It’s all in your mind …
Dr Killerton’s Black Dog
A Halloween treat of a short story, as promised (c) Morwenna Blackwood 2026, all rights reserved Unauthorised distribution or copying strictly prohibited. Rain sparkled on the laboratory windows with the unsteady light of sequins. It was gone eleven o’clock, and Dr Killerton’s green and gold academic lamp was still burning. It was almost literally burning…
The Meaning in the Ghosts of Variables.
Dusk had fallen, unobtrusive and cold as a mist; the world outside my window was black when I turned the light on. The blackbirds were going mental, so I switched off the light and strained my eyes in the hopes of seeing a tawny owl, but the patches of sky uncovered by hawthorns remained clear.…
Green/Grey
Pylons watching. They buzz like fridges (Karma Police, Radiohead. Search it up, it’s a good song) – but there’s no sustenance inside, just death; like detuned radios without music. Pylons stand as a guard, or a warning, or a threat, close to the ‘welcome to’ village signs. Their wires cutting the sky, they stride across…
Yellow
The grass is all yellow. It crunches under my feet. I look up into the indifferent blue void. It’s summer, and I am … I am, under the black t-shirt and blue jean shorts, all yellow. It’s strange, but in a way I cherish this feeling. It is, paradoxically, comforting. That’s because I know it…
Voyria Doesn’t Give
Voyria is a master of her environment. This doesn’t mean she deserves to die. Everyone wants to be Voyria. Voyria inherited in her twenties. She is still in her twenties. She spends her days scrolling through her phone: she looks, but never posts. She Just Eat s, but never cooks. She doesn’t care if the…
Sometimes there’s a tissue in the wash
Sometimes there’s a tissue in the wash. The washing machine goes on as normal. But later, when you’re checking how long there is left in the cycle, you see it – front and centre – lodged in the rubber seal between the drum and the door. I didn’t check the pockets/ No one ever checks…
Moths
I wonder about moths. They need (moon)light to navigate their lives, even to the point of perceiving which way is up. Presumably, they recognise the cold quality of the light of the moon. Yet, in the early morning, as I commute through country lanes under a clear January sky, while the moon sits on high,…
Mind Works
A poem written while on codeine. Mr Tourniquet in cubicle 6 watches the birds from his window. His environs are faded yellow and blue; his soundtrack a series of beeps. They bring him tablets and jugs of water; they take his order for lunch. He pretends he’s not seeing, hearing and smelling, but has nothing…
A Metaphor for Everything
A stretch of long, straight road, with a 50mph limit. There are double white lines up the whole length of the road, because there are a lot of twists, turns and adjoining roads. Open farmland, edged with old trees, surround. It’s just after 7am, and mine is the only vehicle in sight. It’s a warm,…
The Dressing Room
Resistance, it seems to me, is refusing to share your innermost thoughts. An illusion of rebellion tempts us to spew our consciences all over the place. All the media platforms are full of it: This is me! Here I am! Look, here I am with make-up and a filter, and here I am in my…
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