Yesteryear Fiction

Sasquatch STD Breath
By Paul Tristram


I awoke this un-fine morning
in bed with 2 Ogres,
a Cave Troll
and a Druid Priestess
who had long ago gone bad.
Covered in something that did
not look, smell or feel normal?
I slid to the damp flooring,
crawled backwards gingerly
to the bathroom, cringingly
and silently scaled the scolding
window and made my escape,
whilst patting out the singeing
edges of my poor, demented mind.
I made it home safe and sound
although shook up beyond belief.
Got down onto my bandaged knees
and prayed and promised solemnly
to henceforth never again frequent
that dingy part of downtown and
to completely refrain from drinking
neat whisky from half pint glasses.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Medieval Moment
By Paul Tristram


“The shaft broke off
just under the axe head.
The instant weight loss
made me half-circle.
I clumsily reached
for the knife within my belt.
Then saw a light explosion,
and felt the whole of my face
crush in upon itself
with such a sickening force
that I actually bounced
right out of myself
and stood six foot away
looking down at my
irreparable broken body
in horrific confusion
for a second or two
until my dead Father
and Brother came
and ushered me away
to a massive oak tree
just outside of battles-edge.
Where giddy and exhausted
I passed out, immediately
and came back to my senses
laying by this Gigantic Bonfire
before the feet of all of you!”


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

Swanson Piper
By Paul Tristram


With a silent fluid movement
arrow shaft cartwheeled
from quiver to bowstring to target.
There was a small, soft thud
as the arrowhead shattered
through the chest bone
of the un-expecting buzzard.
Jerking it backwards at speed
several feet away from the cadaver
it had just been crouched upon.
Sensing the clearing was now safe
he stealthily stepped out
from the edge of the silver birch
traversing the damp, mossy ground
interspersed with half buried
ancient castle turret stones.
“You fought well, my friend
but it’s now time to take you home,
the Old Gods are awaiting you!”
He whispered respectfully
as he shouldered the weight.
Then turning thicket-bound again,
whistled sharply thrice to signal
the other Aftermath Gatherers
of his reclaim and returning.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

The Second Lasts Forever
By Paul Tristram


As I stagger up the wooden steps
the crowds shout in sickening delight:
but I observe them all not one bit
I see only the guillotine in my sight.
The last rites are read solemnly
by a self-proclaiming servant of God,
as the raging crowds roar in unison.
“Hurry up and behead the thieving sod!”
The tight rope cuts into my wrists
as I struggle with my captive binds.
I watch with ever growing horror as
the guillotine blade slowly, upwards grinds.
I am forced down upon my dirty knees
then my tender neck is put in place;
I stare into the blood-stained basket
where death leaves its foul trace.
Suddenly I hear the crowd inhale
from above me I hear a catch being freed.
My thoughts clang and bang like a madman’s
this must surely be the taste of insanity.
As metal grates noisily upon metal
sparks fall down and singe my hair.
I can hear the whistling whirlwind
which will sever my earthly cares.
My life starts flashing before me
tears flood and blur my screaming eyes.
The background should be soft, forgiving music
but I hear only bloodthirsty cries.
I can now feel the shadow of the blade
as it approaches my un-defending skin.
Then death lays its cloak upon me
leaving behind only man’s barbaric sin.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

The Woodcutter's Dinnertime
By Paul Tristram


The Woodcutter listened to the whistle
that signalled his dinnertime to begin.
He wiped his brow with his handkerchief
and then his sweat soaked bearded chin.
He placed his axe over his shoulder
walked slowly over to the workmen’s shed.
He took his sandwich box out of his locker
tied his handkerchief around his head.
He went outside and sat on some logs
then lovingly thought of his dear home.
On his rare days off from his hard work
he had built it, every beam and stone.
The flowers upon his big oaken table
he himself had picked every single one.
On the walls he placed some paintings
over the fireplace hung his fathers gun.
He thought excitedly of the next day
for it would certainly change his life.
Tomorrow at last would be market day
and there he was to go to find a wife.
He thought of the yet unknown woman
hoping she would be happy in his home.
How nice to hear singing and laughter
after living so very long upon his own.
But there his thoughts came to a stop
for the work time whistle was blown.
So he once again set about his hard work
with no more time for thoughts of home.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories and sketches published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.