Out of Reach

There’s a dream on the morrow
I’m afraid it’s quite the climb
Past the swamps of sorrow
Across the sands of time

There’s a dream on the morrow
But we’re still at today
No path for us to follow
But somehow, we’ll be okay.

Unpredictable

I try to guess what it will be like
I know I’m so far off the mark
Beauty approaches like the sunrise
Fear comes at you like a shark

I try my hand at clairvoyance
All I see is a blank page
Someone said you write your own future
I’d like to meet them with a 12 gauge.

No Reply

Write a letter to your 100-year-old self.

Holy shit, you made it;
Figured you’d die years ago,
A child till the end.
Tell me, how much did you grow?

Did you travel the full circle,
Or did you blaze your own trail?
Did you adapt to all the bullshit,
Painting faces and your nails?

Did you do just what you wanted?
Did you find out what it was?
Did you ever learn to love and trust
Or was it really a lost cause?

Is it worth it to keep going?
Ah, but you can’t answer back.
I can only hope that if you could, you might;
That you have the spine I lack.

Dead Ends

I want to go new places
But I’m afraid of how to get there
I want to meet new people
But they’re something to beware
I want to make connections
But strings are better cut
I want to talk to you again
But if I do, then what?

Oracle

I have watched several people
Watch the years slip through their hands
And all the days I’m hardly counting
Are grains of the same sand
So, I can say I know the future
And it’s even somewhat true
Because I’ve watched the sands of time
And I’ve seen nothing new.

Siege

All the questions cropping up
Of the futures that could be
They gather like an army
Far as the eye can see

The siege now here upon me
I tremble as they come
No walls can stand against them
That time, I fear, is done.

The Inkwell

“And next week,” the paper read, “there will be a murder somewhere in the East section of The City. More details pending.” Joy Wells sighed at writing such an ominous — and not to mention tremendously unhelpful — bit of news. Normally, the dark and foreboding was her brother’s province, but lately her dreams showed only crimson, and however much she grasped at her usual optimism, she came up blank.

Cynric Wells came in just then with a cup of coffee in hand, and he stopped briefly to read over her shoulder. With a vague nod, he continued on to his desk, sitting and staring into space as he sipped at his liquid caffeine.

“Hey, sis,” he said after a moment, “your dreams told you that Officer Tannis would live a long life, marriage and kids and all that, yes?”

“Yeah, why?” She answered, looking up in confusion from the typewriter she’d been staring at as she wracked her brain for a happier way of sharing unhappy news.

“He’s dead,” answered her brother matter-of-factly.

“What?” She demanded, rising in surprise and horror. “How?”

Cynric took another sip of his coffee before answering. “An earth wyrm. Came right up out of a manhole, believe it or not; swallowed him whole. Now that’ll make for interesting reading for the common folk tomorrow morning.”

“But he could still be alive! Have they–“

“Oh no, Joy dear. I assure you, he’s very dead. Julius doesn’t like it when things happen to his underlings without his say-so, and had the rest search until they found the thing and gutted it. That’s where I’ve been these past few hours. I got a front row seat of theā€¦ operation.”

Joy fell back down into her chair, holding her head. “That’s terrible,” she muttered.

“That’s one word for it,” said her brother, eying her intently.

“Just say it, Cynric,” she groaned.

“Alright. You were wrong, sis. You’ve never been wrong before, and it’s not a good look, for either of us.”

She looked up at him. “You’re blaming me for appearances, when someone — a man we’ve known since we first came here — is dead? I knew you could be heartless, brother, but I didn’t realize you could be this petty as well.”

“Pettiness has nothing to do with it. Your ability has never been wrong before. If it can be wrong once, then why not twice, thrice, three hundred times? And if that’s the case, then I’m sorry to say, sister, but your ‘gift’ is downright worthless, and could potentially even be considered fraudulent. Once is bad enough already. But if this happens again, how long until the whole City starts to lean towards the ‘fraudulent’ answer? Tell me, Joy, have you ever been skinned alive before? Because let me assure you, it’s not very fun.”

“The Inkwell is the newspaper for the entire City. We have friends all over. You really think they’d just turn on us?”

Cynric scoffed. “What do you think happened to the people the job belonged to previously?”

“I thought you said they retired to a unicorn dimension?”

“No, dear. That’s called sarcasm.”

Joy’s face dropped. “Oh.” She took a breath. “So what are we going to do, then?”

“We make darn sure it doesn’t happen again. So… what do you say to a little investigative journalism?”

***

Per Goldie’s challenge. To be continued… Possibly.

Will

For many moments I sat waiting,
So adept at standing still;
So certain all worth chasing
Boiled down to just some time to kill.

But all I’ve lived was just prefacing,
Life a writer with a lethargic quill;
Maybe we’re on to demonstrating
That even characters can have a will.