Pen Sieve

Procrastination Poem

Don’t worry about the laundry,

it’ll dry on its own.

Stop reading through your emails.

Put down your bloody phone.

You’ve had enough to eat for now,

don’t need another drink.

Just sit down and do some work.

You have to try and think.

Sugar isn’t helping.

You’re hyper as hell.

And listening to Death Note tunes

won’t turn you into L.

You’ve made seven essay plans

each one pretty much the same.

You only write half the piece

before deciding to start again.

The deadline is approaching,

You’re getting far too tense.

Just write the damn assessment

and pray it makes some sense!

Kip smiled as she took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of hot chocolate and stale tears that wafted through open windows. She leaned against the single streetlamp on Cedar Drive, listening to the tired fixture’s incessant buzzing. The orange light flickered. If anyone were to look out of their window right now, they might catch a glimpse of her.

Small and eerily skinny. Her long dark hair braided back into plaits which trailed down to her uneven hips. Beneath her black denim outfit, light blue skin flecked with pastel markings stretched over her distorted body. Ribs of different shapes and sizes sewn together to form a zig-zagging ribcage, fused to a curved spine. This caused the scaly spikes that protruded through the skin of her right shoulder blade to stick out dramatically. Her left shoulder carried a single wing. Jagged and coated in black and green feathers to match her left eye. Heterochromia dictated that her right eye should be orange, a yellow halo swirled around the black slit of a pupil. Both eyes seemed slightly too big for the rest of her face, giving her a permanently curious expression. Her nose tilted up like a snout, her turquoise ears pointed like an elf’s. And upon her head, rested two horns. The longer one curled. A corkscrew made of bone. Parts of her were made of plants, her veins, her eyelashes. Although you could not see them, her lungs were spare pieces of a pufferfish. Instead of nails, her fingers sprouted extra teeth. Some parts of her were not natural at all. Bits of machine worked into the creature where nothing else would fit.

Mismatched feet stuffed into odd boots tapped a crack in the pavement. Kip listened carefully for the murmur, the pitiful cry of a discontent sleeper who wanted nothing more than to be set free from whatever cruel trap their mind had concocted that evening. And then she smiled, for someone was calling her name. The streetlight flickered again, momentarily plunging Cedar Drive into total blackness. And when the feeble orange bulb switched back on, there was no one there.

Kip was now stood inside a bedroom. Decorated with emerald wallpaper and stuffed bears. In the corner, amidst a cocoon of sheets and cushions, a little boy cried out. His limbs flailing. Inside his head, a nightmare weaved various images. A trip to the dentist. A bad day at school. Trivial things. Hardly worth Kip’s time or talents. Nevertheless, she couldn’t resist the lure of fresh prey.

She reached into the child’s mind. Causing no damage as she scooped the nightmare out. Fangs gleaming in the weak light of the moon, Kip opened her mouth. The nightmare, a dark creature – barely larger than a grape – squeaked and struggled in her grip. Tendrils made from shadows lashed out, trying to free itself from her grasp. Kip popped the nasty little nightmare into her mouth and swallowed it whole.

But such a petty morsel after having to use her powers wasn’t nearly enough. Kip leaned closer to the sleeping boy, who had settled down now that his dreams were no longer plagued by fear. Which would make them taste that much sweeter…

She gobbled and guzzled and gorged. Stuffing spicy ambitions, sugary hopes and zingy daydreams down her gullet. Kip feasted, enjoying the flavour of every emotion, every aspiration. And with each one she devoured, the sleeping boy grew a little duller. Until he was just a boring shell. A being with no aims, no ideals, no dreams of any kind.

Kip wiped her grinning mouth, patting her bloated belly with a blue hand before skipping back into the shadows, which opened up like a trapdoor. She followed the next voice that called out for her and followed it. Dancing through a tunnel of darkness. She dropped through space, landing in a crouch in a completely different bedroom, inside a completely different house.

The room she had been drawn to was a vision of pink. Large posters advertising boy bands and fantasy films lined the walls. A butterfly lampshade dangled from the ceiling. The girl who whimpered and tossed and turned in her bed was almost a woman. There were various pictures of herself in frames on her desk. All showed her looking heavily made up and standing with friends who dressed in a similar way. The centrepiece of the collection showed all of them, clutching dainty glasses of champagne in front of a shiny banner with the number eighteen scribbled across.

Kip peeked into the girl’s mind and laughed cruelly.

‘So,’ she hissed, swooping her head down so that she could whisper into the girl’s ear. Her voice came out as a throaty sing-song.

‘You dread being left out, is that it? You could never bear the idea of looking different, of being alone. Your worst nightmare is my reality. Pathetic. Pathetic.’

She dropped back into the shadows, leaving an empty shell behind for the second time that night.

People just didn’t know what fear was anymore. Kip snarled as she stormed through various rooms in various houses, flats, hotels. Each sleeper who cried out seemingly less interesting than the last. Kip was starting to get tired. No decent nightmares to fill her up, so she indulged in the good dreams instead. There was a cost to that bad habit, however. Once Kip started eating a good dream, she always found it so hard to stop. But that was the price, she reasoned, the punishment for wasting her time.

She emerged from the darkness into another room.

Kip shivered in a sudden rush of cold air. Goosebumps prickled along her periwinkle arms as she approached him. A boy. He couldn’t have been older than eight, but even sleeping he seemed… mature somehow. There was something different about this one. A moan escaped his lips, a plea for Kip’s help, and curiosity pulled her even closer.

He dreamed of playing with another boy on a dark day. A little older than him, but with the same coffee-colour skin and dark hair. They both laughed as they chased each other. They were at a park. The rain seemed to be keeping any other visitors away, but the boys were having far too much fun to go home just yet. Kip sighed. Poor things. They had no way of knowing what was going to happen.

The river was high and surging along with a wicked current. The older boy stepped on the edge of the riverbank, loosened by the wet weather. And then-

The sound of the rain vanished. Kip watched through the boy’s eyes as his big brother tilted away from him, losing his balance. He didn’t have time to scream before the water claimed him. And then the rain started to roar.

It spoke to the boy.

It was all your fault.

You could have saved him.

You should have done something.

You let him down.

You let him drown.

Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

The rain jabbed at him like a thousand accusing fingers and Kip gasped as she jerked back, leaving the boy’s mind. Leaving him to face the nightmare alone.

She had tumbled onto the carpet and lay there for a moment, breathless. She was irritated that it took her a moment to recover. She was used to nightmares. She didn’t need to fear them, they feared her! And, she giggled, navy lips curving up to revealed sharp white teeth, this one looked particularly tasty.

Kip ran her tongue along her lips, savouring the last flavours of her meal. She grinned, hunger satisfied, and turned to leave. But something caught in her chest and she took one last look at the sleeping child. The nightmare was gone but his mouth was still set in a firm line, eyebrows still furrowed in pain.

Kip scratched her head, confused. She had let him keep the good things; his hopes, his ambitions. Wasn’t that enough?

She hopped back by his side and leaned over so that she could kiss his creased forehead. Instantly, the lines smoothed out and the corners of his mouth twitched.

‘There,’ she whispered, ‘now you can dream of something sweeter.’

The Forest of the Dead

She was an odd-looking little thing. Stitches covered her face and legs. Her pale skin looked grey and sallow. Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue, the colour of a clear late morning sky, but they had a glassy quality to them as if she wasn’t quite seeing the world around her. She seemed fixated on the stuffed animal. She cradled with skeletal hands that poked out of the end of her billowing sleeves. Her dress appeared Victorian in design, the frilly lace skirt hung from her slender waist, skimming the tops of her worn leather boots.

She didn’t know that she was being watched, or at least if she did she wasn’t acting on it. She just sat in the dim gloom of the forest, leaning back against the jagged bark of a thick tree trunk. Merrily looping black thread through the seams of her creation in the rapidly fading light. Sometimes she hummed strange high-pitched tunes that would end as suddenly as they began. Other times, she seemed to forget about her work completely for only a moment. Just long enough for her to stare off into the distance, pink lips curving into a smile as she pondered impossible things. Occasionally, she would grow bored and start weaving the thread through her own hair, knitted it into sections and tucking it out of her face. She had masses of it, bright orange. A vivid inferno pulled back into an untidy ponytail.

Still hidden in the shadows, her observer grew weary. He was crouched down behind bushes and brambles. The sticks and spikes snagged on his lightweight jacket. His skin was turning pink, raw from numerous nicks and cuts. He clutched a camera in his left hand. An Olympus OM1. No one could challenge the validity of the photographs if he used film.

The man stifled a yawn. How long had he been there? Hours, certainly. He couldn’t be sure how many. The locals had told him about the strange creatures of the Forest of the Dead, and all it would take was the courage to raise his camera and he would have proof. That, however, was easier said than done. While the creature ahead of him seemed charming and delicate, he couldn’t help but notice a half-chewed carcass at her left. Once a rabbit that she had caught lovingly in her bony hands before chomping down on the head and tearing it off with a sickly crack. Every now and then, she returned to her meal, picking out the best parts and wiping the blood off her exposed metacarpal bones with a dainty handkerchief.

Between the thick black branches above him, the man glimpsed pinpricks of dusty lavender sky. Night was coming. He felt a tightness in his chest as he considered lying there in the cold wet mud as darkness swooped over him. Who knew what sorts of hideous beasts would emerge then? No, he had to leave. He had to leave now. With proof, or there was no point in him risking his life in the first place. And, by God, he wasn’t returning to try his luck again another day.

He cringed at the sound of leaves rustling as he struggled up onto his elbows. He pointed the camera, finding Flopsy’s remains in the viewfinder’s eager gaze. Tracing it along the tree stump, he snapped the strange purple mushrooms and luminous toads, their croaks growing more frantic as the last evening light finally faded away. Snap. He caught the stuffed animals, the creature’s little creations. Snap. He caught the reels of threads laid out of the mucky ground.

But – where?

A giggle sounded from behind him as tiny, twig-like fingers wrapped around his ankles. The man cried out as the ground rushed up to meet him, his face slamming into the dirt. He could feel tears stinging his eyes as he craned his neck back to see his attacker. She laughed, the little thing. Overjoyed at the prospect of some evening entertainment as she let him scramble to his feet.

He snatched at the camera strap but missed. He wasted precious seconds, snatching at the earth. He had risked his life to get those pictures and wasn’t leaving without them. Legs pumping, feet thudding, heart pounding against his ribs. He held back a scream, knowing that it would do no good to waste his breath. The creature laughed again, the sound calling all of her friends to alert them of the game they were about to play.

The man hadn’t yet accepted his fate. Hope propelled him onward as other beings emerged, beings that made the undead girl seem sweet and docile in comparison. He panted, calves already aching as the others closed the distance between them, ready to teach him who sets the rules in the Forest of the Dead.

The Sleeping Man

I am often told many things. People come to me to confide their secrets, they ask me for help, they even come to thank me when all is well. I’ve never minded. People have always been welcome to come and see me and I like that I get many visitors. Apparently, I am seen as somewhat of a guardian. I suppose I do tend to watch over people, especially during the important moments in their life. Like this man, for example, the sleeping man.

He has been resting here with me for some time now, pale eyelids shutting out his gaze, body clad in a black suit. I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him before.

I remember watching him when he was an infant, having his little head washed. I remember him standing with a woman with red hair and blue eyes. They both said I do and then I played music as they skipped merrily under an archway of rice and confetti. Heading towards a car with cans attached to the rear and ribbons stretched over the bonnet.

I remember his eyes squeezed shut as he begged for help. One time he asked for a healthy child, another he asked for his money troubles to subside so that he could look after his growing family. Every time he graced me with his presence, I started to notice little details that were changed. He was accompanied by his wife, then one kid, then two, then three, then four. An odd grey hair, his back a little hunched. Some months he wore a woolly jumper and some months his shirt had shorter sleeves.

His wife changed too. Getting paler and pale, and thinner and thinner. Her movements slower and slower. Her hair dropping out strand by strand. She came here to rest too, eventually. I watched her sleeping dressed in a beautiful green lace dress. A dusting of makeup and a new wig so that she would look herself when she woke up. The man told me and the other guests a little about her. The whole time his brown eyes were wet.

I didn’t see him for a long time after that.

Then one day, he came back. His remaining hair almost entirely grey and white, his eyes and forehead etched with lots and lots of lines, but he was still recognisable as him. He approached me with four others who you might consider almost adults, but to my old eyes, they were still babies. They were getting to the age where one tends to fly the nest and explore the world alone. One week there were only three, then only two, one, then the man alone.

That was the last time I saw him before today. The eldest child came back once. They sat quite far at the back and kept their head down in silent prayer.

I suppose this means that later he’ll be taken to rest in my garden. Don’t worry children, I promise I’ll watch over him.