He once sparked a cigarette
in my face. 'Don't smoke,'
he said, exhaling dragon breath.
The light shined brighter than
anything I had ever seen before -
the moon or the sun -
until it faded away, falling
to the ground, no longer
breathing, its lungs collapsed,
beaten to dust, crumpled,
thrown into an urn of ash.
'It's bad for you,' he blew, lighting another,
the stench of his words linger
on my skin, grappling tight
around my throat. 'But
you...?' Attempting to shrug the
pollution off my shoulders,
clearing my brain to breathe.
'Your father knows best son.' Hurling
his flaming javelin onto the ground.
I looked up at him, his yellow teeth brighter than
Nicholas Starkey is an undergraduate student at the University of Strathclyde, studying English and Law. He says: 'My name is Nicholas, and I love to write poetry, songs and short fiction and aspire to be like many of the great artists and writers I've grown up knowing like Murakami and Hemingway. I also love to draw along with my poetry, giving it more of an artist's touch.'