A Little Thing

He pressed the dial down and turned it. There was the hissing of gas and three sharp clicks of the spark before the largest ring on the hob ignited with a whomph! He poured a drizzle of oil into the wok and watched as the heat caused the surface of the oil to ripple slightly. Judging the heat to be right, he picked up a handful of green beans from the chopping board and dropped them into the wok, then followed with the last few as the kitchen was filled with the sound of the beans sizzling.

“Can I do anything to help?”

Her voice was quiet, and he glanced at her and smiled as he gave a flick to the wok, tossing the beans to cover them in the oil.

“You can grab the butter from the fridge?”

She did so, and cut a lump off and passed it to him. He gestured at the wok and she dropped it in. A hiss and fizzling as the butter began to melt, and he stirred the beans out of the way with a wooden spoon, settled the yellow rectangle into the centre of the pan. As the butter melted, he ground pepper and a little salt into the pan, and tossed the beans to mix them.

“Is that all it is?”

He smiled and shrugged.

“That’s it. Butter, oil, salt and pepper, let them blister.”


“It works though.”


He looked at her.

“You doing okay?”

She watched the beans in the wok, and the question went unanswered. He opened the oven door an inch or two and looked in. The sweet potato wedges were browning nicely, and the bacon wrapping the chicken was crisping up.

“Not long,” he murmured, and closed the oven door. As he straightened, she spoke.

“Sorry if I’m quiet.”

She was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, eyes on the hob, but looking inward, he realised. He smiled at her, and shrugged.

“Nothing to apologise for. Quiet company is still company; it’s nice spending time in yours. And if there is anything I can do…?”

She smiled a small smile, and then moved to the drawers next to the fridge. She tried the first, then the second and rummaged among the cutlery. He murmured thanks as she moved to the table and set places, and he reached for the handle of the wok once more. The beans were blistering nicely now; they were nearly ready.

He knew that there was nothing he could do to help, not really. But in going through his own few troubles, he’d come to believe two things very strongly. The first was that sometimes, little things could make a big difference. He tossed the beans one last time, and nodded. Cooking was only a little thing, after all. But it might be enough, for now.

“Right then,” he said brightly. “I think we’re about there.”

She poured two glasses of squash as he turned off the hob and the oven, then leaned once more in the doorway as he plated up their meal. Chicken breasts stuffed with mozzarella and wrapped in bacon. Sweet potato wedges seasoned with paprika and soy sauce. A mountain of blistered beans. Food that sought to comfort. She carried the glasses to the table and set them down, sliding into a chair as he placed the plates down, sitting opposite her.

A moment of silence between them, before she spoke.

“Thanks for this.”

“Welcome anytime. Hope it’s alright.”

“It looks great.”

She speared a couple of the beans with her fork and lifted them to her mouth. He paused as she chewed, watching for her reaction. She met his eyes, and smiled.

“Bloody hell.”


“Oh yes.”

“Good. And…”

He faltered, seeking for the right words. The second thing he’d learned, that he believed… She waited, her eyes questioning, and it came to him.

“I just wanted to say… Storms come. But however bad they get, they can be weathered. And, in time, they pass.”

He smiled at her, worry at overstepping himself creeping in at the edges of his thoughts, but then she smiled back at him.

“Thank you.”


And so, sharing food and friendship, they ate together.


No One Should Be And No One Is

Take my hand

Her head rested on her arms as she leaned against the barrier, hair dancing in wisps about her face, her loose jacket rustling in the breeze. She looked out towards the distant hills with a faraway stare that suggested it wasn’t the fir trees she was looking at, or anything at all for that matter; the distant look of a thinker. I couldn’t put my finger on why but I knew I had to speak to her. Compelled you might say.

I let my hand run along the railing as I approached, the cold of the metal tingling at my fingertips. The water thrashed and churned beneath, throwing a fine spray into the air that made me blink hard while it caught on her eyelashes, seemingly unfazed. I came to stop next to her and rested my elbows on the side.  The air felt thick with her thoughts like they were pouring out of her, too many to contain, forming a cloud so dense I had to take a breath to make sure I still could.

I can’t

“They say the light here is beautiful.”
She said it like a statement but I felt it like a question.  “They do.”
“I hear it from everyone so I thought I should come and see it.”
“And now?”
She bit her lip, posing the question back to herself.  “I don’t see it.”  She propped her chin on her hand, still staring out, searching for it.  “I mean I see it, intellectually.  I can see that the line of the trees meeting the horizon just so, the mountain ridge folding inwards to the river, the rough and tumble of the water, I can see how people would find beauty in that…”
“But you don’t?”
“I guess not.”

Do you trust me?

“What do you think?”  She looked at me for the first time and yet it was as if she could see right through me; her blue eyes felt a strange blend of icy and warm, like snowmelt, like resignation.
“I think beauty is subjective.”
She glanced down, before turning back.  Maybe she had been hoping for more, something to give her what she lacked.
“I think it is a perfect example of the cruelty of nature,” she proclaimed, a sharp edge to her tone, “The water, violent and relentless, has carved its way through the land, doggedly determined to destroy anything in its path.”
“That’s a rather pessimistic way of seeing things.”
“Is it?” she challenged, piercing me with her stare once more, “It will take the very floor beneath our feet given time and inclination.”

Yes but

“True enough,” I concede.  She raised an eyebrow as her hair whiped in the wind, “That being the case, then what is the point?”
“Well there is none,” she retorted matter-of-factly.  “Life is short and hard and random and insignificant.”
“So you’re here to end it then?”
My blunt question catches her off guard and she shifts slightly on her feet.  “That obvious am I?”
I find myself fighting back a smirk dancing at the corner of my lips. “I have an eye for these things.”
She goes on the offensive, jutting out her chin, goading mixed with indignation.  “I suppose you’ll try to stop me.”
“Not at all.”
Her brow furrows, “Then what will you do?”

Then take my hand

“Help?” she spits, distaste and disbelief wrapped up in the word.
I nod gently, “That’s what I’m here for.”
She eyes me up, taking in my whole self for the first time, and apparently I am left wanting.  “You came to jump?” scepticism dripping from her voice.
“Not exactly,” I reply calmly, “I’m here for you.  If that’s how you want to do it then I guess that’s what I’ll be doing.”
The furrow deepens, the cloud of thoughts swirling once again.
“No one should be alone for this…and no one is.”  I catch her gaze and I push the cloud aside, dispelling it, and in that instant I see the familiar wave of clarity form on her face.

“Take my hand”
“I can’t”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes but”
“Then take my hand”

Our fingers intertwine and the wind howls a cry across the valley.  Without a blink she grasps the railing and the world itself shifts as we pivot across the equilibrium.  She glances back at the railing, her pale bitten fingers the fine line between the now and the next, before locking eyes with me once more.  I smile and nod gently, and she lets go.

The Man Who Lived By The River

The news report couldn’t have been more explicit. A storm was imminent. Hardly unexpected, in this part of America, but there was something especially vicious about this particular storm. Even the name, Hurricane Maura, implied a greater impact than usual. Thomas always wondered why the worst hurricanes seemed to always be named after women, but put it down to the natural condition, reinforced by his two unhappy marriages.

He watched the report with his usual brand of skepticism. He’d survived five decades of these kinds of warnings and they’d only ever become more hysterical as the ever-increasing number of news channels competed for attention. In his view a storm was a storm. Some may have hit worse than others, but at this point every time it rained it felt like there was a storm warning, and in his day they used to call it simply “hard rain”. The reporter read from a statement from the government, in as dramatic a performance as he could muster, that people should evacuate their homes and stay with relatives until the storm had passed.

“What a load of horse-shit.” Thomas said out loud to his empty house.

He turned the television off with a roll of the eyes. He walked to the window and looked out over the river that stretched and snaked alongside his house. In his view, the most reliable forecast was his own two eyes and years of experience. It didn’t look too bad so far. Besides, he was a good Christian man, more reliably in church on Sunday mornings than communion wafers. God would look out for him, as he always had. 

– – 

The following morning, the rain had started. The river had risen up almost to the very top of its banks. Thomas looked out from his bedroom window as he sipped his coffee. From the horizon line he watched a coastguard boat approach and slow as it drew level with his house. A man standing on the front of the boat waved and Thomas opened the window to hear him better over the sound of the driving rain.

“Hey you in there” the man began “what are you doing still in there?”

“This is my house” Thomas replied gruffly.

“The river is about to burst, the town is going to flood, you gotta get out while you can.” the man yelled, bemused at Thomas’s obtuse reaction.

“I’ve lived here all my life, this happens all the time.” Thomas shouted back.

“Man, seriously, this isn’t the worst of the weather, there’s more rain coming. Come on out and we can take you some place safer” the man continued.

“No way. I’m not leaving. I’m religious, God loves me, nothing’s going to happen, God will keep me safe.”

The conversation reached it’s natural impasse as a second man on the boat appeared and said something inaudible from the rear of the vessel. The first man looked back at Thomas and tried once more.

“This is nuts, you gotta come with us.”

Thomas closed the window and waved them off. The boat carried on down the river as the man threw his arms out in exasperation. 

– –

The day wore on and the banks of the river did indeed break. The first floor of the house swam with water. Thomas realised this was happening of course, and moved his most valued possessions up to the second floor. But even as the water reached the level of the windows downstairs, he had no fear for his safety. 

The power cut from the house as he began to hear the chugging of helicopter blades above the house, and as he stepped onto the balcony of his room he heard a woman’s voice on a megaphone that cut through the din;

“You down there, get up to the roof and we can drop the cradle and take you to safety.” 

Thomas yelled at the helicopter in reply; “No, I go to church every Sunday, God loves me, God will save me – if I need saving at all.”

The woman repeated her offer, with the added cheek (Thomas thought) of questioning his state of mind in the process.

“Are you crazy? The whole town is evacuated, the flood water is still rising, let us help you!”

Thomas went back inside and took the shotgun from his wardrobe. He took it back to the balcony and fired a shot into the air. The helicopter peeled off, and even though it was not through the megaphone, Thomas felt like he could hear the woman’s cursing as it did so.

– –

That night Thomas put himself to bed, confident in his assessment that the rain was easing up and everything would be fine in the morning. Or at least making strides in that general direction.

He awoke with the water lapping against his bed, and rising more rapidly than before. He was a confident swimmer in his youth but that was now some time ago, and he quickly tired. Finally he could kick and push against the water no longer and he was enveloped by the waves around him.

– –

Suddenly the black in front of his eyes was replaced with light, and a human-looking figure stood before him, next to a set of pearly gates which Thomas could barely discern against the light itself.

“Thomas Byres.” the voice began, and seemed to suddenly stop. “You’re not expected…”

“Is this?”


“Why are you…”

“I appear in this form to make the transition easier to accept.”

“You said I was…”

“Not expected. Not for several years yet.”

“I’m dead?”


“And this is…”

“Heaven, yes, well done.”

“But… I’m not supposed to be here… I mean… I was at home, I’m healthy…”

“Perhaps we should sit.”

“This is outrageous, I want to speak to God.”

The voice laughed “Who do you think I am?”

“You’re God?” Thomas asked, feeling that his mouth was making sounds entirely independently of his brain. “Don’t you have better things to do than to welcome every person individually?”

“The benefits of existing outside of your concept of time…”

“You’re speaking American…”

“Technically, no, we’re not speaking at all – it’s a little hard to grasp at first. You can’t think of yourself as a person here, you don’t have a body, time is meaningless… This is all supposed to come more gradually… You’re merely a spirit now – pure energy.”

“Wait… I’m dead… How did this happen?”

“I’m afraid you drowned. You didn’t feel any pain, it was like someone turning out the lights before falling asleep.”

Thomas stared at the figure for what he felt was a moment, if moments had existed in the state he found himself in.

“God – I thought you loved me. I went to church every Sunday, I treated people well, I was devoted, why didn’t you save me?”

“Thomas – I sent you a news report, a coastguard boat and a Marine helicopter… What are you doing here?”

It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine)

Darrell Tate prophet, founder and Leader of the Holy Church of the Fragile Earth lay still, enjoying the warmth of the two naked bodies pressed up against him. While his time may be short he could honestly say he’d never been happier. ‘God if you’re listening let this moment last forever,’ he thought. As if in answer there came the muffled thump of an explosion somewhere across the compound.

“Dick,” croaked Darrell stretching an arm out to his bedside table in search of something to drink. His hand roamed over glass bottles, ceramic mugs and a myriad of items of discarded clothing before closing on something soft. He gave it an experimental shake and was rewarded with the satisfying slosh of liquid in plastic. Without opening his eyes he unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. It was warm and stale but to Darrell’s parched throat it tasted like the finest champagne. “And all is well with the world again,” said Darrell crushing the bottle and tossing it away. As is hit the floor somewhere across the room an alarm began to wail deep in the heart of the compound.

Darrell opened one eye and looked up at the giant clock on the wall above his bed. One hour forty three minutes and fifty five seconds until the end of the world. He let out a sigh and, not for the first time, cursed himself for not picking a date another five years further out. Hell, one year further out. Even a month would have sufficed, but it was too late now. There was another thump closer this time and dust started to rain down from the ceiling obscuring the clock for a moment. He heard the boots of men running and somewhere in the distance but coming closer the wail of sirens.

The problem with death cults totally legitimate religions that just so happen predict the end of the world is that they tend to attract a certain crowd…

“Father, you in there?” called Bo as he pounded on the thick, metal door.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” muttered Darrell squeezing out from under the two naked girls who continued to snore softly still sleeping off the previous nights excesses.

“Father Tate! Are you in there?”

“Yes I’m hear Bo God damnit,” cursed Darrel as he rummaged through the mess searching for a clean pair of pants. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed.”

“But Father, it’s those bastards from the government. They’re hear to shut us down!”

“They can try but by the time they have the proper permits it will be too late I’ll be miles away from… I mean… It won’t matter.”

“Don’t worry they won’t get passed us,” said Bo followed by a metallic noise that sounded ominously like the cocking of a shotgun.

“Bo, I hope you’re not going to do anything stupid,” said Darrell finally finding an old t-shirt and a battered pair of jean shorts that while scandalously short would cover his unmentionables long enough for him to get hell out of dodge. “We talked about this, God told me no fighting with the unbelievers remember.”

“Well, Bubba and Randy said…”

“I don’t care what Bubba and Randy said,” snapped Darrell as flipped back a painting of himself to show the safe hidden behind it. “Now, you just go down to the main hall with everyone else…”

“Aww, but Father I don’t want to kill myself.”

“No but’s Bo I…” Darrell paused the last digit of the code unentered. “Wait. What do you mean kill yourself? Who said anything about killing yourself?”

“Well, when I came up Maggie-Mae was passing out the emergency Kool-Aid.”

“What emergency Kool-Aid?! Does nobody tell me anything? I’m supposed to be the bloody prophet!”

There was another rumble of an explosion followed by the rat-a-tat tat of automatic gunfire.

“Christ what’s going on out there?” said Darrell heading over to the window, the safe momentarily forgotten. “We’re a peaceful cul… I mean religion. No suicide pacts, no bombs, no gun fights with the feds. Just nice normal tax sca… ah… I mean religious stuff.”

There was no answer.


Darrell crossed the room and flung open the door in time to see Bo’s back as he ran off down the stairs, the barrel an Ithaca 37 poking out from over his shoulder.

“Bo get back here God Damnit!”

“I’m a comin’ Randy,” yelled Bo as he reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried in the direction of the front gate.

There was a moments silence and then a huge whump and somehow Darrell was on his back his head swimming. The world spun around him andd Darrell could see the sky where the ceiling used to be through a haze of smoke and dust. His ears were ringing and he tasted blood as he dragged himself to his feet and threw himself down the stairs. He needed to see what the hell was going on for himself.

Darrell crossed the main hall keeping his eyes averted from the kitchen where Maggie-Mae had last been seen and crouched in the doorway to the outside. The compound was in uproar, it looked like someone had kicked open an anthill full of ants in flapping white robes. Initiates ran in all directions through the haze of smoke, some carrying weapons other helping injured brothers and sisters. All of them with wide eyes and wild looks on their faces. At the entrance to the compound Bo, Randy and Bubba crouched behind a makeshift barricade exchanging fire with black clad feds in full tactical gear. One was initiate wielding an AR-15 and firing feverishly into the ranks of the fed like something from the end of Scarface. Darrell tried to call out to stop him but before he could the man was peppered with bullets, blood staining his once pristine white robe. Darrell couldn’t even remember the poor saps name.

“Bastards!” shouted Bo as the initiate fell poking his shougun over the barricade and firing blindly in the direction of the feds. As he did Bubba tossed something into the crowd of black clad figures who dived out of the way and it detonated with a deafening roar.

‘Grenades?! Where the hell did they get grenades?’ thought Darrell. They were supposed to be a peaceful cul… religion. Yes, definitely a religion, not a cult. The intensity of the feds firing on the barricade increased, bullets pinging off the thick steel in every direction. One clipped the door frame by Darrell’s head and it was then he decided to get the hell out of there.

Taking a deep breath he dashed towards the rear of the compound keeping low to avoid the gunfire, and his ex-followers. Not that he thought anyone would recognise him out of his robes but he didn’t want anything that would draw attention to him right now. Covered by the smoke and milling bodies he managed to make it to the back of the compound undetected and unshot. Once there he found the small storeroom near the back that had a big sign on the door saying Private: No Entry by Order of Founder Tate.” He pulled on the handle but the door didn’t budge.

“Crap, padlock,” he said looking down at the large chunk of metal barring his escape. He patted his pockets but they were empty his keys must have still been in his robes. There was another explosion behind him and when he looked over his shoulder he saw a swarm of feds bursting through the smoke and tackling white robbed initiates. The barricade and its defenders was gone. In desperation Darrell scanned the floor looking for anything he could use to force the door and eventually came up with a large rock. Using both hand the brought the rock down, once, twice, thrice before the padlock shattered and the door swung open.

He leapt through the door swinging it shut behind him then ducked through a small gap between a large stack of boxes. At the back of the darkened room in one corner was a small door. Darrell pulled it open and crawled through into a narrow tunnel. He crawled for what felt like hours through the dark with the screams of the wounded and the rattle of gunfire hot on his heels. At length the tunnel started to widen and after a few hundred feet Darrell stood in front of a large wooden door. He pushed it open fingers and toes crossed. The alleyway was empty.

“Man that was a close one,” said Darrell as he emerged into the sunlight and walked calmly off down the street away from the smoke and the fire that made up all that was left of his fledgling religion. “I’ve got to get out of this game. Well, the end of the world stuff anyway. Maybe next time I’ll come up with a nice friendly cul… religion. Something wholesome and quiet. With no grenades. Yes definitely no, grenades.”


If you enjoyed this comedy tale of cults and forgotten gods keep your eyes peeled for my second novel ‘God but Not Forgotten’ coming to a store near you hopefully sometime in 2020… Assuming the small human chills out and lets me do some writing…

George Michael Fan Fiction Incoming

Good morning, Novel Dreamers!

Welcome back to another exciting month of writing. You should be seeing the wonderful LOVE pieces that the guys have been writing over January, just in time for Valentines Day next week, being shared about now! Why not go vote for your favourite(s)? Click here

With that being all tied up, we better start looking at February’s writing challenge! I’m asking our cracking writers to write about FAITH this month. They can write about religion, they can write about belief, they can write about Faith Hill if they really like! Whatever they come up with, however, shall hopefully come from some meaning or interpretation of that word. Or at least, I hope they do. It’s alright, I’ll just keep…

Yeah I’ll see myself out.

Below is this month’s example piece. Enjoy.


Come Join the Murder

It was a cold and dreary Thursday in the midst of an equally cold and dreary April. Gale force winds blew in northwesterly, and no sense of central heating or designer outfits could keep the weather from creeping into your bones. But this had not perturbed him; he had a job to do, and he’d be damned before he let his father hold his failure against him. Pushing through the trees and growth, he could hear the stream babbling somewhere ahead of him. He stopped for a moment, clouds puffing from his mouth like some volcano, not too sure if it were going to erupt or not. He took out his pocket watch and checked the time: 03:42pm.

This was meant to be an easy trek, you old bastard, he thought to himself. He started back up and found the weir just as a distant church bell struck four. It was all but lost on him as time seemed to be standing still in the middle of the woods.

“You never told me how you wanted this doing, old man!” he called out to the heavens. His face stung as the weather tried to freeze the tears welling up in his eyes already. The scene was picturesque. He knew it would be as it had been the picture hanging in the living room since he were a boy. His father constantly reminding him, in a semi-drunk state, that that’s where he wanted his ashes scattering when he were gone. He grimaced and looked at the slippery stones just breaking the water and remembered the once or twice the old man had informed him it were quite a dangerous thing to attempt; but this was his father’s last wish.

He dropped onto a log that sat on the bank, placing the metallic tub very carefully to his left, and pulled a small hip-flask from his inner pocket. He let the liquid slosh around a bit inside and turned to look at the urn holding his father.

“Three generations of miserable old cunts, hey?” raising the hip-flask. He immediately berated himself mentally for speaking ill of his grandfather, the original owner of the hip-flask in his hand. He opened it and took a sip. The warmth spread across his chest and throat instantly as the 18 year old Glenfiddich took hold of his entire being for but a moment. Knowing his father would heavily disapprove, he poured a dram over the bark in front of the urn. “You’re not allowed to drink and I’m only allowed 2 units, remember?” he scoffed, taking another pull.

A bark woke him from his daydream as a St Bernard came lolloping out of the brush and directly towards him and a bear of a man stepped out the hole in the trees seconds later. Leaning heavy on a walking stick with an ornate pair of ravens on perch at the top of it, the man was greying blonde with a scraggly beard and eye patch.

“Down, Chronos,” called the older man after his hound before turning to the younger. “Pardon him, he likes making friends and interrupting thoughts.”

The younger chuckled before gesturing to the log beside him. “Well if it’s friends you’re needing, I could do with the company this afternoon.” He turned to the dog, “That’s a very impressive name you have there,” he said as he reached out to pet the big bugger, only to be slobbered over rather enthusiastically.

“Oh he’s an impressive dog,” the blonde man said as he sat. The two shared a handshake and a drink before he spoke again. “The name’s Wednesday. What’s your’s, friend?”

The younger man barked a laugh and drank again, knowing full well he should have stopped two mouthfuls ago. “Oh this is happening is it?” Wednesday gave a half apologetic smile but said nothing. “My name is unimportant, sir.”

“Your father and his father might disagree with you there, boy” growled Wednesday, gesturing to the two metal containers.

“A fair point. Then you can call me Archer,” he said as he offered the hip-flask once more. “Could you take this from me for a moment, I’m not really allowed to drink and I think seeing a long dead God might be a warning I’ve already pushed the line to its limit.”

It was Wednesday’s turn to bark with laughter, joined after by both Archer and Chronos. After a few minutes, the laughter died and the two wiped their faces.

“You were never one for keeping your thoughts to yourself, lad.” came a third voice from behind them that caused Archer’s blood to freeze better than the weather ever had chance to. He turned to see his father stood, ginger-grey had closely cut and beard surprisingly tidy for someone who always screwed up the process of trimming it. He wore that same outfit that Archer thought of immediately when trying to think of his dad. He came and moved the urn out of the way and sat, looking over the stream ahead of them. “Trust you to actually do it, you stubborn git.”

The three sat in silence.

“Dad, we’ve never been religious. You had me baptised and you took me to church a couple of times as a kid but neither of us ever believed in God.” Archer offered out, trying to make sense of it all. “And yes, since I’d had the faculty to comprehend it, I have believed in the tales of Norse Mythology, but not as a devout believer. So why are we sat here with Wednesday?” He realised what he was saying after the fact and added, “No offence, of course.” Wednesday waved it aside and offered an answer before Dad could.

“Whatever faith, religion, colour, or creed, the idiom linked with death remains the same: Meet your Maker. For some, they we realise the full character of their parent. For others, they are welcomed by an angel through pearly gates. For all of humanity’s warring over it, there is but one God; they all just see him/her/they in a different light.”

Archer scoffed, “how very Tumblr safe of you, Wednesday.”

They sat in silence once more. Archer dropped his head into his hands and sobbed.

“You’re not real, are you? Either of you?” He said, finally raising his head. But no one was there. Just a cold metal container, and a hip-flask flung against the log opposite.

He steadied himself, collected the hip-flask, and then the urn. Rounding his shoulders, he stepped onto the bank and then onto the stepping stones leading across the weir. His hands shook in the cold, but also with the fear and reverence of the situation, as he hit the midway point and stopped. Carefully he turned the container lid and paused, trying to think of what his father would have wanted. It came to him in an instant, and through tearful eyes and a laugh at how stupid and cheesy the whole thing felt, he started to sing.

There’s a blackbird perched outside my window,

I hear him calling, I hear him sing.

He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers,

He sees all my sins, He reads my soul…



N.B.  My father is alive and as well as the grumpy old git can be. This is fictional, based off conversations we’ve had. Please do not read into this.