, the closet is just a hollow shell of wood, just like this room. Just like the world felt after she died. It was almost as if she had cleared all her clothes out and just waited. Waited to die.The only thing left is a small crisp paper—blank. Classic of her, to leave something, as always, only, she wasn't here to laugh at it. The walls are a sickly pale yellow, cracked in corners, and stained with dark red liquid in spots.It wasn't a big room. It was a cozy corner, one that in one lifetime, had held laughter and joy for some time. A feeling of warmth returns to the room.On a dust chest there's a note. It says: "If the sun has to set on me then it will rise on you, when I fall, you must stand taller than before. Keep your head high, keep your pride higher, because if you fail yourself, you fail us all."And with that, the creased yellow paper crumbles to dust and the warmth dies, the eerie hollow feeling returns, and plans to stay.
The Shades Of A Stereotype
You've heard
About the classic stereotype of a teen Black boy
That many people keep in their heads
Boys that they say kill, and commit crime.
And even though not all of them fall into that world
A lot still turn down the dark road.
They reinforce the stereotypes
They give haters reasons to be right.
They give up.
But let me tell you something—
Because half the things we think in this world
Are lies.
Kids growing up too fast
Knife crime's going up
And worst of all
We never hear the whole story
They tell us the edited parts
The parts that make them look good
Not everyone's like that but a few are.
Let me tell you a story
Of a guy who went to jail,
For drug dealing.
Mom couldn't get a job
Interviews turned her down
Just because of the colour of her skin
She can't pay the bills
Empty stomachs that need to be filled.
Not enough money for school,
Her son stops.
Just so they have enough to eat
Enough to survive the heat.
But it's not enough.
So he tries to get a job,
He ends up mopping the floors
Of a convenience store.
He decides to get creative
And so, he starts dealing.
He knows the risk,
But he knows it's worth it
If his sister gets to go to high school.
Money flows freely.
But at nights he sits restlessly.
Always on his guard
Around the police.
When he slips up
And he gets caught
He knows there's no release.
Not enough money for a good lawyer.
He gets six years in prison.
His mom and sister
Are busy freezing
Sleeping on the roads 'cause rent got too high.
He gets by,
The six years of demise.
He has nowhere to go,
No friend or fellow.
No one gives him a job
He's got nothing more.
Turns back to crime.
His least favourite life.
The story starts again and again
Till the day he meets his grave.