A Wordsmith's Rebellion


Short stories


Succumbed to scent of a travelling kind,
Wafting patience envelopes the sky,
A noble pursuit dressed up in a suit,
Boxer like treasures to try.

Inhaling the peace, dragging the release,
Sifting through snippets gone by,
A passerby, preoccupied with clouds,
Nostalgic pleasured replies.

Gratifying smiles greet outsiders pride,
When boxes crumple to trash,
A philosophers aide – smoking is hailed,
All beings and things turn to ash.


Fuzzy swirling swathes of colourful visions funnel burrows in the ground beneath his feet, as he sways to the mini-earthquake like tremors in the soil. He squints at the mounds before him, which seem to be a monstrosity in comparison to his nimble frame; too big to climb and too small to be concerned about. Yet, he tiptoes around the roaming bright colours to approach his darkened shimmering familiar destination, which seems like an achievement today. Basking in sun rays, he vaguely makes out his familiar resting-place and the object of his desire in the distance. Glistening and reflecting sun beams, he steadies his feet to begin the tiresome slow journey towards the beacon of a reflective shining light source; his goal amidst a haze of light forms – it’s all a blur to him.

What feels like a hundred withering paces later, his shakes scoop up his glasses from the garden dark chestnut table as his colourfully attired young grand-children clamour around his feet.


By Richard Ankers
A persons ability to judge something and act upon it never ceases to amaze me.

Continue reading “Understanding”

A Path

~~ Passing by construction work on dusty, damaged and hollowed pedestrian roads, I always find myself gazing at the hard-hatted labour, which intrigues me ~~
Beneath the tarmac surface lies layers upon layers of gravel, bedrock and foundations of ancestral manual labour. Modernity forages pavements with machines which plow trenches of pebbles, boulders, dirt and dust into broken fabrics of generations laid bare before us; exposing the furnished historical simplicity if stumbled upon; for the most part – red coned obstacles in our pedestrian bustling way. The dust of manual labour – a timeless tradition, we scuffle the path carelessly beneath us daily. We walk the tarmac polished road paved ahead of us, as the mortal dust settles – knowingly susceptible to the elements.

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