Pantoum
The Gremlin Kills Icarus
Introduction This is for Poppy’s Prompts #13 - Greek Mythology Edition which you can read about here: Icarus brought to mind "The Song Of The Gremlin" by Bob Calvert, so I take the premise of the opening lines of that song for this pantoum.
By Mike Singleton 💜 Mikeydred about a year ago in Poets
The Last Vote
Ethan Clarke’s hands trembled as he gripped the cold metal railing of his balcony. Below, the streets buzzed with the fading cheers from his election rally. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest provincial assembly member ever elected from his district — a victory that surprised even his closest supporters. His campaign had been different: promises of transparency, justice, and a government that worked for the people — not the powerful elite. But standing alone in his modest apartment that night, Ethan felt the true challenge had only just begun. His district was a reflection of the country’s biggest problems — corruption, inequality, and political violence hidden behind the mask of democracy. But Ethan believed change was possible. He had to believe it. The next morning, under a gray sky, Ethan sat at his new office desk, buried in letters and files from worried citizens. Then his phone buzzed: a message from Malik Shah, the party’s senior leader. “Welcome to the big leagues, kid. Meet me at the club tonight. We have much to discuss.” Ethan knew the “club” wasn’t just any place. It was where real power was traded — far from public eyes. That evening, Ethan stepped into the luxurious Elysium Club, a playground for the city’s political elite. Expensive art lined the walls, but the air was heavy with secrets and veiled threats. Malik Shah greeted him with a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Congratulations, Ethan. You’re a bright young man,” Malik said, pouring whiskey. “But politics isn’t about idealism. It’s about power. And power demands compromise.” Ethan nodded, though his heart sank. Malik slid an envelope across the table. Inside were photos and documents exposing rigged voter rolls, fake polling stations, and cash bribes to community leaders. “Look closely. These are the truths that keep the wheels turning. We all have a role in this game.” The reality hit Ethan hard: the system was far more rotten than he’d imagined. Weeks passed. Meetings with party elders became routine, their advice thinly veiled warnings. One night, while reviewing documents, Ethan discovered a contract awarded to a shell company linked to a rival faction planning to rig the upcoming national election on a massive scale. His hands shook. This wasn’t just local corruption — it was a conspiracy threatening the country’s democracy. A warning message from Malik Shah appeared on his phone: “Careful where you poke your nose, kid. Not everyone wants the truth to see daylight.” The walls were closing in. Ethan faced a painful choice: stay silent and protect his political future — or expose the conspiracy and risk everything. Late that night, his phone rang. It was Nadia, an investigative journalist he trusted. “I’ve heard whispers about vote rigging in your district and beyond,” she said. “If you have proof, this could change everything.” Ethan hesitated. “It’s bigger than just my district. But if I speak out… they’ll come after me.” “Then we need to be smart. The people deserve the truth.” Together, they gathered evidence — recordings, transaction records, eyewitness accounts — a mountain of proof revealing the dark side of the upcoming election. The risks grew real. Strange cars followed Ethan. Threatening notes slipped under his door. Finally, the day came. At a packed press conference, Ethan stepped up and laid out everything — naming names, exposing the rigging scheme. The nation erupted. Protests filled the streets. The government launched investigations. Arrests followed. But victory came at a cost. Former allies turned their backs. Party leaders branded him a traitor. His phone fell silent — except for one caller: Malik Shah. “Smart move, kid,” Malik’s voice was cold. “But remember, you’ve won a battle, not the war.” In the weeks that followed, headlines ranged from “Young Whistleblower Shakes Nation” to “Traitor or Hero?” The people were divided, but the demand for fair elections grew louder every day. Though the party disowned him and friends distanced themselves, Ethan found strength in his mother’s words from long ago: “Standing for what’s right isn’t easy. But it’s the only way to change the world.” His phone buzzed again — Nadia’s warning: “They’re closing in. Be careful.” The government formed a special committee, and the evidence was undeniable. High-ranking officials were arrested, and election reforms promised. But the scars ran deep. One evening, Malik Shah reached out with an offer: “Come back. Influence the system from within. We can protect you.” Ethan declined. The price of silence was too high. Change required more than courage — it needed persistence. Months later, Ethan stood before a crowd in his district square, no longer a politician, but a citizen activist. The movement he helped ignite was growing, inspiring others to demand accountability. As the sun set over the city skyline, Ethan smiled. The last vote wasn’t just about an election — it was about awakening a nation’s conscience.
By Arshad khanabout a year ago in Poets
No Face
I’m a man with no name No face My mind disconnected My heart lost in space A fantastic phantom animating atoms Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this story, there’s more below. Please hit the like and subscribe button, you can follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram @AtomicHistorian. To help me create more content, leave a tip or become a pledged subscriber. I also make stickers, t-shirts, etc here.
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
When Horror Came to Speak
He came with tales like coiling smoke,With fingers long as funeral notes.His eyes, two bottomless pits of dread,Where lost men fall and never tread.He sat by me — not near, but in,The horror of him not on his skin —But in his breath, in every sound,That reached my soul and spun it 'round.He whispered once, he whispered twice,Each word a wound, each tone like ice.He told of screams that no one hears,Of children born to silent fears.Of mirrors cracked not by the hand,But by the soul that could not standIts own reflection through the years —He showed me death, and called it peers.But I, a writer bold and bare,Have seen the ghosts that men can't bear.My pen is not a sword or wand —It is a mirror, cold and fond.It does not lie, it does not break,Though trembles in the quake of ache.I did not flinch; I did not kneel.I drank the dark and made it feel.For I have watched as others fell —Not into graves, but deeper hells:The hells of guilt, regret, and pride,Where laughter runs away to hide.I’ve seen men paint their love with lies,And call their truths a grand disguise.They bow to flesh, and mock the soul —And call the broken-hearted whole.The horror-man, he laughed at me,A hiss that echoed endlessly."You do not fear me — you are cursed,To see me clear, and feel me first.The ones who scream are not the doomed —It’s those who hear but still resumeTheir daily play of light and sin,That bear the rot that lies within.”Oh yes, I heard him. Loud and deep.He crawled inside the halls of sleep.But he found there a place too bright —My dreams are drawn in sacred light.For though I walk with death and pain,I do not dance within the chain.I see — I write — I bleed — I feel.But I do not pretend what’s real.He told me how the hearers change,How horror makes their logic strange.They build their houses out of dread,They wash with guilt, they dream of red.They stop to speak, to think, to try —And slowly let their moments die.Fear, he said, is not to scream.It is the theft of hope and dream.He told me of a girl who sleptWith every sorrow that she kept.Who looked into a cracked old glassAnd prayed her childhood wouldn’t pass.He told me of a mother tornBetween the man she loved and scorned.He told me of a priest who criedAt every “Amen” he denied.He gave me hell in every tale —And yet I stood, both firm and pale.He asked, “What makes you stand so still,While others break and flee my will?”I said, “You feed on minds unlit,On souls that hide, on hearts that quit.But I am not the one you seek —My strength was forged when I was weak.”He recoiled not in hate — but awe.As if a thing he couldn’t draw.I saw in him not hate, but need —To be believed, to be decreed.For horror has its own desire —To show the soul its secret fire.But I, the writer, did not burn —I wrote instead, and let it turn.And then he vanished like a sigh,Not with a bang, but soft goodbye.No claps of thunder marked the end,No screaming wind, no broken bend.But in my heart, he left a song —Of those who hear and yet stay strong.He cursed me once, then blessed me thrice —For hearing him — and not think twice.Let me speak now, to you, the Hearer:Do not think fear is just a face,It has a home in every place.In laughter, in a lover’s kiss,In every sacred thing you miss.It walks with you, it speaks in doubt,It lights your dreams and snuffs them out.But still — you choose what you obey,And what you write at end of day.I chose the ink, not blade or bell.I chose to know and not to dwell.To gather horror in my hand,And make it part of where I stand.For men are weak, and men are brave —And both are buried in one grave.It matters not if you are scared —But if you write while you are bared.And now, some truths for you to keep:The beauty man forgets in hasteIs always etched in what he faced.The faith he trades for fleeting gainReturns in dreams, with ghostly pain.The lies he tells to feel aliveBecome the tombs where truths don’t thrive.The love he gives, then takes away,Still waits for him — on judgment day.I have no fear of ghost or ghoul.I fear the heart that plays the fool.The man who loves and yet betrays.The child who learns the crooked ways.The preacher who forgets to pray.The artist who won’t walk the gray.The friend who speaks with hollow breath.The soul who’s lost the fear of death.He came again last night in dream,No longer dark, but silver gleam.He sat, not as a beast or bane,But like a storm that knows the rain.And I — I asked him, soft and clear,“What is it that you want from hearers?”He said, “Just this — to be believed.To show the wounds that man’s conceived.Not every ghost is dead and gone.Some live in flesh, in dusk and dawn.And if your pen can mark them true,Then horror’s task is done through you.”And so I write — with fire, not fright.To speak the dark and birth the light.I walk with horror not in chain,But as a shadow to explain.For every man must one day choose —To dance with death, or death refuse.And when the tale is writ and done,I’ll stand — the hearer who did not run.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
