When the Sun streams through the cracks in our curtains

you stare at my lips as though they were made from lollipops

and your nose lingers over my hair

Bubble-gum Fairy Floss,

the kind you can only find at the fair


Your hands melt my skin

for I’ve been in your Sun for too long

and you swallow me whole

like a greedy child

in some corner candy store


The Mindful Eye


I saw the golden light

creep along the leaves

and I cried because it was so much bigger than beautiful

so much more than the prison of a word


And I cried for those who can not see it

for those who will never know

the way the light dances in different directions

a symphony that will never be seen again


how sad for them to have missed this

how wonderful for me to have seen

The Day


I sat upon a day

and the Dawn flinched at my weight

“How heavy you are my dear” it whispered

“Lay your burden onto me”


And so I breathed a sigh of relief

and gave birth to a terrible storm

The clouds circled, catching my cries

like a desperate child, seeking sustenance


And when it was finally over

my eyes skipped around wildly

Expecting to find the damage

and stumbling upon a rainbow



8.~The Disappearance of Vincent Akamatsu~


Vincent Akamatsu loved to paint portraits of flowers. It did not matter what species the flowers were. He had no particular preference. For him, there was just something so spectacularly thrilling about capturing the slight changes in colour and form. Ever since he was small, Vincent would wander around his grandmother’s backyard finding the perfect subject. For him, nature provided the most wonderful aesthetic. A garden in his mind was already a painting.

His mother and father learnt quickly to indulge his hobby and bring all sorts of flowers home on a weekly basis. It kept the house colourful and Vincent happy. Mr Akamatsu did not even mind the sneezing fits he would have to suffer through, especially in the summertime. The family delighted in calling him Rudolph when his nose became a giant red mess.

When the Akamatsu family first moved to Godwin manor in 1986 they did not hesitate to hire a landscaper. One who would fill the empty earth around the large manor with an array of life. It was a place in dire need of colour and Eleanor Akamatsu was happy to oblige her teenage son’s wishes.

At fifteen years old, Vincent was a reasonably content young man. He went to the local Catholic school in town and gained popularity very easily due his obvious wealth. None of his peers seemed to disregard his hobby as strange or too ‘feminine’ a thing to do. No one could deny that his art was especially beautiful. Sometimes he would add his friends to the paintings, their faces pressed into the petals of purple Tulips or the leaves of a yellow Sunflower. The most memorable of Vincent’s paintings was that of a blue Rose. A bright vibrant blue against a dark blackness. It radiated a certain warmth that seemed unusual for such a colour.

“I don’t recall ever seeing a blue Rose before,” exclaimed his father, staring at the painting that was leaning against the doorframe of Vincent’s bedroom.

Vincent smirked “well they don’t technically exist in nature”

His father looked at him curiously “so what inspired you to paint it?”

Vincent shifted uncomfortably where he stood and shrugged. His eyes gazed towards the old mirror that hung on the wall opposite his bed “just something that came to me one day”.

Mr Akamatsu sensed the hesitation in his son’s voice. It was something he had never sensed from him before. There was an unease about him, a weariness behind his eyes. Looking back William Akamatsu would regret his decision to ignore this moment, to have brushed it off as nothing incidental.

Before William left for work, he turned to his son “and what do you call it?” he asked.

Vincent blinked.

“Jules” he said in a direct manner without much thought or consideration.

“Why Jules?” his father asked said curiously.

Vincent frowned. He stared at the painting as though in a trance.

“Because that is its name”.

His father thought he could detect a hint of confusion in his son’s voice, and with that, he left, not knowing it would be the last time. For one can never imagine outliving one’s own child.

Note: This is a continuation of Winifred Pickle & The Ghost of Godwin Manor. I will now be identifying the chapters by name.


A worthy palette


The magnificent aesthetic

does move back and forth

ebbing and flowing

like a song

and a dance

The droplets in my mind did drip the ails of time

and yet

I grasped the cloth of freedom

and wiped the wet away

How pristine it looks now


Oh the many things I can paint

on this bare



surface of mine

The potential for colour

ignites a feeling

a jolt

not felt in years

Oh how I thought those tears would drown me

Oh how I thought the years would end quickly

I thought my story was a purposeless palette

What a picture I have made now!

this movie

this song

projected on the cinema screen

And it does not matter anymore

if I’m the only one in line

if only one ticket is sold

It does not make my movie unworthy of Time’s reward

and it does not make my time wasted behind the camera









Only Time will tell what tales are told,

you thought I was a watch

but that was just times tool,

and oh what a fool,

what a mistake I have been,

to think Time was a place,

a place that I,

would never see.


Whisper to me the secrets of the moon,

the way it glows without meaning to

Oh, how I long to see it shine in the day,

one miracle

to let me know

things won’t always be this way.



Cherish me like a firecracker

one spark and I’ll explode

shards of me lighting up your sky

like a distant rainbow

long-forgotten in an ancient fairy tale


Oh how the magical creatures would dance!

Weightless feet on undisturbed leaves

Olive green trees on the stumps of red oak-

Bleeding sap making tears of their own

My story is not a one so unique

that you should turn away from me


Tis an old tale in a modern world

where skyscrapers do scrape the sky away

And me,

too loud

too colourful

too many shapes and patterns you cannot name

Dance with me, be my fairy prince

Walk a weightless walk

Dive into a dreamless sleep

Bathe in the falling olive green leaves

Ignore the red tears that trail the trees


The path that lay beneath your feet

is one of cinder now

the clock struck midnight

and the owls came out

Another page in my ancient book


No more colour to light the sky

No more rainbow to pave your way

You called Time a clock

but it is just Time’s tool

And I’ll wait for you at the top of the steps

shoe-less and in rags