“Wight Christmas” an Anthology of Christmas Horror

The “Wight Christmas, Holiday Horror and Seasonal Subversion” is available from Amazon and my story “The Selfless Gift” is included.

My story grew out of a writing exercise where the words “velvet silence” were a prompt.

I have spent part of my life traveling through places covered with snow returning to family homes for the winter holidays, in various states of mind, through different eras and phases of my life.

The thing I like most about snow is what it does to sound, so, the words “velvet silence” could only mean for me a snowy night. From there I saw a lonely road driving away from one difficulty towards an uncertain tomorrow.

Christmas, for many, can be the most difficult time of the year. Birthdays can be ignored but Christmas punches a hole in the calendar and threads wishes, family, love, longing and regret together through the years until it can almost seem an entity in itself. I tried to capture those traditional pains and joys in a short story.

Was there ever a better story than a Christmas ghost story?

War Like

Unwind the balls of barb wire and stretch them out across the land that stood in perfection. 
Take that understanding that had the strength of a heart beat, that was a sound as big as an ocean, that made us say, “I know that sound!” and make it academic. Put it in a library somewhere far away and then say, “it never was for you to understand”. 
And with it 
the light that stretches from one horizon to the other, 
the wind that circles while panting, panting with the breath, 
the water that falls, that funnels, dances and destroys, 
the trees and plants and miniscule things growing, 
the uncurling grasp of a baby’s fist, the fluttering lids of the dying, 
and deliver your surgery:
this declaration, your pretense of history:
“You shall always be divided against yourself along this line and from all who are not you.”
It is no less.

Woman Poem

Woman Poem
by Rio Murphy

When she was my child 
I paused at the perfect curl of her earlobe.
She was a comma in my diatribe
about laundry and bills,
my aching back,
the sticky handprints everywhere,
the runny noses and endless nights of fitful sleep:
The Joy of Her.
When she was myself,
if I looked away
and back again
just in 
She was a blinking cursor.
When she was my old mother
with her tissue paper skin
and brittle bones on which it hung,
one black pupil 
narrowing within
the colourless iris of
her one sighted eye
—the spoon suspended halfway to her lips Like a question mark—
she was the poem
I could not write.
A woman poem is a ribbon in a river flashing underwater, 
It catches on an ankle,
Then slips away over black river stones, unknown.

by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

This reading is part of On Being’s altogether wonderful poetry archive.

Was Buddha a Buddhist?

There is nothing that is not Spring when Spring arises.

There is always a reflective dialing down, a fuzziness whenever we talk about it, more so when we make up a religion about it.

If we wake up, what are we waking up to? If you wake up, what?