I guess all writers have days every now and then when something makes them look back over old work.  I must have felt like making myself cringe because I opened the folder named Poems.  Yes, even horror writers indulge in such things.  Some of them do make me waver over the Delete key wondering whether they’ll ever be salvaged from the heinously pretentious moment in which they were written.  Then I found this; it must be nine or ten years old now and I remember what made me write it.  Clearing out the smaller attic room one day, in several boxes I found pebbles of varying sizes and shapes and every one of them with a memory attached.  My life in pebbles.  So here’s a horror writer’s poem about pebbles.


Pebbles from the beach where my father flew away
In my hand they look small and grey
In my heart they are purest white
Fragments of the stars that night

Pebble on a necklace my grandmother gave to me
In my hand it whispers secretly
In my heart I remember well
Days before the family fell

Pebble on a keychain, a fairground souvenir
In my hand it appears so queer
In my heart it was quite a prize
I was but a half pint size

Pebbles in a box at the back of my mind
In my hand I’m amazed to find
In my heart I’m starting to see
Pictures of who I used to be

Pebbles bearing memories since time began
In my hand with its brief life span
In my heart I know they’ll go on
Long after you and I have gone

I do hope it’s not too twee!


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About julietmchugh

Fiction writer from the North East of England with a taste for the gruesome and macabre.

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