Hard knocksStaring closely into the shard of glassI see the end result of all my illsBitter and twisted of a lower classYet proficient in the basic life skillsA man of hard knocks, toughenedTough, but never hardenedTo stare at the world without show of concernBut still saddenedAngered by injusticeRepulsed by the tolerantIrked by the lenientAnd sickened by the ignorantIf I should openly show these emotionsWould the world understand?I fear I might become part of that worldRather I shake the devil's handThen damn me for eternityFor I am of different stockContinue to show me your backsAnd I alone, shall carry my rockThis man of hard knocksHe does not feel outclassedA subject to his painAnd knowledge he has grasped
lost causeA young man walks with his head downThrough a town on the outskirts of HellAverting his gaze from defeated eyesFor the world and its ways, he knows wellAnd hope, its flesh rotting in historic cornersFestering with all that ever matteredAnd dreams, painstakingly painted on glassIn shards, forgotten and shatteredOh, the futility of care for tomorrowOf prayers, aspirations and wishingAnd causes constructed of good intentDiscarded, strewn and missingYet light still flickers amid black cloudsAnd sunlight does grace certain placesAnd there are still those who stand true and proudAnd smiles adorn their faces
Voices from the pastI can hear voicesVoices from the pastBut, only when I'm drivingWhen I'm driving fast"It's the wind", said the doctor"Or a breech in a seal""Go home and put your feet up""Or go out for a meal"So, I took the doctor's adviceAnd intended to go homeI buckled up my seatbeltSwitched off my mobile phoneThen I turned the ignitionThis made the engine roarBut, as I started drivingThe voices came once moreI could hear the voicesCouldn't tell what they were sayingSo, I put my foot downThe car started swayingSuddenly, I hear them clearlyThese voices from the pastThey say "climb up from the wreckage""And join us at long last"
Yaikal of the white worldYaikal of the white worldA short story by Paul Frederick ClaytonThe land was white, not pure white, but different shades of white, a bleached white, probably due to the close proximity of the world's sun. A couple of decades ago, before the world's orbit shifted, it was capable of sustaining life, but no longer. Nothing lived in this inhospitable white world. Nothing but an exceptional ten year old male named Yaikal. He had miraculously and unexplainably lived without sustenance in the total solitude of this white world. Impossible by all that we understand, yet he lives.Yaikal picked up a rock and began to scrape the trunk of a dead tree. Instantly the white powdery bark crumbled, dropping to the ground in a heavy clump, creating a white powdery cloud. As the white dust cleared and settled, Yaikal stared at something he seldom saw
colour.Sometime later Yaikal was overwhelmed by an array of colour when the beings came in their vehicle from the sky. Yaikal had kept hidden awa