Stories From the Edge of Blindness

In 2002, Retinitis Pigmentosa changed my life. This is my story of a slow approach to darkness.

Everyone Falls

Everyone falls.  Everyone daydreams and falls into states of preoccupation, falls into the arms of another person, falls to the ground.  Can you remember the last time you fell to the ground?  I know it happens, but how often?  Is it a story you tell about that one time you fell and were so fucking embarrassed?  Or maybe you cried?  Did you hurt yourself?  Were you drunk?  There is no judgement here. I have fallen and been embarrassed and cried and hurt myself, and yes, I have been falling down drunk. But, the falls that shake me the most, are the falls that can only be blamed on RP.  Continue reading “Everyone Falls”


False Eyes and the Myopic of Me by S.A. Leavesley

This is the kind of writer I want to be when I grow up. This is an extraordinary piece!


false eyes 1

It’s 2018 and a long time now since I was a child, but my young self is written into my adult life like a secret I can’t shake off…


I watch my first episode of Popeye at home on a black and white TV. Dad laughs more than Mum and I do. Olive Oyl makes me think of the sadness of mown flowers, while Popeye’s can-like muscles remind me of Dad’s rhyme about Jim, the softness of tomatoes and how they don’t hurt a thing unless thrown while still wrapped in a tin![i]

Though life changed after my diabetes diagnosis last year, I think I still love laughter. But I know already that I see things differently to other seven year olds. I decide that I must be adopted and my real name’s Penelope.

I don’t realise it yet, but subconsciously I’ve started to construct my identity in…

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I have become a big fan of writing exercises, particularly ekphrastic ones.  I think that these exercises keep me on my toes, get my blood flowing when all I feel is lumpy and stagnant.  I like to be challenged as a writer, to be pushed into directions I may not go on my own.  Sometimes, amazing things happen.  Sometimes, the results are wholly uninspired.  But, no matter what, I am writing and even if I only end up with morsels from the exercises, I have words from which to build things that may have remained closeted and dusty.  The exercises also help to harness my focus and get me back to working on my collection (which feels like a herculean task, most of the time).  For prolific writers, these exercises may seem silly, but for those like me, who embody the roots of procrastination, I think they are a wonderful tool. Continue reading “Exercise”

Irish Rose ~ Brandewulf

This is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. An amazing offering from one friend to another, one writer to another. It allowed me to see through the eyes and words and heart of someone I care for and so deeply admire. Thank you for these eyes Wulf!



Precious and painted,
She does not seem
To view this world
The same as me.

Reflected thoughts
Through smokey lens
Reveals a reality
Where angels lie
In orgiastic layers
And grasping groups.

Her flawless, flowered skin
Tells the truthful tales.
Memories molded and folded,
Punctuated with pauses
And clauses that sing,
Nay shout, her defiance.

Rainbows bow before her.
They sigh as she rises,
Inverting their colors
To flow, cascading like ink
Through her veins until
It runs from her mouth.

Magic these moments
That grace her lips
With words so perfect
They birth celestial signs.

I look to the heavens.
Head turning to twilight
To glance at the sun
that dances to the morrow.

Yet, what I see? Minuscule.
Half what her mind paints
In pointed, poetic strokes
From a brush so gentle.

Her palette of colors,
That she alone commands
From behind those shades
Defying and defining beauty,

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This is a poem that reached into my soul today. For me it is about a longing I have felt for ages. For you, it will be whatever it needs to be. That is what great poetry offers, what it does to the hearts of readers.

The Art of Chewing Crayons

I want to be a tree
reach my arms to heaven’s window
and shatter the sky to pale blue shards,
catch the pieces in my palms
to scatter sunlight on children
locking limbs and laughter
to clamber on my shoulders
as I show them a new world.

I want to echo the casual hubbub
of community life;
breezes like rascals racing
between foliage skirts
and fussy birds squawking
over boundary lines and riffraff cats
too distracted to notice
the insects execute
the penultimate dine-and-dash.
I want them to know this is home
strong and straight,
a foundation for those who leap
with great faith and open wings to soar
until they need to rest, to nest.

I want to dig my toes in
feel rooted in the ground
steadfast in Winter’s stormy face
even if it break my boughs.

And should I fall to forest floor
when living days are…

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My Mother’s Breaking Body ~ Susan Richardson

Disappearing Acts

I am not an easy person to be friends with.  I’m not being self-deprecating.  It’s not like I’m mean or selfish or particularly high maintenance, but I do have a tendency to disappear, sometimes for long periods of time.   I get overwhelmed by interaction, by the noise of life and the efforts to be the consummate good person.  I need to spend time alone with my thoughts, to clear away the debris that has clouded them.  I guess you could say I am a loner.   Continue reading “Disappearing Acts”

Ink in Thirds TLT

Ink in Thirds does a fun visual prompt challenge every Thursday, called Three Line Thursday.  Some of you might really enjoy it.  You can check out this weeks prompt here.

Stuck in My Head

I was lucky to grow up in 2 musical households.  My Mom was taught, by her professional jazz musician father, to play the piano at age 4.  My Dad played the guitar and was always singing.  He has a song for every occasion, big or small. Random songs often pop into his head and  he’ll start singing, no matter where we are.  He has a good voice.  You’d think by now I would have heard all the songs he has to offer, but he is still surprising me with new ones.   Continue reading “Stuck in My Head”

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