Nemesis (Story reading)

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Silence came only when she closed her eyes. When she could visually shut the world up for a moment. She had practised to do this, years of trying to silence the noises and the demands of all around her. Her world was her own when her eyes were wide shut. These weren’t flights of fancy into different realms, or some grapple with mental tectonic plates. She had a quiet space and peaceful world in her head which was the copy of the world around her.

It was just devoid of others.

Other people troubled, angered, confronted, demanded and taxed her. They played on her time and patience, milking off her generosity as if it were an endless source. How much should she have to contend with? What was a reasonable demand on her each day that she woke, roamed and entertained this thing called life? Must she always be left reduced by a need to give…..

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Taken from ‘Dislocated’ – out now

30/10/202115/10/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: horror, scary, short storyTags: art, darkness, fiction, horror, mentalhealth, nemesis, reading, scary, spectre, story, terror 35 Comments

Heaven is shut/open (Story reading)

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The plane took off, soaring into the sky as the sun died on the horizon. All was safe, all parts working. Wheels stored safely as the streaming sound of pressure encased them. He looked out of the window and watched the ground give way. He sighed. He’d hoped for a failure. Maybe later when they were out over the ocean, no chance of rescue there. No one ever survived a plane crashing into the sea….

Read on

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02/10/202109/09/2021 by Mark Ryan Categories: depression, fiction, heavenTags: art, depression, fiction, heaven, hope, mental, mentalhealth, reading, salvation, shortstory, story, suicide, travel, wellbeing 2 Comments

Odd-fellow

Silently he sits, as his eyes cross the room.
The breeze flutters in, rustling the magazines and small talk.
Chatter and buzz, tea and coffee cups.
A man joins at his side, greeting no one.
Shaking hands with only his past.
The smile on both, reaches around.
Unsettles the young, but comforts the knowing.
Clothes dishevelled. Hair uncombed.
The smudges on their glasses irritate no one.
They are alone in their memories.
Caring not for the call to eat.
Or the call of nature.
Held captive by a guest never welcomed in.
But tantalises them with sugar coated histories.
And kisses of those already dead.
They are friendly, but lost.
Vacant in their static.
Soon they will be put to bed.
Tucked in with their nightmares and stained sheets.
Yet these men are like astronauts, time travellers and heroes.
They survive what we will never see.
Only odd, to a world which purifies.
And wishes to erase what it doesn’t understand.

26/02/202027/02/2020 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, mental health, PoetryTags: alzheimer's, art, carehome, fellow, forgetting, history, memories, men, mentalhealth, oldage, older, poem 4 Comments