Billiot and the Nature of Things

It was a nice autumn day when Billiot decided to go for a walk just outside his merry little village. “Billiot! Billiot!” Billiot heard the voice. It sounded like Old Man Creggers. Billiot rushed over and saw Old Man Creggers. “Billiot! You must get help!” Billiot saw Old Man Creggers, his legs were underneath a chopped-down tree. “Please.”

“Oh, golly gee,” Billiot responded and he hurried off to the village.

“Father. Father!” Billiot’s father was half-asleep on their couch. “Papa! Old Man Creggers is trapped by a fallen tree. He needs our help!”

But Billiot’s father didn’t answer, his eyes crusted and glazed. But not like a scrumptious bakery treat. “Father?”

“Son…” he finally replied to his son’s pleas, “What time is it…” and then he slipped off to sleep. Billiot ran out the door and back onto the street. He ran over to Stevie’s house. Stevie was the strongest man in the entire village, even stronger than his dad.

“Stevie! You must come quick! Old Man Creggers is being crushed by nature!”

“Ah,” Stevie responded.

Old Man Creggers watched as Billiot returned, followed by Stevie who was walking at a much slower pace due to the magnitude of his muscles. “Don’t worry,” Billiot said with a grin, “Stevie will launch that tree off you like it’s a twig!”

“Oh goodie,” Old Man Creggers liked the sound of that.

Finally, Stevie made it. “Ah, looks like nature has done it again! Ho-ho!” Stevie gripped the sides of the trunk and squeezed. “Sorry, mate, but this tree is too strong for me. Time to go.”

“Wait, what?”

But Stevie walked back to the village to toss some large rocks around.

“Oh, golly gee…” Billiot said.

“Billiot…” The old man’s voice was starting to fade. “Don’t worry, I had a good life. I had cut down trees for the people in the village. Now it’s time for me to die and meet my family in the sky village above…”

And with that Billiot watched the old man die. He sat down. His eyes didn’t leave the lifeless body for a good while. And then he looked at the downed tree, saw the little ants squirming in the crevices of bark. The sun lowered and the air turned pink. And Billiot turned towards the dark shapes of the village and went home quietly.

Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.


He searches through the ruins. A couple of years ago, these were houses and factories. Now, just some glass beneath his boots and rebar reaching outward. Some structures still stand. And sometimes within, he finds toys, trinkets, portraits. Things once painted with meaning, now huddled with empty.

Written for #vsspic on Twitter.

A Truth

I thought I’d survive without you
and I was right. I survived past
many partners, many children,
many streets, many names.

Even the sun will unfurl
into mist, but I will
float on still, beyond the grasp
of dust. For now I am earthed
trying to recall your face.

Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.

The Forgotten

Mist. Autumn. (1899) – Isaac Levitan

Stepping here
your eyes may walk away.
Your skin may blend into sky.
But parts of you will always be
here, fog clinging to color:
the soft memory of leaves
before childhood slinked away.

Some memory moves,
over there, less apparent
than shadow, in the mouth
of fog. A squirming smudge
nearing anger, but it is
already fading. Time
to walk away
from the parts that remain.


No sun
just my empty shoes,
a shadow dangling
against the sky
beating black.
And my feet harmonious
with the oily street
while the stars seem
to step from me
and the lights look away–
your windows.
But I am a part of this,
my dirty feet are
a part of me
and a part of you.

Posted a shortened version of this on Twitter.

The Other Days

If I were a house,
a nice family would come
to feed summer’s sun, shine
each window with ignorant eyes.

Then they would be gone.
No laughter to occupy
these useless rooms. No ghosts
to organize. At least I am
a shed. Purposeful
even when empty
of your hands.

Written for #FromOneLine on Twitter.


Marcus tried to pave a day
without flaw, but as soon as he finished
his toast, he noticed the sun
did not come up. Nor were there stars,
nor was there a street below.
The plans were gone as the dark
stretched through the panes
and felt his room.

Written for #vss365 on Twitter.


Watching another war
cornered in my window,
thinking of how the soldiers below
no longer need names.
Even those who manage
to shamble away
merely fill another role.

I wonder if any see
me finishing my egg.
I wonder if any see
yesterday in today’s smoke
and know why.

Written for #vss365 on Twitter.

True Servitude

I want servants
whose hands will redden
when something deep comes
in my tone.

I want servants
who bitch within
their shadows
when plates and faces are
wrongly placed.

I want servants
who would fear me
even when I’m dead,
and mope
across their new days,
purposeless, yet not

A tinier version of this was written for #vss365 on Twitter.