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He who reads novels, gives his heart to the hand of the writer, to be twisted, opened, and torn apart at the author's every whim and fancy. It is only the brave who will take such risks, and it is only the writer who will make them.

Message from Writer

If crying for the grief of others, weeping for the beggar's pain, and mourning for the loss of those you love all count for heartbreak, then every novel is a tragedy, and every reader is a forlorn soul.

"I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape."
-Charles Dickens

Shout out to .amelia. the Ultimate Writing Challenge champion! Check out her winning piece "Love is..."

Published Work

"My Heart is Like"

My Heart Has Broken For A Flop Eared Dog

My heart has broken for a flop eared dog,
I feel like a lock who's lost its key.
She was my key, she is my joy;
I was her lock, I am her home.

My heart was captured by a flop eared dog long ago;
She felt like a wave upon my sand,
Warm and caressing; stable yet flowing:
How can one exist without the other?

Smog - An original tale of Yestertimes

    It was early morning, and I was already standing against the side of the house, gripping my dagger tensely. A thick smog had settled on top of the houses overnight giving the place a shrouded, misty look. In the damp morning air, my breathe shook its way in and out of my body, and my fingers trembled. My catch would be coming along any minute now. This was the moment I had been waiting for. This time I would not miss. No longer would I be Jacques the poor apprentice. Now I would be Jacques an aider of the rebellion.
    Quickly, the sound of an approaching carriage came into hearing, and I leaned forwards, every muscle in my body tight. I counted down the seconds till it would come into view by the pounding of my heart. Suddenly there were shouts coming from a few houses behind me. A throng of rebels was marching through town, setting fire to houses, and beating villagers. They were often known to kill anyone in sight,...

HEADLINES FROM HISTORY | Part one: The Colosseum

    Last season, during the annual celebration of Quintilis, the people of Rome poured into the Colosseum to witness the final match of the year. The winner of this battle would not only receive their freedom, but one hundred Denarius besides, making it a rare and special occasion. When the two contestants entered the arena, a great cheer arose from the people.
    The first was a Celtic warrior by the name of Ansgar Mac Giolla Mháirtín. It was he who had won the attention of the Roman people by his renowned skill, and he came that day with many supporters in the audience.
    The second contestant was a newly trained gladiatrix, the female warrior Gwenhwyfar; a Gaulish captive, who had until then, solely entertained the audiences by boar hunting.
    The two met in the middle of the arena, awaiting the signal from the Editor. Ansgar was armed with his usual short sword and buckler, while Gwenhwyfar carried a spear and dagger....


I stood alone on the deck, gripping the rails as I watched the English wharf slip from view. As the salty breeze carried us out across the ocean, whipping the tawny hair from my pale face, I knew it was the last sight I would ever have of my homeland. The last sight of the place where Mother was laid to rest.
Father came to stand beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I didn't usually like when people touched me, not even my parents. But this time I found some comfort in his closeness, and smiled up at him with somber eyes. Of course he responded by squeezing me tighter, but I managed to overlook it since I knew he was happy.
As we stood side by side looking out over the rails I knew it was going to be a hard life in the new land ahead of us, but one that we would face together.

Silent Warrior

I am the silent warrior; a believer in all things good.

I am the gentle hero, kneeling at your bedside.

I am the quiet sufferer, weeping in solitude.

I am the motionless figure, resting my hands on the hilt of my sword.

I am the silent warrior, and my name is Never Fear.

Poetry and Spoken Word Competition 2020

From Life in the Heart of a Tornado (funny)

Nothing seems right,
this world is unkind!
sometimes you wonder
if you'll loose your mind.

It hurts something awful
all the aches, and the pains,
your poor stomach's raging,
forever, without end!

It's messy, it's crazy,
it's all falling apart,
but then you remember
to follow your heart.

Your heart never fails you,
exclude heart-attacks,
occasional burning,
and artery slacks.

But forget all the problems,
your heart's true as gold.
perhaps you've had heartache,
but that's something too old.

You look for the new,
the days up ahead,
they shine like a beacon
calling you from your bed.

You rise in the morning,
the sunshine all bright.
You walk through your day,
and sleep through the night.

Then life's pretty good.
forget those quack doctors!
They're all full of needles,
and special dissectors.

That's everyone's story,
anyone that is brave,
Be glad you're not dying
'Cause it could be that way!

The Longing

    The day was wet and dreary; all full of rain and nothing to do. Was it wrong of me to feel unwelcome in a house like this?
    I mean, nobody ever did want me. I’d grown up looking out for myself, - and I liked it that way. I missed the rustle of my big greatcoat, and the rhythmic pounding of my boot soles on the cobblestone street. Here, I was simply shoved into an elegant dress, and admired by visitors as a subject of mercy.
    I left my seat at the window, and dug out a pair of old clothes from the closet. High-living, I decided, didn’t suit me, and I was ready for adventure.


Someone had a cigarette. At least that's what I've been told. Sometimes, when I sit on the edge of my bed on damp mornings, I fancy I can still see the rocks falling all around me. Once again, I can hear deafening thunder as the roof caves in. Creaking beams snap like broken twigs. From above water gushes in. Dust and gas fill the air choking me, and stealing my breath.
Everywhere I look, I see frightened men, hurrying past me up the shafts, water rising at their heals. Behind me I hear the cries of the wounded, and again I am standing, hat in hand, at their peaceful graveside services a few weeks later.
Mother came in with hot breakfast and the morning paper, startling me from my thoughts. I smile and thank her, but after she's gone, I twist the paper angrily in my hands.
All for a little cigarette.


1. When we were young,
    We used to try,
    To climb our way upstairs.

    But now that we are old,
    And gray, instead,
    We use the banisters.

2. Leave no question unanswered,
    Leave no heart untouched,
    Leave no wound unmended,
    For we were once as much.

3. [Haiku]
    Pink little blossom,
    Swaying in the gentle breeze,
    Tells of fruit to come.

Hindrelag's Drummer Boy

    When I think of Father, especially now that he is dead, my one wish is that I could only grow to be like him; no matter the cost. When I remember how willingly he risked his life to save those drowning fishermen, knowing he very well that he may be heading into the grip of death itself, hesitation never crossed his brave mind; never entered his gallant heart.
    I rolled onto my side, trying to find a patch of ground without any rocks under the dead leaves. It was a cold night out and my threadbare coat was hardly enough to keep me warm. I held it tightly shut at my neck however, and breathed warm air into my frozen hand. As I lay shivering, the moon peered from behind some clouds, shining down on our group of sleeping men in the forest. They were poor as dirt every one of them, but they had been trained, and I could...

Flash Fiction Competition 2019

More Than a Miner

Roy crawled from the ground red faced and fuming, as blood dripped from his nose.
“You’ll pay for this you rat!” he yelled, and glaring at my defender, limped away, wiping the blood on his sleeve.
The Miner turned to me, grinning.
“You hurt?”
“Not badly.” I said, struggling to my feet.
“Name’s John.” he said and held out his hand. I grasped it with a hearty shake, for to deny his calloused hand would have been to shun that of a hero.