Obsidian Words
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Fathomless is the mind full of stories.
Achievements (7)
Stories (188)
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A Menu to Fear
She had trouble sitting still. Her demeanour was one of twitching discomfort born from frustrating indecision. Her mouth was uncomfortably filled with a rush of saliva but no matter how much she swallowed her throat was still dry. She clenched her teeth and her fists in frustration; her mental battle so tumultuous it spilled over into physical reactions. Occasionally she would mutter silent curses to herself as she swung, a pendulum in the wind, from choice to indecision. She weighed the pros and cons as if her life depended on it, as if her happiness did. It was a fight between instant gratification and later consequences; or discipline, regret and maybe a chance for self-acceptance, however slim.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Existence Beyond Mortality
I sit here. Fermenting and stiff. My jaw slack, eyes milky-white and glazed with unfocussed detachment. My spirit lingers somewhere in my peripheral, mocking me in its fleeting existence between the physical and other. Occasionally I feel it dart between stale air, through old damp wood and into fresh, foggy mornings. The low clouds sometimes roll through the cracks between the huge doors and cloak me, drifting to place small beads of water on my brow as if I sweat again in the morning chill. I cannot tell if the colours are muted naturally here or if my perception through filmy eyes cannot draw in enough light anymore to see them truly. Sounds are also muffled but there is not much to make sound here either. There is one small span of the wall I can see and by whatever grace it happens to be a section where one of the slats of wood has fallen away at some point leaving me with a glimpse of the sky. In this fogged hour it is a swirling grey but I have been blessed again with the vision of a red-breasted robin to sing the sunlight through. It is perched and twitching in caffeinated agitation as it calls its grievances to the world. I find myself silently hoping that my other half, my lingering spirit, does not frighten it away by accident; or through some inconsiderate interaction that would surely not impress the tiny bird.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
I Favour Rain
If someone were to ask me my preference, I would say I favour rain. Storms are better but far more rare and particular, so I would settle for the rain. It’s the sound; the gentle, rhythmic thrumming like white noise but more subtle. Thunderstorms are deeper, like the predatory sky is growling at the lighting prey it can never catch. I like the story of the chase, the slow purr prowling in the distance and the cataclysmic clap that splits the air; a frustrated cry of failure. I could sit and listen to the same tale every night if only the sky would read it to me, but too often I am met with silence or whispers of other tales I would rather not be told. Like the one of the wind for instance. I don’t like the wind so much; sometimes it howls like a wounded animal tearing at the walls and even though I cannot feel it, I get chills. I endure the same anguish that I hear within that screaming, it makes my bones crawl and my heart squeeze into itself with discomfort.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
The Reset
Something was wrong. I had seen this street countless times, walked the same steps nearly every weekend; I remembered how I had avoided walking past the house with the chain link fence that looked moments from falling down. Something was off and it unsettled me. I struggled to ignore the anxiety that was rising in my chest, the pool of acid that had started to collect within my lungs was making every breath increasingly more difficult. The trees were taller, the street littered with piles of leaves and weeds pushing through the pavement. The world started to spin and I realised I was hyperventilating, my heaving chest making the ground beneath me rock. The chain-link fence had met its demise, some time ago judging by the garden that had now overtaken it. I wondered what had happened to the dog that used to live at the end of a chain behind that rusted wire. I started to get light headed as I realised - it was silent. Not the quiet of a casual afternoon but dead-quite. The dog was no longer there barking at all that went past, there was no movement. I stopped walking and tried to focus on my feet planted on the pavement, tried to think of the warmth of the sun on my skin and the breeze in my hair. I sucked in a deep breath and held it, willing my heart to find a slower rhythm, begging my lungs to expel the acrid effervescence with my breath. Settling into the closest I could get to calm I inhaled once more before lifting my head and opening the gate to house number 43.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
Ancient Mariner Retold
I searched amongst the weary eyed people, all looking for solace from their own dreadful lives in the joining of two others in matrimony. I never understood the emptiness I witnessed in the onlookers faces, I thought it was joy they should be feeling yet I swore I saw jealousy. But that was not my purpose here.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
The Meaning of Colour
I look at it, I know it should, but it doesn’t bother me. The body’s on the floor and I'm looking at it, but I'm not scared. I know it’s a body because it isn’t moving and it is all the wrong colours. It’s blue, white and red. Plus he usually snores when he is asleep, and he isn’t.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Mute Porcelain
The sunrise kissed her face with the wake of day, the hues of fairy floss and mandarin adding a glimmer of colour to her otherwise pale complexion; but she couldn’t feel its warmth, or admire its beauty. The glowing orb climbed through the blue sky, casting shadows for tiny critters to scurry between. Not one soul paid her any mind.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Transcendence
This was written when I was so young that I look back now in awe of how verse I was in the language of love and how complex and unexpected it can be, how painful. I curse the world for letting a teenager understand something in such a way so young but am thankful at the same time that I learnt early to look twice at something before naming it.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Symbolic Sounds and Sunny Spots
This is me, this chaotic, confounding, creature of cataclysmic proportions, collected and confined within this container that I call home. I am free-flowing rivers racing into waterfalls and fierce fires that feed on every fragment they can find. I am the isolated shards of ice in your veins. I am a vicious vulture circling and consuming untucked, uncensored thoughts. I am the Earth beneath, benevolent and alarmingly unpredictable. I am the air in your lungs, either acidic or alkaline, but always light even when it feels heavy. I am the kaleidoscope of colour captured in every pin-head propped-up poster or pixel that parades across your vision. I am all the tiny things we’ve yet to discover or decode; deep space, dark matter, dragons, the meaning of life. You are all these things too.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Because I Said So.
Because I said so. Man those words grated on me. I could feel the indignation churning in my chest, bubbling up into a scream. I held it in for the sake of those around me not privy to my internal turmoil. I ground my teeth together as I made my way across the grounds to where my car was parked, its dull yellow paint tempting me with a chance of brief solace.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Psyche
Scattered Fragments
One time, somewhere in that field of possibility; time and time again, we sit a while. Just this once, without getting anywhere; maybe again tomorrow, if it comes, we will have to see. We could be doing anything but there is just thought, or the idea of more, we can dream for a moment. Not again. What are we doing? I’m not even sure it matters. Time is the observation of change but I’m so unobservant and it all changes anyway, so what does it matter?
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
Fragments of a Shattered Soul
I will examine all the fragments that I have gathered on these pages; each acting in the theatre of nostalgia or remorse. I will hold each portion under my internal microscope and distinguish the details of their frozen scenes. I can see that some are aged and some new-born. A few are worn and weary whilst some leave scriptures on my skin, and write sequels in the scars they sketch afresh. I have written an abundance of heartache in each shade I’d claim to know, but that’s a pebble to the moon in retrospect. No matter how I try though, these pages won’t sit flush and they seem to be re-written over time. So my story will stay shattered and scattered about the lawn like so many Autumn leaves; and I shall lie among this library rebellion with whoever allows their fluttering.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Poets
