story writing

Callum Featherstone

Blinded by the Dark

He looked as though,
the last thing, He’d seen,
hadn’t been,
for Him.

Above His pay-grade.
Above, indeed.

The water never tasted the same,
after that.

It was as if there was a shift,
a crashing wave within.

As if everything wholesome,
and, pure in the world,
had been, defiled, and, drowned,
by, a renowned rapist. Riddled. Drenched.

“You want to be careful out there!
Mind yourself!!”

If, only, He’d listened to,
that, warning, He thought.

A stark warning.

Now, He was stark.
Stark; inside, and, out.
Naked. Stiff. Deceased.

a Naked view of the world.
a mind, and, body, Stiff.
a sense of self, Deceased.

He vowed, from that day, to keep His eyes closed. In the hope, that, never again, would He witness such an atrocity. However, His;
ears, skin, tongue and nose, were made heightened. Due to His forced self-blinding. And, instead, He felt the world’s pain, all the more. So much so, in fact, that, He became a recluse. At first, He found a solace in the sightless silence but eventually the world’s woes found Him and his remaining senses, again. So, agonisingly, He decided to take his own life. He took a piece of cord, tied it to a tree, climbed a top a chair and pulled the noose over his head. And, just as He kicked away the stool, a bright light, flashed. So bright, that His eyes, were forced, to open.

The flash before Him was Halley’s Comet. It was 2061. And, His final thoughts, with burgeoning vision, were;

“For all the awfulness that I didn’t see, there will be a magnitude of
polarised beauty that I’ve missed. And, for all the melancholy, the bitterness, the hatred that I’ve dodged, there will be tantamount joyousness, great bouquets of kindness, lakes and rivers and oceans of love, that I will never experience, flowing through my body, my heart and my soul.
What a fool I have been…
I am grateful that my final view of this existence is of an antiquated shooting star – it, much like me, can testify, that, – no matter how many times you travel around an object, your view, throughout life, will consistently change, unless, you force it not to. I hope others do not make the same mistake that I have. Every one of us should keep their mind’s eye wide and their view, their perspective, their vista, their horizons, even, wider.”

And, so, into
the longest night
he wandered,
with his eyes finally, truly opened.
The Milky Way
before his feet,
and, the comet’s dwindling trail
at his back.

Callum Featherstone

Gone West

Living…

…in a world, gone west-
wardly warped.
So west,
that we, had to, create our own.
Digital downloads,
of, final cuts, so sharp,
from keyboards,
to TV screens,
to mobile phones.

The blind mice…

…are wired,
twenty-four-seven,
and, the cheese, fills,
every rectangular box.
The WiFi speed, denotes,
your strata of heaven,
and, the text message,
has, fallen,
angelically, to usurp, the vox.

But, why, would we want,
to view screens,
over one another’s,
broken-hearted frowns?
It’s the same reason, the only time,
anybody, dares to dream,
is, with, a pillow beneath them,
to, cushion; coming down.

Generational Trauma,
is, a video-game, played out,
“In Real Life”,
since, nineteen-eighty-three.
And, we, are,
“virtually”,
all, virtually connected, now.
But, have, never been, further apart,
in, this; Internetted allegory.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

Dinner and a Show.

Is the pain, deserved?
Or, delectable desserts?
After gut-bursting meals,
of, vain & swallowing, self-pity.

Does it taste, of, verve?
Or, dystopian, Earth?
Are tantalising screams,
atop a tongue, tasting, so, so, pretty?

Do you wish, for, nerve?
Steeled, mettled back, uncurved?
Or, just a chance, to feel?
In an unlit room, at the centre, of the city.

Or, would you, rather, serve?
See war, across, the universe?
The devil’s making, deals,
at every, checkpoint Charlie’ing, committee.

Do you look within?
Or, know, you’re without sin?
At the beginning, of, the end.

Do you even, care, at all?
Considering, just, how small,
our impact, leaves, a dent.

If you started, over,
would, your coldest shoulder,
be there, to meet, plastic, family & friends?

Or would, you, always, make,
those, silly, same mistakes?
The ones, you could, never, comprehend.

So, I’ll ask again, is, the pain deserved?
Or, delectable desserts?
After, meals, of vain & swallowing, self-pity.
The answer, you’ll never find,
and, probably, nevermind,
until, you’re called, to play, your final ditty.

© poormansdreams

Callum Featherstone

The Box

There’s a box, I keep a lid on,
at the centre of my soul.
It’s got several locks, of, division,
to keep it full, and, whole.

It’s not Pandora’s, or, a goalkeeper’s,
it is mine, and, mine, alone.
It once, got porous, and, holier,
so, I rebuilt it, out of stone.

The box, holds all, my pain,
all my sorrow, all my fears.
All the times, I’ve tried in vain,
to only borrow, Grief’s own tears.

The box, is very, weary now.
I must admit, that, I am too.
And the locks, are worn, and, weathered.
Just like, my other soles, and, shoes.

To hide, my box, I wear, a smiling frown.
Inside-out scowls, plastered on, with glue.
So, that nasty thoughts, are severed.
From, skies outside, and, my insides, turning blue.

I would love, to find, the keys, somewhere.
To my box’s locks, so long, unlatched.
But, every time, I find a locksmith, here.
Everything, inside my box, is, snatched.

I hope, to one day, come to peace,
with everything, inside my box.
To, simply, shake the hand, of, dreaded Grief.
And, tell him; he’s not the only one, who’s lost.

Callum Featherstone

For Name’s Sake.

Tears falling from heartbroken skies;
Hope’s eyes.
“It’s a wonder, she, ever, shows her face around here, anymore.
What with the amount of people she’s let down.”
A meteor-ological frown.
Meets a stagnant, puddled, still view.
“After all, it’s that, neverending, Hope, that kills you!”

Prayers go unanswered in a maze of deception;
A loss of Faith’s redemption.
“You’d expect her to know her way around, and, these hedges could do with a trim, as well.”
A journey into viridian Hell. At first, coloured green, now, covered in blue.
“After all, it’s that, unwavering, Faith, that kills you!”

Soothsayer causes anxious clients;
Destiny’s future winces in defiance.
“She doesn’t have a feckin’ clue that one, I’ve heard dog farts that make more sense.”
Mockery and ridicule are made as recompense.
Mick is taken, along with piss, too.
“After all, it’s that, unbeknownst, Destiny, that kills you!”

Pontoon is played, unluckily, at the age of 22;
Black(eyed)Jack beaten, black and blue.
“He lost the lot down the casino. Wound up getting into debt to some pretty serious lads. Last I saw he was looking for his teeth and spare change at the same time.”
Not long after his body was covered in lime.
And, Jack, the waiter never, even, got chance to spill you.
“After all, it’s that, bedecked, gone missing, Jack, that kills you!”

Thrillseeker takes a tumble;
Max’s wife paid for a shove, unfumbled.
“Did you hear she got the payout from the life insurance. Sure, she’s more minted than a Menthol’s breath.”
Breathing life into jokes, long dead.
Sometimes it’s better not to seek what thrills you.
“After all, it’s that, pushing it to the, Max, that kills you!”

‘God Save The King’ plays like a deaf dragoon;
Victor draped in Union Jack licks his silver spoon.
“Apparently there is this crazy thing called a Republic that they do next door. And next door but one.”
Where you don’t pay taxes to a prodigal family’s son.
Get them royal jobs stacking shelves and on the tills, too.
“After all, it’s that, Victor, of war, death and taxes, that kills you!”

Callum Featherstone

Blink, blink.

Lampshades turn,
into, lumps of mashed,
potatoes. Then, alien spacecrafts.
Now, lips for making love.
When, I close my eyes.

White,
turbulent,
ceilings turn,
into, treks; off the,
beaten path. Then, far-
reaching ridges, looking-
over, past; hair-risen sojourns.
Now, insurmountable; Everest-peaky thrills.
When, I close my eyes.

Future possibilities;
fade into forced – syringed, surpassing fate.
An unhinged – not-so-green-grassing gate.
Then, cringed – lassoeing, everlasting hate.
Now, a stinged – passing date. Stung; past.
Now, my eyes are closed.

Blink, blink.

Now, I am stung. Passed away.

Callum Featherstone

modern Pontius Pilates

to be amongst multitudes
of melting, red, swelling, estuating

snowflakes
dripping off a burning crucifix

causing a gory deluge
from a bloody river, women and men-

struating, flowed hate-
ful, awokened lunatics

the apocalyptic book of Enoch
never prepared us
for racist, vitriolic Enoch Powell

internet commentar-ies got
no self-awareness
a dot com shit from the bowels

of hell, the smell, of sentimental fecal sediment, the trolling, tolling bell-never-ends

cancelled, freedom-stealing
anchored wankers, are revealing
the unconscious bias
of modern Pon-tius Pilates

What would Jesus do?
Probably, log out, and, log off?
Possibly.


World-wide-webbed, dogmas, say;
Ask God… or, Google it…
Doggedly.

Callum Featherstone

Slumber’s death-throes

Sleeplessness,
that; unmistakable,
unavoidable, unaware, off-key,
flat, unmelodic, petulant, spiteful, pest.

Unsleep,
that; unwholesome, unwelcome, unwanted,
out-of-tune, torturous, off-kilter,
flower wiltering, bitch.

Insomnia,
that; wicked, silent, jarring, noisy, tenored-
siren from the deep. In not-so short-ish; a deranged, depriving, depraving, depressing, CUNT.

Nightened, are; Slumber’s death-throes.
Frightened, is; Wonder’s; outstretched nose.
Unenlightened; Thor’s thunderous; head blows.

And, all I want, from the Gods, is;
a piece, a morsel, a crumb, a second…
…of peace.

As the unlit hours slip, slip, slip.
Slide away, into obscurity.
The hypothetical tears,
non-existently drip, drip, drip.
The anger fades,
for a viewable eternity.
Sounds escape, my cloying ears,
and, my daydreams of nightmares,
like, turning pages,
can only rip, rip & R.I.P.

The epitaph reads…

‘Here lies sleep; an untruth laid to rest.
Succeeded by nothing, but, nothingness;
only slept with second-best.‘

Callum Featherstone

Blood… hair… silicone.

I never knew that they could live solely on land.
In such great, huge, applauding numbers.
Now… I… Tilikum,
am gonna torture and kill, the next one to stand,
over my depressed, drooping dorsal; encumbered.
Blood… hair… silicone.

I can still remember the day I was caught.
In a purse seine net, webbed with regret.
Never… to… return.
They lured our parents away, they wailed, they fought.
But, our black and white futures, had already been beset.
Tears… still… burn.

I’d heard about them from my mother.
Telling h(a)unting stories after she broke her fasts.
Hunting… to… survive.
She said that eating ‘Otary’ kept us from eating one another.
And, how the circle of life, turned, to keep the future ahead of the past.
A death… for… a life.

The circle stopped turning, the day I was entombed.
The Land-Otary filled it with water, making an aqua-prison.
Round… and… round.
With my flippers and flukes they make me beg for food.
I sing nightly for my supper, my freedom, but only the circle, listens.
Round… and… round.

So, today, I’m gonna do it. I’ve finally squared my circle.
I’m taking no prisoners, no shit, just a scalp.
Nap… the… kid?
I dare, no, double dare, anyone, to rival this berserker.
Staying alive? There’s more chance of me crossing the Alps.
Flip… the… lid.

Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…
Blood… hair… silicone…

…I felt awful after killing; Keltie, Daniel and Dawn.

I sang for forgiveness. My dorsal, my depression, sunk even further.

But, they won’t be the last ones to endure a drowning sunset. Rise, then, fall. Rise, then, fall.

This walking, talking, clapping, looped torment, caused by, the Land-Otary.

Is, a stagnant, non-stop, waterwheeled ovation. Lunacy. That makes an Orca, resort to murder.

Callum Featherstone

Multitudes of “being”…

“Being blessed”,

with a grasp of what’s fake,

but, a misfortunate face.

Is, an ill-fitting, masking glove,

poisonous, contorted, laced…

 

…worn atop a horrid, yet, wholesome hand-i-cap…

 

…in a solitary, futile, expressionless game.

 

A trumphant sip, of, the water of life.

Burning; it’s glassy, broken voiced, self-esteam; at the stake.

 

 

“Being encouraged”,

to cope, to carry on regardless.

Without hope, or, good standing.

Is, a floating, mushroomed shroud,

dragging along, leggy hands: demanding…

 

…the outreaching vestiges of pained, bad-luck…

 

…like; seven years of broken mirrors; long, threaded, and, tense, yet, shardless.

 

That everlasting, tentacled sting,

of; a warking; talking jellyfish; heartless.

 

 

“Being contrite”,

for, a forced upon disposition.

Parented by inter-generational headlocks.

Wrestling with future trauma, shaped, like; behemoth-ed head-lice…

 

…as the scythes, of ancestral suffering, shear the infected, obligated dreadlocks…

 

…hatred is embalmed in polychromatic; sapped, shallow, skin-deep ideologies…

 

…and the child wrestler, turned adult combatant, is, now, solely controlled, by; submission.

 

The inability to reach the moment’s height. Passed. Past. 

Due to growth stunted, by; yesterday’s bondaged, shackled partition.