Children of the Sun
When I was young, mum told me there was man in the moon. I sat every night staring at the sky, with
a thousand stars dotting the naked sky. Each time I tried counting the stars I kept mixing them up, losing tracks of recorded numbers.
by Annette Hunter
I sit on the headland, the soft grass below, the warm sun
above. I look out over the ocean, waves beating against the rocks below. I have sat here many times before in this very same spot, in the same town that I grew up in, the same town that my mother grew up in, and I remember.
Than I Deserve by Billy
Success is an insatiable want. Its victories are euphoric,
its defeats disastrous. It is a small, seven letter word that can
only truly be defined inside each one of us individually.
The path to achieving it, in our minds, is clear, but
itís the intangibles that test our will. Failure is its shadow,
always lurking close behind.
Day by Tom
Thereís things in the attic, fifteen years old, twenty, or more, cobweb-tangled, dirt-roughened, dust-smeared, never-forgotten. Thereís things in the attic which mean nothing to anyone but me. Thereís things in the attic, rising above it all.
You, youíre there. Your breath, your spores, droplets of vapour crystallised, hanging in the air untouched, unbreathed since you last clumped up the ladder with a torch in your hand and a cancer in your gut.
I had the dream again, for the first time in ages. The one where Iím running away. Itís so vivid I can feel my heart thumping out of time as I grab a suitcase and stuff it with clothes. I open the front door and step outside. The smell of fresh air fills me with hope and I start walking towards golden sunshine. I donít know where Iím heading but it doesnít matter because Iím free.
As I reach the end of the road dense clouds gather, heavy with rain. Invisible arms drag me back and I battle something shapeless pressing against my chest.
I wake up exhausted, sensing chaos, and hear a crash from the living room. Blundering out of bed I stumble downstairs.
Spring Comes To Bosnia
was one of the United Nationís peacekeeping officers taken hostage in Bosnia. Every
day he was handcuffed to the park railing and guarded by masked
gunmen who patrolled the area.
Every day he wondered what the hell he was doing here when
he could be back home playing Rugby, or running along some beach
with his dog.
Till Death do us Part
The machine that measured his heartbeat was the only noise in the cold antiseptic hospital room. For days he had hung on, his grasp on life tenuous, his conscious mind had retreated inside itself to prepare for death.
She had sat beside him, holding his hand knowing that on some level he would be able to sense her presence.