Tail-Ends of Conversations

Dear Readers,

I know I’ve been gone a while. Here’s a little something to show for it. Hope you like.

Paper and ink,
I always think,
Are never to be left alone.

Tail-Ends of Conversations

Whimsical Dining Room Ceiling


Tiny Bobblehead

It’s happened more than once;
My gaze turns strange
And a face shrinks
Till it looks miles away
In an expanding room.

I half-expect
Time to freeze
But you keep bobbing.


Limited Freedom

And to be fair
I’ll let your candid spirit set me free
Beyond the oceans and the graves
But only for a minute;
I never pretended to be brave
Like you.


Never Change

So, you found something
Something you didn’t know
Not an earth shaker
But, it kept you up all night?

In this day and age
You’d rather wonder
Than Google;
How precious, I say
Eyes full of smiley tears.



It’s a pixelated world
With people to match
Bored, lonely and caring,
Much like the other world,
And riddled with scamsters
Who prey on the new
And the gullible.



It’s the box;
It holds
A giant watchful eye.
It reads my soul
And swallows me whole;
It tells me what I’ll like,

Where have you been all my life?



Should I be surprised
To find calling cards
Scattered on the floor
Of a casino parking lot?
Which flavour of beauty would you like?



The counting of thoughts;
It bothers me.
More of the same;
Add it to the bundle.
Just another,
Just another;
I’m being crushed.


A Simple Life

Passed and forgotten,
Remembered and missed,
Crudely denied,
Sorely suppressed.

A life lived.
Yet twisted
In a million ways.


Familiar Footsteps

‘Tharump’ ‘Tharump’
‘Tharump’ ‘Tharump’
Scrunching my nose;
Don’t like this path
Beaten it one too many times
Reached the point of doubt:
What was the initial pull?

Left a sticky mark on me
When I should’ve left
After leaving mine.


Summer Braids and Serenades

Summer braids and serenades,
Start the mint train
With the dainty wheels
That treat the pavement right.
An old friend knows why
I can’t climb a bicycle
Without thinking of tea leaves and rain.


Yours whimsically,
Anna Nymus




One day, a girl set out to college. She did her major in Procrastination and a minor in Introspection. She found what she was good at and where she had to struggle. She searched for the reins controlling her life and stumbled across things like “post-modernism” and “existentialism”. There were others in the same hunt, torn by the same questions, doubting every step.

All the while she was handed skills that were supposedly the key to success. She focused on sharpening the ones she found fun, and the ones she thought she might need to survive.

Then one day she pondered the meaning of success. What was it? Why was it so important to get it? What would the key open?

The homework piled up until it was sticking out of her bedroom door and she sat defeated, head in hand, waiting for the rain to wash away her stress. Questions and doubts about everything popped into her head.

A few deadlines and nights of high speed typing later, she still doesn’t have too many answers. But she knows she’s never going to know what the key is until it opens something.



Whispers of Life


Life. A series of suspension bridges. You never know where one ends and the other begins.

Life. Neither here, nor there. But, somewhere in the midst of the moment.

Life. Indescribable. All-consuming. Devastating.

Life. In the minds of millions.

Life. Compressed into pages, pictures and songs.

Life. Heard with your heart, seen with your soul, and lived with a load of laughs.

Life. I see beauty, I see pain. I can see them in a drop of rain.

Life. With the promise of death.

Life. Larger than itself.



“Searching for Meaning”



After three hours of trekking, Kassie reached the Stepping Stone. She had not used any of her magic to travel, saving it for an impending moment that might all but deplete her source. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was any minute now. Somewhere, in a cloaked tower, the Synchroniser was looking at her and around four thousand other witches and wizards who had been chosen from those who volunteered. She drew her wand and stepped onto the tiny platform now pulsating with the energy that she would need to channel the spell.

Lifting her arm and spirit skywards, she whispered, “Yadot espylacopa on”. An amber stream of light erupted from her wand. She could sense an opposing force almost immediately and struggled as she fought against it, holding on to the knowledge that there were others who were fighting the same fight. The tide was beginning to turn in their favour, though, and she could barely contain her exhilaration as the stream of light suddenly burst forth unrestrained, sending intermittent sparks of red, green and violet into the evening air.

The unknowing human population went about business as usual, many saying “I never expected anything to happen, anyway”, while the fanatics found other reasons to explain the lack of the apocalypse.

The magical volunteers didn’t need a thank you. They had saved themselves and their close ones as much as the rest of the living souls on the planet, and that was more than enough. Even if all that the others had caught a glimpse of were fireworks.



The Record Keeper

Dear Pop Culture References,

pop culture

You grace the tongues of my favourite characters, often with flawless comedic timing. There is a ting of pleasure from recognition that follows, as my mind makes the jump, from plot holes to hyperbole. A witty distraction that lends layers to dialogue, I’m surprised you aren’t used more often.

Perhaps the excess will cause one to question the interest generated by a split-second line. Why do I feel so informed when I know the name of the latest host of Punk’d? I shouldn’t. It’s not like that piece of info is affecting lives in a way that the recent act of shooting in Connecticut is.

As the last thought crosses my mind, I do a double take. Because, such seemingly frivolous things as TV shows are still affecting lives, perhaps saving lives, often with the power of laughter. With the occasional overlap it doesn’t make much sense to compare the two of you either, so what am I doing?

I won’t deny myself simple pleasures where I can get them, and if I’m drawn to less serious things I will stop apologising for it. You give me relief in a way that news reports can’t. Credit is due to those with playful acumen who spawn cultural references. Take the triple whammy that was ad-libbed by one Emma Stone- “Because I’m not a Gossip Girl in Sweet Valley with Traveling Pants.”



Selectively Informed Anna