BizzleWrites

Australia

I'm Issy.
I'm 13 and an aspiring artist and author.
She/her
Black Lives matter.
Likes:
Bi puns
Murder mystery TV shows
Art
Shakespeare poetry
Dislikes:
I can't even be bothered writing them all down
.
Goodbi
Have a nice day

Message from Writer

Remember to write even if you think you are bad at it, you're not

Published Work

Butterfly Blood

A butterfly flies past the grey stones. Out of no-where, an arrow shoots towards it, plucking the delicate creature from the air. A single drop of yellow blood drops onto the ground where the corpse lies. 
    Black clouds gather in the sky, suggesting the impending threat of a storm. On the horizon a fork of incandescent light flashes, followed by grumbling echoing thunder. 
    The first drops of rain hit the castle, bulbous and transparent. Then comes the torrent. Birds and insects take shelter from the first rain of the season, under the leaves and branches of the pine forest surrounding the castle. 
    I make a run for the stables, where Honey and Bumblebee are tossing their heads in dismay, their whinnies drowned out by the storm. 

Candle Wax

She twirls a lock of short auburn hair around her index finger. Her eyes flit around the cluttered room, to the candle on the cabinet, and the drips of garnet wax splattered on the painted wood; to the violin sitting on top of one of the bookshelves; to the coral-pink framed mirror, with its intricate flower designs; and finally, to the tall stranger standing in the corner. 

To Sleep

Is it being a philosopher? 
Or maybe it's the feeling 
That I can never be equal 
Is it the love songs swirling around my head? 
Or maybe it's that no-one will 
Ever
Write them 
Back 
Is it the hatred bubbling inside me for some? 
Or is it the image of her rosy cheeks and bright eyes 
Seared into my retinas 
Is it that I might never really know 
What it means 
To be in love? 
I think so 
Maybe soon 
To sleep I will sucumb 

I Miss Those Days

Remember how we  used to live the life of   Anne of Green Gables? We used to talk, and pick daisies.
I remember you used  to have two cats,   one ginger tabby and the other a longhaired something-er-other--Tinka and Bell.
And then for your  birthday--was it twelfth  or eleventh?--you got axi the axolotl.
Remember how we   did sparkler on the beach  before your fifteenth birthday? I loved that beach. And the next day, we went to the Mosaic Gardens.   We watched Charmed   for the first time that night. 
I miss those days. 

The Haunting of Belvedere

Polished mahogany banisters, slick like '80s hair 
Around the staircase, down the halls 
Soon she will disappear 
The balcony reminds me of Romeo and Juliet 
With marble and carved railings 
A dead woman was found here, a tragic accident 
After all, she was elderly; her heart was duly failing 
Her bottle of age-old whiskey was left on the stair 
Her eyes like golden orbs, staring at nothing 
Now a young woman resides here, she too will disappear 
Nights are too quiet, the only sound is the creaks 
Groaning planks of wood, a house as old as time 
Alone in the corridor, some say she haunts the first floor 
Dissipate the angry spirits, with burnt Rosemary and Thyme 
They say there was no autopsy, though two were found here 
A harrowing tale it is, the haunting of Belvedere 

Experimental Visual Poetry (read footnotes)


                                         I 
                                wonder what 
                        would                     happen 
                        if                                m 
                      you    and I                     e
                                                             t 
                       up 
                       a 
                       g
                          a
                             i 
                                n  my 
                                        d 
                                        a 
                                        rling I have wondered 
               
            why did we 
            not 
            stay 
            t 
                    o 
                            g 
                                    e 
                                            th 
                                                    er 
         where 
            would             w 
                we         o 
                    be n
                    D 
                    A
                   R 
                L 
               I 
            N 
            G?

One Two Three Four

One two three four 
One two three four 
Twirl her around until 
The two of you are dizzy 
One two three four 
One two three four 
Darling dance a little longer 
Twirl and dance the 
Night away 
One step forward 
One step back 
It's the showing of secrets 
And the hiding of feelings 
In plain sight 
 

I Wish For Stars

I
Your dark grey eyes 
A million thoughts conceal 
I wonder what goes through 
Your head 
Each 
Minute

II
Why can't you see it? 
You can't be apart for 
Even a minute 
You are blinded 
By Eros 
And Aphrodite 

III
Don't tell me 
What I can do 
I know you don't know me 
So touch only 
The stars that belong 
To you 

IV 
I'll admit I wish for stars 
To fall from the heavens 
For just a minute 
To see 
What love is 

Lifetimes

Sunlight like liquid honey 
From shutters onto lilac sheets 
Stay here 
In galaxies of dreams 
Before the day's begun to 
Feel the beating sun 
On rooves and 
The cobblestones 
Days turn into weeks 
Turn into years 
Turn into lifetimes in your 
Glinting eyes

Just Keep Running

My feet thump on the freshly mowed grass 
Bubump, bubump, bubump 
Along with my heartbeat 
The sun is getting low in the sky 
Its molten gold rays 
Touching down on the green 
The air is cold but my skin 
Tingles warm 
From the blood beating 
Crimson in my veins 
From my parents 
And theirs
And theirs 
My breathing is fast and hard 
Just keep running 

We Will Fly

I've never met another girl like you 
I wonder how in the world 
So many people tell us what we can do 
I wonder why we're supposed to listen 
If we don't we can fly 

I've never met another girl like you 
Red hair bright eyes 
Imaginary friends in echoes 
So many people tell us what we can do 
I wonder why we're supposed to listen 
If you don't listen 
You will fly 

A million little things 
That make up a world where we 
Will never fit in 
Writing songs for people I've never met 
So many people tell us what we can do 
If we just don't listen we'll fly 

Page upon page of empty writing 
Wishing for something you'll never see 
Poems on scraps wrapping papers 
From Green Gables to Avonlea 
We were meant to be 
Different 

Ghosts of our past returned to haunt 
Every waking moment 
The problem I see is I can't forget 
The beating hearts...

Tears

Cheeks go red as 
A pale face framed with dark hair 
Tears make her blue eyes glisten 
Secrets make her 
Heart hurt

The Art of Specificity

Green Eyes

She looked at me, then looked away. 

Her green eyes sparkled with tears as she and I locked eyes. Then before I could say something, she turned away, holding back sobs. 

Her green green eyes sparkled with suppressed tears as she and I locked eyes. There was some sort of mutual understanding; this would be goodbye. She turned away, so I couldn't see her pale face as she held back sobs.

Diamonds

We hide behind words like Diamonds 
Too beautiful to object to 
Too hard to break
No-one will ever know these people 
Whom we call writers 
What's behind the masquerade mask? 
Why do we hide? 
Every word is planned out 
To shield what's inside 

No-one can find the key to 
Our fractured worn-out minds 
Or when they do 
Acquire the truth 
No-one will be fine 

We hide behind words like diamonds 
Too beautiful to object to 
Too hard to break 
Gods forbid anyone sees 
What's behind the closed doors 
Hidden with lock and 
Key 

We fumble through the world in the dark 
Trying to make a path 
But every time someone tells us 
To stop 
Again 
We have to start 
So why don't writers tell the whole truth? 
We only say it in parts 
For no-one can know the darkest secrets 
Hidden in plain dark
-Ness

I Wish

I wish I knew you 
Rather than a mirage 
You always smile 
No matter the time 
It makes me  tired 
Be honest 
Just this one time 

Dreams of Green Gables

Tell me, will you ever die? 
I know you were born from a dream 
And thinking made you so 
How queer it does seem 
That you will never go

Ginger hair, they called it carrots 
Eyes like twinkling stars 
You'll stay in mind and dreams 
Forever 
I'll admire from afar 

Friends 
Just one, a good one 
You told her your poetry 
Different but the same you were 
I'd love to know how 
You're still good friends now 

I never knew where your life was 
To me it was a dream 
Somewhere with honeysuckle 
Ivy 
And autumn trees 
You were the other side of the ocean 
And yet you felt so close 
How did you do it, Anne? 
I guess I'll never know 

The Last Song I'll Ever Write

Turn around 
See me standing by the trees 
I'll write you a love song
It aint no superhuman feat 

But I know this won't 
Be the last song I write 
Above the clouds there's a place 
With palaces and paradise 

But soon the melody is over 
And the frost sets in 
Somewhere over the mountains 
There's a place 
I'll meet you there before the sun is high 
In the sky 

They'll never know that you 
And I will be 
A world away 
Together 

I'll write you a love song 
But I know this won't 
Be the last song that I write 
Cause there's no-one waiting for us 
On the other side 

Maybe some day you and I 
Will be alone with the wind 
And the call of the sea 
And I'll write you a love song then 
And as the cliffside is steep 
Don't loose your footing 
Now it doesn't matter to anybody 
If we're dead or alive 

Some day...

Feel (another collection of short poems)


My heart flames with anger 
Something I can't control 
Deeper than just me, it's a world 
I wish you saw me, whole 

II 
Tears 
Angry and hurt 
Why must I cry, if only to live 
A wasted life with nothing 
To show for what you did 

III 
Love isn't easy 
When your own heart betrays 
The way that you should be made 
Just tell me it's okay 

IV 
I'm ashamed of you 
Why did I know you 
And still not see 
What you've done 
To others 
And me? 

V
This may be the end 
Where I see you last 
You sit with an air of 
Why should I care? 

Inky Words (a collection of short poems)


When I said it 
Your cheeks blushed red 
When he came back 
You pushed him away 

II
Screaming to the sea again
That's where I always end up 
If only people 
Just listened 

III
Stifled giggles 
Stolen hugs 
I know it when I see it 
I've seen love 

IV
Quiet 
Lying in wait 
For a day that'll never come 
He is rather sweet 

V
Competition is tough 
Some day I'll realize 
You don't have to always win 
Just because they expect you not to 

VI
Inky words 
In a discarded diary 
How it hurts to be 
Dismissed without a thought

A Softer Side

There's a softer side 
Believe me, it's there 
If you look you will find 
That everyone has a softer side 
Rosy cheeks from running 
In the springtime air 
Laughing as they brush past 
The softer side is there 
Under the beanie and hoody 
Beneath the knitted brows 
Something is hiding 
Romantic 
Beautiful 
Touching 
The love they feel is hidden 
Like a precious gem 
Or a treasure 
They can't help but smile 
Sometimes 
Despite their tough-guy personas 
Some people hide it 
Some people deny it 
Some people are brave but 
Can't face the daunting
Possibility 
That they 
Love someone 

Mini-Poetry part three

Will anyone ever 
Write 
    
    Me 

        A love 
song? 

The Seasons

Time is stopped in the walls of what we know 
Echoes and heartbeats 
Will it ever be something more? 
I'll never know 
Hold my hand through lonely nights 
Wither wander us to where we'll never know 
It's the echo 
Of a thousand shattered dreams 

Autumn leaves remind me of your hair 
Guess I should've told you sooner 
I love you (ooh-ooh) 
The weather is colder now 
I know you'd have something to say about 
The squirrels in the trees 
If only that could be you and me 
Happy 
Forever 

Time is stopped in the walls of what we know 
Echoes and heartbeats 
The storm is getting wilder 
This time 
Will me make it out alive? 
On the brink of another year 
In the midst of our minds 
This could never be you and I my dear 
It's foolish just to try 

I know you'll never see me in the same light 
But I should've told you when we were younger  ...

Emotions (read footnotes)

Of all the things I've learnt, one is clear 
Feelings are for the weak 
You cannot show emotion, or they'll sense it 
The world is harsh, cold and relentless
If only we didn't love 
And hurt ourselves in the process
I know you'd only laugh or jeer 
Why do we have to feel? 
I wish people were a little kinder 
Or a little slower to judge 
You trap out your own feelings 
And then call others weak 
Don't show emotion 
They can sense it in the air 
Don't let them know you're struggling 
It'll only hasten the kill 
Why do you have to shut out your emotions 
And make it all the worse still? 
 

Waves and Ocean Air

Is it not really a feeling 
More a deep imbedded thought 
That if only it was like it is for you 
If only I could say something 
And you would believe it true 
If only I didn't have to scream to the wind 
And hear only an echo 
With no real audience 
If only I didn't have to shout over the crashing waves
On the cliffs 
And be beautiful 
And graceful 
Rather than holler and still not be heard 
Why do you expect me to be 
The girl with golden tresses 
Not the one who screams to the sea? 
Why is it so different? 
How is that fair? 
My shouts are drowned out 
By waves and ocean air  

Maybe That's What Love Is

Being torn apart from inside 
Like one mind 
Two hearts 
Wanting different things 
Lying in wait 
For when someone wants it too 
Without really meaning it 
Wanting them to believe it 
Wishing that someone 
Could just listen 
And agree 
Without 
Hesitation 
Like she did 
Maybe that's what love is 

Is it a Lie?

Love is supposed to feel like joy 
Is it a lie? 
I hope not 
But is it supposed to be anger
Heartbreak 
And ruin? 
For every heart someone takes 
Someone breaks 
Without even knowing 
Is it a lie? 
I guess we'll never know 

The Tender Embrace

Is that what you think love is? 
Powerfully passionate 
Ridiculously inappropriate
Touching 
Eyes whirling 
Is that it? 
Haven't you heard of hands held tight? 
Even on a cold morning 
Or a dark night 
Haven't you heard that love's about thoughts? 
And the thoughts 
That tangle 
Into a web of wonder 
At how a person can be that marvelous?
If that's what you hate about me 
About love and attachment 
Till death do us part 
Morbid and sorrowful 
Not all love has scandals 
Rumor and shame 
Is that why you object?
A physical thing? 
No 
It's the tender embrace 
When the war is over 
It's something you would never understand 
Despite all that you preach 

Funhouse Mirrors

You see yourself 
The river's like a mirror 
But what warps us makes us whole 
And in the funhouse you can see 
What's never been liked 
What isn't even 
There 
What makes us cry 
In agony 
What 
Makes 
Us 
Despair 

Fear the Night

Filtered rays of sunlight are a merry distraction 
Stars are too bright, they make us blind 
But as the stars are far away 
To weak we are to fight
It's not what we do see
It what we don't 
That makes us so fear the night

I Know I Want to Know You

Every letter I wrote you 
Lies torn up on the ground 
Every time I think of you 
I feel you all around 
Through the wild-flowers in gutters
And the leaves descending 
Falling from the trees 
For year after year 
Is this how it will be? 
Is it love? 
Or do I not know what love is? 
Do I want to know? 
I know I want to know 
You 
Every letter I wrote you 
Is a little too familiar 
Like the scent that lingers 
On the clothes 
Of those deceased before 
They've really gone 
And when I'm around him 
And he thinks I don't know what loves is 
I wish he'd met you 
For year after longer year 
Is this how it will be? 
Staring into green eyes
Like drops of forest ink 
Dreaming of lovers
If only 
That was us 
If only you read the letters I never sent you 
If only I sent the letters you never read
If...

Rosemary and Thyme

Rat-ta-tat-tat 
The plague doctor's cane 
Rosemary and thyme 
One more sickly day 
Running out of time

Daisy Chains

Daisy chains 
On your wall 
Is it fair to say 
Of all the hidden places 
I didn't wanna let this one go 

Some day you and I will be
Long gone in a world where we
Never meant more than this 
Never really let go 

Down by the creek 
You jumped 
Just a little further 
Away from the world where we 
Never really belonged 

Some say ghosts are just memories 
You stay 
Now I'm the one who leaves 
The world where we 
Were meant to be alone 

Daisy chains 
On your wall 
Dead and buried in the garden 
There's a heart beating slow 
Dried up petals 
Hung up like a trophy 
Of what we'll never know 

Bird song 
It's a little too loud 
It drowns out 
The sound of the screams 

Daisy chains 
On your wall 
Of all the hidden places 
This one is the one 
I never really let go 
 

Diana

The piece of paper by my bedroom door isn't unexpected, per se. But it jolts a little thrill inside me all the same. It's the second of its kind, and the last one was dreadfully romantic. 
    Outside the wooden walls of the backrooms of the "The Crab and Crustacean", the sea beats against the cliffside, creating a thunderous song. It reminds me of the legends of the song of the sea, of how the sirens lure sailors to watery demises. 
    I bend down and reach for the folded piece of yellowed parchment. On the outside there's an ink drawing. It's a picture of a black-haired girl lying on a rock, the waves crashing around her and her hair swirling in the freezing air. Strangely, she looks quite a lot like me. 
    On the inside, the parchment has a short message. 

            Diana, outaste eyanovn iorloeo lmeirhc vohslea 

I smiled and tucked the parchment...

There's A Place

There's a place 
In my tarnished mind 
Where the sky and the grass meet 
And I know I saw you there 
A year ago 
When I knew not the price of love 
There's a place 
In my broken mind 
Where you and I could lye and wait 
With no-one to hurt us 
There's a place 
In my swirling mind 
Meet me there 
At dusk 

Never Again

Never again 
Life is a wild ocean 

Touch 
Soft as pansy petals 
Just this once 

Never again 
Will I hear your name 
Or say it 

I could swear you were here 
In the meadow 

On the hill 
Will no-one around 

But the chirping birds 
And the ghost 
Of us 

Quote Of Today

You agree with me?
Damn. I could have sworn I meant to be controversial. 

I Don't Owe Thee

Why do I owe thee so? 
I know I never knew someone 
So in desperate need 
Of tearing down 
Those around 
To build thee up with bricks 
And mortar 
Made of other people's blood 
I don't owe you a penny of time 
Six pence is too much to leave 
I know you talk and you talk 
Thee assumes thou'st right 
And right is only as right as you can believe 
I shall never owe thee 
There's blood in water 
Red as rust 
Thee will never know the blood 
That others bleed silently 
I don't know where you started 
Believing lies of the wicked 
And the cursed 
Don't beat the dammed 
We'll only strike back 

The God of Death

When I first saw you I wondered how 
How you didn't remember? 
Don't you? 
And I saw how you had changed 
Maybe I should see that I have too 
You're brows were dark and chiseled  
Your features were like a Greek god 
The god of death 
For every little moment is fleeting 
And soon 
You won't remember me 
Will I remember you? 
I wondered why you were so charming 
Without uttering a quiet word 
Maybe it was your smile 
Maybe it was your eyes 
Maybe it was my wish for someone to see 
And to know beyond eyes 
But you smiled when my father 
Told his funny ridiculous stories 
Because you were here 
Fully 
When the rest's minds wandered like dairy-cows 
And I stared a little too long 
And you looked back at me with... 
Not pity 
Curiosity 
How was I so like the winds that fill the sails 
Of ships 
So quick to change 
So easily merry 
So unlike...

Beautiful

She's beautiful 
More beautiful than all 
The 
Amethysts
Irises 
Summer mornings 
Lovers' hands intertwined 
Incandescent dreams
Naïve children 
Narcissuses 
Her brows knit on frosty mornings 
How cold it is 
How I wish I knew you better 
Someday 
Maybe 
When time has slowed 
And warped like 
Salvador Dali's clocks 
And it's just you and I
And the birdsong 
You're beautiful 
Like the willows
And flowing rivers 
And every sonnet Shakespeare ever wrote 
I wish you saw how fast my heart
Beats, and skips a beat
If this were a fairy-tale 
I'd be a sorry beast 
Maybe some day  
You 
And I 
And the storm-grey sky 
Will be whole again 
 

The World's Gone Up in Flames

Someone told me 
You can't win a battle with only fire
Destroy the reason you wanted to fight
And all the supporters 
Cheering on the sidelines 
Will be the ones who tell you "she's right" 
Now you'll be alone 
With nothing to show for 
The ones who you lost 
In the flames 
And the war is over 
But you can't help but see
It was better then 
Now we're you and me
And there's no us 

Someone told me 
You can't win a battle with only fire 
Ice is slower 
Now the war is over 
And there's no more us 
And the world is frozen 
So don't throw fire when there's 
Only ice 
Fight fire with fire 
But there's nothing to show for 
The ones who were lost in the flames 

Someone told me 
You and I are over 
'Cause now the world's 
Gone 
Up 
In 
Flames 

Remember

Remember the dreams we had? 
I remember
Your house was small 
With a fireplace 
And a creek in the garden 

Remember how you stole those coins?
Your mother was furious 
But the well wasn't even for wishes
I wish I could go back to then 

Remember the first time we went to your house? 
You were reading the book that I loved
I knew we'd be friends

Remember how we made daisy chains? 
At a park we stopped at 
On a road-trip 
And it was like we'd never grown up 
I wish I could go back there

Remember how you said you loved her? 
And you would never tell her 
Did you? 
I wish I could go back to when 
We were fairies 
Wearing flower crowns 
And you and I and Ciara 
Walked arm in arm 
Like Diana and Anne 

I loved those golden days 

Take Me to the Crossroads

Take me to the crossroads 
We'll see the world in the clouds
Tell me you'll never leave
This little town will be ours 
Even the rusted train-tracks
Take me down 
To the crossroads 

Under the stormy clouds 
In the abandoned dairy 
People go past 
They never stop 
It all seems too dreary 

Take me down to the crossroads
Hold me in your arms 
We'll see the world in the clouds 
Darling 
This little town will be ours 

Over

Remember back then?
You and I were the only ones there 
Who could debate without 
Turning to desperation 
Now it's all over 

This Town Is Cursed

This town is cursed 
People say you could stay for a while 
In the beginning of the end 
I was sick of lights 
And the city sights 
The brightest light they have here 
In the high-school stadium 
Stops your heart for a beat 

This town is cursed 
If I beckon to you don't follow 
I swear I'll leave tomorrow 
Heartbeats stop and beat in sink 
God, those eyes don't let me think 

Fireblue like the colour of your mind 
Just for a while 
Be mine 
Heartbeats stop and beat in sink 
God, those eyes don't let me think 
Stop I'll cry 
Same your name 
If I beckon don't follow 
I swear I'll leave tomorrow 

And the years go by 
Without the trace of another world 
Warm hands on stone-cold bricks 
Touch the ground and hope it sticks 
Swings that swing without a trace 
Of anyone from the interstate 
Let me tell you of something I should've learned
This town is...

I Know

You can never know me 
You just say you don't wanna see me
Ever again 
Well I know we  
Aren't good together 
And I know you 
Always think your better
But let me say this 
There's a lot you don't know 

Do you know there's more to the world
Did you hear 'bout how people get hurt 
Somebody told me 
I should feel for guys like you 

But you 
Should learn to think before you speak 
And I 
Know I know I know I will never let this go 
I have a life beyond what you know 
I know love and I know light 
I know your fire-blue eyes haunt the night
I know you told me you hated me 
I know I hurt you for what it's worth 

But you 
Should learn to think before you speak 
'Cause I know I know I know I 
Know what you could never know 

Fall for an Idea

Can you fall for an idea?
I certainly know I'd never fall for you
But your gleaming eyes 
In that stolen look 
Between the beach and the grass 
I know I was a mess 
My clothes were sopping 
From the freezing sea
My eyes were laughing 
As you looked at me 
The look was stolen 
Whisked away on a tender breeze 
I never really believed 
Your heart can skip a beat 
Your sculptured features were a little too perfect
Pointed nose 
Charcoal brows 
And the hidden smirk made me long
For something to call ours 
Our eyes locked for a second 
Your face sang pity and scorn 
I wonder if I'll ever 
Banish that look from my mind 
I made fun of you behind your back 
All in fun, I gather
I didn't mean it 
I just didn't want them to think 
And to read in my eyes 
And to see that I'm drunk on the nectar of spring
To...

Important Notes

It's time to not stay quiet 
I don't believe in God. I'm not afraid to say it. I don't care if you're religious, or you believe in fairies, or you don't believe in anything. I don't care. So stop being afraid. 
I do not tolerate homophobia. I don't care if you "don't agree with the lifestyle", it's time we stop having to listen to that rubbish. No-one should be afraid to be who they are 
Racism is a problem. You all need to know that. If you think it's not, open your eyes. No-one should have to be afraid to walk alone. We need to start respecting everyone. 
Stop judging people by their looks. If you're going to say it, believe it, don't just say "it's what's inside that counts". Judge based on personality. 
We need to stop worrying about what people wear. Let Muslim's wear hijab, let people wear bikinis. Just stop judging, it's not your business. No-one should...

Why Must You Hate People for Loving?

There's more to love than what you know 
I know so many people who police love 
Love, by its very nature shouldn't be policed 
It just doesn't make sense 
Please tell me this makes sense
It's the pull that makes people run to their lovers 
It's the hum that buzzes in one's ears when one cannot stop 
Thinking about their dearest 
So where in this world of turmoil did someone get the idea...
That one should kill over another's love 
Why would you say it's wrong to love another 
Of the fairer sex 
Sappho new better 
If you are someone who would tell me 
"You cannot love her" 
I am ashamed of you 
Someone once said that they didn't hate those who 
Love in a way she didn't approve
But she couldn't agree with them on it 
It begs the question... 
Why? 
Must you really stop the elated feeling?
Must you hate me for wanting wholly to be around her? ...

This is Goodbye From Me

Under a cloudy night 
You know I never wanted 
Oo-oh 
I never wanted this to be
How it ends for me and you 

Touch the frilly waves 
Pick out the perfect shells 
On a haunted beach 
I know I've loved you well

People will say 
That I could never love someone 
I love swells in the ocean 
I love the song of the sea 
After all we're too broken 
This is goodbye from me 

The cliffs are calling 
The sky is watching 
Good God I hate the way 
So many see a monster 

I'll never forget you 
I'll never let you leave my mind 
I'm the empty shell 
This is the song of the sea 
I've seen winged cupid painted  blind 

Pirates and plunderers 
The beast of the depths 
I would fight through the currents 
Soon we'll fall to our deaths 
You're the angel that guides 
Those lost at sea 
But we're too far away
Please hold on to me 
...

Farewell All the Big Dreams

Lights out in the movie theatre
Home for summer break 
Get drinks and burgers
For the last time for a while
 
Then you leave 
Say hurried goodbyes at the airport 
Guess this time I won't see
You for another while 

Time flies 
Collage closes in on the 
Horizon 
And all the grandest plans 
Are too childish 
Out the window with the mermaids 
Goodbye to rooftop fights 

Remember when we said 
We would never stop being friends
Remember how you pushed me 
Brick walls and blue jeans 
'Cause this time I won't see 
You for another while 

The cinema closes
No more dancing infront of the big screen
Farewell all the big dreams 
We had when we were kids
 
Alone on the curb
Friends left in the dust 
Move into a cottage 
With cracked paint and rust 
But your Instagram feed says it all
How did I think that you would miss me? 

If you ever want to see...

Until The Sun Goes Down

Stop the clock 
Stay with me until the sun goes down
Counting stars in the evergreen woods 
Let me see 
Did I ever tell you 'bout how you and me?

Stop the clock  
Stay with me until the sun goes down 
Reflecting stars in the wishing well 
And when you leave me to be 
In the woods by myself 
All I can say 
Is I wish you well 

Now the happiest time of our lives is over
And I want to know 
What's become of us 
Counting stars 
In each-other's eyes 
If only you and I could stop the clock 
Say a wish for more time 
Just tell me you wish we could 
Stay until the sun goes down 

Stop the clock 
Give me your sweater 'cause it's cold out now
The happiest time of our lives is over 
Counting stars in the wishing well
Say a wish for more time 
Lye with me until the sun goes down 

Silver Drops

Every drop of silver 
Every moon 
Waning 
Waiting 
A silver drop 
Chaste fears abating 
Thee says thou wings are folded 
Awaiting the time is right
How queer it is to save the time
For dreams 
A sleepless night 
Thou'st  beguiled 
By the wings of ravens 
Cocooned in silver blood 
So in thou sleep 
The time is thus
Too short for fading fancies 
Too savored to be hence spent 
And thee 
The maiden fair and elegant 
Too delicate 
To wander the seas 
Too fair for days be spent
Amongst the opposite persuasion 
Angel's wings hence are polished ravens 
As some do roam the world with little grace
An my heart beats 
A drunken melody 
For you, fair girl, I have to faster pace
Thee'd never have the time to lend of me 

Mini-Poetry

A little house
Ivy and Jasmine 
Every day is a little bit longer
As the philosopher taps her 
Wooden cane on the desk
 

You Wish I Was Like You

You think you know me
Oh how wrong you are 
Little girl with golden hair 
You will never know 
Those around admire from afar 
You could never know the cost
For what it's worth, this is what I want
Judging 
Hating 
Making mistakes
Wishing I was like you 
You've made a fair few mistakes 
You still believe the only way is yours 
You still think you'll take the noble path
And every step in silence I know
You wish I was like you 

Poetry Of Sleepless Nights

I know you'll never see me
Behind the frosted glass 
My heart aflame 
Agony 
Our bodies splayed 
Apon the grass
A frenzy of the unsaid 
I know wilds your smile will never tame
Immune to treasures you never shall lay claim 

Obsession 
Through page upon page
Inking innate desires
The page I'll set aflame
Every lock is only as open 
As the key with which you enthrall it 

Now as days weep into weeks
Every night you haunt me
And the smile some do seek
Worthy wiles do abate 
As does the suffering 
Which that smile does cause 

Snow White sinks her teeth
Into the apple's snow-white flesh
Through desire and hate you blunder
And as she did know the cost
As you cause eyes to weep
But alas, Snow White is lost 
You haunt each dream and sleep

I wish you could ever know
How I would see you harmed 
Maybe this isn't how it should go 
You left...

I Thought My Life Was Hard

I thought my life was hard
Homophobes
The people have hurt me
Then I heard 
How your parents don't let you
Dye your hair
I swear I won't forget you 

God knows we aren't perfect
No closer should he be so
And I know you are worth it
These words will be 
The seeds we sew
And I thought my life was hard

I thought my life was hard
Between the whirlwinds and the wreckage
And you said 
You were in love with her
Oh how life's a wild tempest 

You call 
In the day as you walk
I sit
And we talk 
And I realize this 
Is the real you 
Beneath the good Christian hair
And the lies stuck like glue

And I thought my life was hard
Two loves 
Four years
Fall for a friend
Not for innocent ears 
I wish I knew better
How the world's gears tick
On a lazy summers day
Blooms friend-ship that sticks 
...

Treasure Maps and Rum Excerpt

I wriggled my wrists, nudging my body against Amy's. Her dead-weight shifted off of me, but before I could do anything, she fell to the floor with a thunk. The bump on her head must have been bad--she was out cold.                                             
    Suppressing the tidal wave of fear pumping in my chest, I took a shaky breath and moved my bound hands in the dim light, fumbling in the darkness behind me. My finger brushed something sharp and cold. I had found a way to cut the rope. 
    Any idea one might have on how to cut the rope on one's wrists in semi-darkness when one's best friend may be dead and one is in the hull of a pirate ship immediately leaves one's head in such a situation. I grabbed aimlessly for the handle of whatever blade I was touching. Then something occurred to me. Would a pirate really leave something like a knife so close...

Friendship Tweet

Friendship and Spiders

Friends are there, across the vast and tedious ocean. But remember that string you pretended connected you, the one made of jumping spider silk? It's still there. No matter how many waves wash over it and try to cast it away, it's still there. 

March Grab Bag

Truth

Truth is something you don't want 
Raptured in gory details 
Universally acknowledged as good
Taunting and haunting and unforgettable 
How do we unknow it? 

Old House

Water down by the river
Flowin' like the breeze 
In all the sails that're ripped in two
Autumn makes me think of all the things 
We never got to do
Ducklings an' fledglings 
Anne of Green Gables 
And all the other books left on the shelf
And in the reeds by the willows 
See the snakes and all the rest
'Cause this heaven's gonna turn to hell
The grass green turned sickly pale 
The orbweb's palace a woven jail 
And every time your reflection 
Just turns out to be a shadow 
Seeing things
That's what comes of  too much time alone
In the old house with the ghosts
Of all the happy times we've never known
The windows fog up from time to time
The autumn arrives and I'm 
Standing still under a lamp from Narnia
Wishing I could just go home
To the life with the ones
Who were never here 
To the four walls 
And red-brick 
And no...

Year by Year

Memories Of Everything

Year 1. I was born. A little girl with stormy blue eyes and soft chocolate hair. My sister stayed at our cousin's house the first night I was alive. 
Year 2. I learnt to speak, and walk. My mother took many videos in this time, capturing the precious firsts and moments shared by my sister and I. 
Year 3. I learnt to play with dried beans. I learnt about the world. 
Year 4. I got a tricycle, which I had to get off to ride up the little driveway dips in the path, every few meters. The trike came rapped in a piece of stunning green fabric. I was in a play with my sister's drama class.
Year 5. I met my best friend. She had olive skin and thick black hair, but looked surprisingly like my sister and I. She was unlike any other person I met. 
Year 6. Camping at Peel Forest. I believed in magic then. 
Year...

Make It Out Alive (A Song)

It's a race where no-one wins 
Your hands are tied
Close your eyes
Stumble forward 
And pray that you can make it out alive

Rain pours until sky is dry
Kids fall and get back up again
They fall, fall until they fly
It's a race where no-one wins
Most stumble forward
And pray that they can make it out alive

I'm waiting for you outside
In the garden
Under a stormy sky
But if you wi-in 
No-one knows your name 
That's a part of the game 

Most loose 
Some are told they won
And when you win
No-one'll know your name 
It's a part of the game
Your hands are tied
Close your eyes
Stumble forward 
And pray that you can make it out alive

There's a garden by the gates
If you make it you'll meet the fates
But if you wi-in No-one'll know your name
It's just a part of the game

Your hands are tied
Close...

Musings Of A Peculiar Soul

Also, I can understand the feeling of genuinely not being like other kids. But it's more like... how do I explain it? it's like being a farmer in a field of sheep, where you want to be away from them because they don't understand you. And they all want to be around each-other because they are like one-another, but you can't help but feel that there are thoughts that go through your mind they could never understand.

Quote of the day

I feel like I'm living two lives and there's another that no-one really knows about and I hardly remember.
-Quote of the day

Prologue of a Story

The man weaved back and forth like a light drunk moth around a lamp. The reason Amber Harmon was in a warehouse parking lot at 3:00 AM, standing by a sign saying "Off limits", alone bar the stranger, is another thing. But we'll get to that. Amber couldn't help but be fascinated by the way he moved: drunkenly and in useless circles. She knew that if she valued her life, the smart thing to do would be to run and not turn back, but Amber had always loved adventure. Ever since she was a little girl, she had wanted to do everything independently and do everything that could be done. At age four and a half Amber discovered a drain with the grate off. Needless to say, the fire-brigade had had a stern word with her parents upon Amber's reresection from the depths of the drain's muddy pipe.

My Soul Is Scattered

My soul is scattered 
Resting amongst the stars
And when I rise 
A phoenix girl 
I loose everything but scars

I'm Happy For You

So, first of all, this is a song. Second, it's a song I based of a story I'm writing. It's from the perspective of one of the main characters, so just keep that in mind. Also, should I post the story? 

Your Facebook status says taken
I remember when that was by me
But darling believe me
I've never known 
That this was all for the best
Take a break 
With your 
New fiancé 
In a little town inland
And believe me when I say
I'm happy for you
Can you be 
Happy for me? 
You and him can 
Raise your kids 
I promise I won't ruin it
And if I meet them when we're older
I won't tell them 
I was the one who thought you could be bolder
Now I'll travel the world 
And you'll 
Stay where you are 
And we'll never be lonely
Because I'm happy for you
Can you be 
Happy for me? 
And if I...

Angel

Touch me in the moonlight
As the comes up on the horizon 
Let me see you without armor
See me with your bright eyes
Tell me I'm the one for you 
(One for you)
(For you) 
And when the geese come home to nest
You're still here doing what's best
'Cause you're the only one who never changes
I met an angel by the forest
She told I was worth it
And then the sun went down again
I never saw that angel again
And when the others all are loosing 
In a life they never choose 
You're still here
And I'm still wishing I had never known 
They say some never meet the one
Stuck in the middle between hatred and love
I know I met the one 
And she would never change
But she was from above
And 
They say angels never stay
Go back to love some other
From Olympus 
And I know I'll never meet the...

Let's Run Away

I wanna know 
What's beyond the stone wall
Where ivy grows
And no-one goes
And no-one comes back from 
I wanna see your face
Let you show me the way
Let you touch my cheek 
And say 
It'll be okay
Beyond the backwoods
And I'm falling 
Falling from the cliffside
Facing backwards
And I can't see
Beyond your green eyes
Hold on to me
I wanna know
What's beyond the stone wall
Where ivy grows
And no-one goes
And no-one comes back from
I wanna see your face
Let's run away
Into the backwoods
And I can't see beyond
Your green eyes
Glowing like fire-flies 
Let's run away 
(Away) 
(Away)
(Away) 
Let's run away 
In the pasture 
By the backwoods
Falling backwards
Into where I don't know
And I can't see beyond
Your green eyes
Like fire-flies 

Prologue: A Grey Cat

The morning air is crisp and cold as Amber walks along the cracked footpath, withdrawn from the world and hurrying. A twig cracking underfoot is almost enough to make the teenager leap. She curses herself for being so on-edge and quickens her pace until she's almost sprinting. Maybe she should have left yesterday after all. The inky night would have hidden her longer. 
    A grey cat wanders carelessly past a barked BMW. The cat licks her paws, stopping in amber way and mewing plaintively, gazing up  at the quickly fading darkness. 
    The sun on the horizon glows the colour of an autumn leaf, edging upwards tentatively. It bathes the empty street in golden light, and the atmosphere quickly become filled with anticipation. Something's going to happen. 

25 Word Story-Time

25 word story-time! I hope you like these, children (you're not really children, but I'm saying it because it's like story-time for teenagers). Enjoy the stories :) 

Ivy 
The ivy chains the house, a prisoner. But the prisoner is free to leave, trapped in his own world. It's the last thing I see. 

Icecream 
Join me for some icecream. This could well be our last moments of child-hood, darling. 

Darling 
Come away with me, to a place where outcasts are the norm, and we can just be ourselves. Just that - us. Our place, darling. 

Raven 
If I were a bird, I would be a raven. People misjudge you, when you act different. People expect you to be some sweet villain. 

You and I 
I just want it to be you and I and a field of flowers, alone with our thoughts. And I'll tell you you're wonderful, darling. 
 

Little People (Part One)

The people aren't real. They can't think. They're just lifeless pieces of clay, my job being to make sure they function as a thing to create the new magic school. At least, I don't think they can think. 
    I drizzle some creativity into this one, a visionary. She has copper hair and gun-metal-blue eyes, with a figure the size and shape of a doll. A little one, like a corn-doll. Of course, with creativity, I give her a sense of self-worth; without any she would never accomplish anything. But, as is always the fear with a healthy sense of self-worth and a good idea of one's abilities, she has  to fear being boastful. Otherwise, the other little people may reject her as a doll or honks her own mini-horn. 
    The morning sun streams into my workshop, flowing over the red-wood surface of my old desk. Something catches the light and sparkles and glows as bright as...

Mid-February Grab Bag

My Home

a descriptive piece about your favorite city/place without revealing the location! That's for your readers to guess!

You can get to the city in just five kilometers if you live in the suburbs. Compared to where I live now (where it's an hours drive), that's so tiny. I never thought it was a short distance before. 
    The cardboard cathedral. Iconic, yet still a lasting reminder of all the wreckage and death this city's been through. The cardboard looks like giants' toilette rolls, supporting the cathedral. I would say what religion the cathedral is, but I don't know. I really should learn about the city I call home. The cathedral has beautiful stained-glass pictures for windows. 
    I remember the river, with ducks whom the city-goers fed (and one very lost seal). I used to feed the ducks frozen peas, like the woman at the wild-life place told us. I also used to tell off my friends for...

My Own Fault

Everyone I touch turns to glass
Fragile, too easy to break
Let them touch me, let them see my heart
But still, I fear I'll too much take
For in the lakes my feelings turn to water
Flowing, never a shock or a jolt 
But I hope they will not see me stripped of this
And realize I'm forever sprinkling salt
To banish the demons, alas it's my own fault

Eighteen Word Story



How is it that we can never quite let go, yet everything will drift away. Now is forever. 

It should have been us

Why couldn't that be me?
I see all those friends I never met 
On your Instagram feed
I had told you my darkest secret
Before they met you
You and Koko, at the beautiful beach
I should have been there
I knew you before you fell for her
Before you knew her
Why am I not here?
Just an ocean, not far
Sometimes it feels like a moment
Now I feels like a universe
I should be in those pictures
But instead
I'm being told I'll never make it
By people I just met
So when I see you and her
I can't help but think
It should have been us

Stereo-types and Rebuttals

Stereo-type rebuttals 

Lesbians and bi girls are masculine - I know plenty of traditionally "feminine" lesbians and bi girls. And more importantly, femininity and masculinity are social constructs, so...

Gay guys are feminine - Ditto. 

Women who conform to traditionally "feminine" rolls in society BECAUSE THEY CHOOSE TO can't be real feminists - It's all about choice and everyone understanding that they CAN and being able to do whatever job or occupation they choose. 

Racial stereo-types - ...Just no. 

The classic... Dumb blondes - 
The smartest person I've ever met is a blonde girl. 

Gendered stereo-types (girls can't do sports, girls don't do maths, boys don't do art or crafts, women are home-makers...) - 
I have to say, these ones just make me want to scream. 

Basketball is gay - How the ---- does a sport become associated with a sexuality? JUST HOW?? No explanation? I thought not. 

Longing

How we find ourselves longing
Oh, for a whisper from their frozen lips
To see a single shadow cast 
By a sweet love, before the season tips
How we desire a single day to see them
Before winter sets in 
Before another year begins
To love them wholly with ourselves, therein 
And yet another burning day turns over
And night falls crisp and dark as the deepest lake
In its midst, a child, in a world bleak
Wishing for some lovely talk in to partake
And I'm the child, with eyes murky and longing
For my love, for a friend I'll never loose
But where or who or when, I do not yet know
So I leave my feelings burried
Beneath a foot of snow

Basketball, Gay, and Tearing People Down

"Eww, basketball's gross. It's gay." 
There are so many problems 
I can count three 
What a ridiculous sentence 
Darling, you see
What's gay about basketball?
It's a freaking sport 
After-all
What would you know about being gay?
Number two 
You just said gay is gross
Think about it
What's wrong with you? 
There's nothing gross about being gay
You really ought to learn,
My dear
Number three
Last but not least
I think you should know this by now
Just because you don't like something
Do you really have to
Tear others down?

February Grab Bag

A Sea Monster Friend Of Yours

Dear reader,
I truly hope you can forgive me for this. I really do. No-one else has done so, but I honestly didn't mean to do it. If, on this dreary day (believe me, it is one), you can summon the courage to do what not a soul has done, and forgive the monster of the seas, toss a shell in the water. Just do it. I promise you won't regret it, darling. Of course, I understand if you cannot do it and despise me to the depths of the ocean. Most people do.  
Love,
A sea monster friend of yours

Rage, Love, Hurt

Rage boils inside each person
A merry, exuberant anger
And yet, each person covers it up
Cloaks it, makes themselves think 
They should be better

Love touches the heats of all
But they don't say so too much
Lest other's think them to attached
To face a greater fall 

When hurt and sadness cover you
Is when you truly crumble
And touch the bottom of the sea
And from great heights you'll tumble
To reach the place you think you must deserve 
A place where you are but a being
Who has been hurt
And there's nothing left to cover up or hide

So every day, you say you're alright

Feelings should be watered down
So people cannot see them
For people are too afraid to drown
In a world where no-one needs them

Every person touches up their appearance
And the way the present
For no-one wants someone 
Who stares too much
Or who dares not to repent
So...

25 Words

Well This Is A VERY Short Story

Under the surface of every lake is depths you'll never see. Remember no-one else can hear your heart-beat, but don't let it get to you. 

Bright Black Eyes

A raven's eyes, black as the night 
Taunting and boring 
Hauntingly bright 
Bright as the stars 
That linger in the sky
Bright as the light in a small child's eye
Dark as the shadows 
Cast by dead autumn leaves
Alive as the dandelions 
That bloom in cemeteries 
When you look her in the eye
You feel the scream
The ringing of silence
The shattering of a dream
The eyes of a raven
Accused of staring
Don't look for too long
At risk of appearing
Like the predatory bird
That stalks in the shadows
But remember the beauty 
Of Raven's bright black eyes

People Who Touch Your Heart

You'll only meet a few of them
The people who touch your heart
Through all the misty woodlands 
And being torn apart
When you meet them you hold on
And never let them go
Because some people are meant to be
Through rain and wind and snow
You will find them 
Hear their calls 
Like sea-birds going home to nest
You will meet them 
And know
Leaving is not for the best
Because most people won't see you
They'll see someone who is drawn
And they'll ignore you
Or hurt you
And finally 
You'll meet the right person 
And night will become dawn

A Thousand Hearts

If in the world your heart is lost
In rain, in a sea of hearts
Remember you are one
One soul, one single heart
And you have a world inside 
A bottle 
With a kork
To the outside world 
It's just broken glass
You see through the fogged up 
Windows
And see beyond what they can ever know
If they see you and say 
They only see someone who doesn't know
You remember the world is broken
And no-one will ever know
What it is to be you
What it is to see a thousand hearts
And only know two
 

Timeless

The woman's eyes were a soft brown, like a horse's, framed with dark lashes. She had chestnut hair that fell to her shoulders, not curly but not straight, with just a few strands of silver. Her face was a timeless one, with a smile so kind and caring that the bitterness of age had never reached her. She was in her mid forties, I would guess, but seemed younger, without really seeming younger at all. More like the face of someone who had never known the joys of parenthood. This was a woman I had never once seen angry; it didn't seem to be in her nature at all. She was patient, and incapable of making anyone uncomfortable. This woman was probably a goddess. 

Pandemic Metaphor

My Mind

In dreams our minds are all 
In life our minds are none 
Through dream by dream 
We rise and fall 
And in this pandemic 

My mind is one 
Through every dream my mind turns
Like the gears of a broken clock
And every time after unfurls ferns 

And every time we go back the same
One thing, like a good shepherds flock

Stuck inside our hearts we'll never break away
Back to what we know
And so again breaks an abridged day 
And yet, the sun sets gold again

Stuck in an endless cycle
Cannot escape the world 
Of whirlwinds and a broken bicycle

It's always the same dark place
Through dream by dream again
And every time I think of it
The same heartbroken face
And the day ends to the same again
We'll never escape

Some Poems I Wrote For A Friend Because She Wanted Writing Inspiration

Write about the places 
Having loved them before 
And let people remember
Those you knew before 
Cobblestone pathways 
And ivy-ridden walls 
Not the bright places
In which people stand tall
See the dim places 
And all the abandoned barns
Yet this is bright all and all

Write about a girl 
Having cobalt eyes and cropped hair
And a pale green blouse 
The skin is blushed and fair
Dull denim jeans 
Over hills of rolling emerald
Yellow overalls 
Over crimson cheeks she's freckled
Under the shining stars she wishes 
What a glorious sight
Amber on wood and light in her eyes
Not a story but a universe 
To live and to love
To hold and be held by 
Over the hills and valleys 
Take flight in the indigo sky 
As the girl sleeps she dreams
Lochs silver and glowing jewels 
Knights with her cobalt eyes 
And Shakespeare's funny fools 
By the shimmering creek the girl stops
Outside in the golden light ...

Darkness

Are you afraid of the dark? they might ask
It's the slow but steady oxidization of our bodies that kills us
But in a way it's also our souls
Straining and smashing against the cages of our own humanity
And the loves of our lives being plucked off one by one
By the clammy clutches of death
In the day you can't see it
The sunshine smothers it
So no, I'm not afraid of the dark 
I'm afraid of the absence in which we see our own truths

Memory Object

The Paper

A scrap of paper is lying on my bed. It is covered in drawings; lacking detail; rushed; doodles of stick figures. On one side of the piece of paper is a drawing titled "The Anti-Child-Mobile", with the label "Jeanne driving" and No Kids written on the side of the truck. 
    Looking at the paper, I remember that day at the zoo. The kerfuffle on the bus of children screaming and people talking. The drawing idea started with me writing we can talk like this on a piece of sketchbook paper, when Jeanne buried her head in  her hands and sulked. I cheered her up by drawing drawing things like "The Anti-Child Mobile" and "Jeanne as a supervillain". 
    Looking back, that day is one of my fondest memories of Jeanne. I still have the paper I drew those silly doodles on. 

Mid-January Grab Bag

Why The Night Is Dark

A long time ago, the world was a barren place
A desert in it's own right
A place where the eternally damned fear the night
When the night set in
It wasn't dark 
There was no such thing as dark
The muses told a young girl 
That her mother was dead 
Then the worst night of all the earth set in
And the creatures that emerged from the cracks
In the fiery light
As they did every night
Were controlled by a young girl
Who wanted right to be right
And the world reeked of death
As was wished for by a girl
Wanting her pound of flesh
And the girl couldn't find her mother
Amidst the fire that flamed
For her mother wad hidden in plane sight
After all, she was named
Light
Light was invisible 
To the naked eye
Light's daughter
Soared mountains high
In the midst of the worst night
Where creatures were ruthless
She had a...

Stars

Don't be ashamed of scars
    On the inside
        On the outside
        They are just
STARS 
    In your life's 
    GALAXY 
        Adorning the skin
            Of the world's greatest 
           HEROES 

I Want To Know

I want to know,
Even when I try, why do you not speak?
I want to know, 
How can you possibly avoid me for an entire week?
I want to know,
If the stars were brighter,
Would you maybe look up to the sky?
I want to know, 
If your wings were stronger,
Would you fly?
I want to know,
What goes through the mind,
Of a shy and untouchable person?
I want to know,
Even if a part of your soul becomes exposed,
It will be worth it 
I want to know,
From the valleys to the sand-dunes to the mountains
I want to know,
From Lovers Lane to woods to pleasant fountains 
I want to know,
Is your fair-haired head,
Somewhere else right now?
I want to know,
In this world of poems,
Did you find love somehow?

A New World

Ambition 
The downfall and up rise of all 
Down or to the skies 
A mission 
To harness the ambition 
To understand the rise and fall
To see with our minds
Transition 
To be an adult, to understand
To grow, and look into the eyes
Of the future
These'll teach ya 
You'll understand 
What we planned
Won't always stand
That man 
And woman
And human 
Are evolving 
And changing 
And making
A new mission
But a few
Will inform you 
That to be you 
You have to be like them 
And then you'll understand
This mission 
And understand 
That what we planned
Won't always stand 
And it will be alright
To take flight
And change 
Unto the night
And you'll see a new world
Carved out by you
And me
And we 
Will be invincible 
With science and art 
And the start of a new worlds
And woman 
And man
And human
Will be moving
Into a better world
Where people...

Chapter one: Francis Lavender

Frances Lavender

At approximately 6:14 PM on new year's eve, I walk into the kitchen of Crabby and Crusty's. 
    "Frances-" Adison begins, in his wavering voice. "We appear to have a problem..." Another one. Great. It's been nothing but problems since I inherited this place. 
    "Well for god's sake, Addy, spit it out." I stop short of adding that if the toilet is clogged again, he might as well tell a pack of drunk chimpanzees to stop throwing napkins down it, for all the help telling off teenagers does.
    The pungent scent of sea-food wafts around the kitchen; hot and intoxicating. I sometimes wonder why I run this place, despite loathing fish of any kind. 
    "No, not that." Addy allows himself a small, strained smile--probably in pity of me for having to deal with the undoubtedly treacherous information he's about to divulge. "We appear to have double-booked a table for twelve..." 
 ...

The Fairest Fair

In the shadow of the wooden veranda 
By the old stone wall
Secrets
Under a sky draped over all
But girls told they cannot be 
Girls told they already are free
Girls told it's what is best
You'll cry but you can never leave the nest
Stay close, my  dear
Or you ne'er will be
The same as me
Or as good as me

By the little dairy
On lonely row
Philosophical thinkers
On and on go
In the life of the past 
But we can never know
What's right
So for a million moons this will last
And if you dare to poke t he bear
Or ask is fair what's really the fairest fair? 
Then they will tell you, of this I'm sure
You must be rid these notions, my dear
Don't question if fair is fair
Don't challenge the ancient law
Don't ask about a different kind of love
For all's fair in love and war

Applause

Before the applause
There's a moment
It's short
But a lifetime resides in't 
And all its hopes, fears,
Dreams and doubts
And the memory
Of saying something
And no-one laughing
Or even looking
And that moment we
Wonder 
What was all this for,
If no-one applauds?

Book Review Competition 2021

The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy: The Greatest Book

Have you ever wished that you could sail the high-seas, or become a doctor on a ship in the 18th centaury? Me too, me too. Even if you just wished to escape the drag of day-to-day life (especially in a pandemic), or to find someone who for once agrees with your feminist views. Sometimes, the world is a lonely, lonely place. 
    The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy is hands-down the best book I've ever read. Lying on a bed, in a room, in a double-story house, surrounded by a world of people who would very much like to tell you off or demand you be more lady-like. It sucks. The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy holds something. . . personal. You could almost forget, whilst immersed in pages of old friendships, philosophy, and trying again and again, that there are tons of other people who have read it. That it doesn't make you special. Except it does,...

“All Alive”

They Bay

I feel the heat pounding on my back, as we traipse our way across the mountain, in search of a cooling bay. The day is not so hot, really, but the hike is like fire and brimstone. Our legs and feet are sweaty and aching, the brief coolness of Wineglass Bay fading off our backs like footprints made of water. 
    A bay comes into sight; cobalt and aquamarine water spilling onto pale sand. You can hear a sense the water, it's presence could make the deepest fire-pit feel just a bit of peace. It's waves, washing rhythmically in and out from the shore, are small, calm and peaceful. 
    In the moment, I know how Tantalus felt. To be down there; to feel the cold water mold to the shape of our bodies and then flow on as if we were never there; we want that. But the rocks are jagged, the climb to steeply downhill and...

The Things That Change And Those That Don't

The things that change: 
I have two adult cousins now 
I still remember Ella's thirteenth birthday
Oranges
We pretended they were smiles

Going to her house was a "Shack Attack" 
Because they were the Shackletons 
And I remember Ella Saying people asked 
If she was related to Ernest Shackleton 
I had to google that to find out his first name
I only ever knew Shackleton as the Shacks 
So much has changed in five years
Ella is no-longer a kid
I'm not really a kid either
The Shacks moved house
We moved country
Our lives grew up
But we're still cousin's 
No-one asks about Ernest Shackleton 
Anymore
Teenagers these days probably haven't heard of him
So they don't question it

And some things don't change: 
Ella was born a grown up
As they said of Dora in Anne of Green Gables 

Ella's still friends with cody
I can't believe the kid 
Who broke his arm on a swing
Now has...

Madeline

Her hands pulled away from mine as the ship began it's journey. It's for the better, Madeline said the day she decided to leave. I still remember the moment her eyes lit up, as some friend told her of the wonders of Paris. If only I was joining her there, packing a suitcase with a few frocks and some books from Nana, joining this girl in France. But that wasn't meant to be, her and I being both of the fairer sex. 
    So instead I'll stay here, taking on the family business. 
    Her hands pull away, then she's gone.

Green-Haired Girl

Here I sit, eating Freddo Frogs out of a mug my friend bought me as a birthday present. The mug says "not fast, not furious". Ironically, I feel that, but also fast and furious. I know I'm just another teenage girl, wanting to be special. I know that my story is not one of great loss or great tragedy. But I still understand the feeling of being judged unfairly by people around you. I have been told to my face by someone I called a friend that she "doesn't approve of the LGBT+ community." And that such a community chooses to be that way. That makes it so much worse. 
    May I ask, darling, why you think I would choose something --as a lover of traveling-- that rules of half the world, including the country that was my father's home? 
    And then there's the others. There's the girl who is so like me, and yet so...

Faith

It's a fickle thing, faith. 
Full disclosure: I have nothing against people being any religion. I'm not trying to tear anyone down here, I'm just trying to tell a story from a point of view that sometimes doesn't get shown properly. 
I am atheist, born and raised. My grandparents were Catholic, on one side at least. My mother and father were both raised religious, so it makes me cringe to read people saying that atheists are only the ones who had bad experiences with religion. I know my parents were happy as Christians. But I also know what they are no-longer -- and never will be again-- Christian. Why did they stop being Christian? you ask, well they just were and then they weren't. 
I've been to church twice in my life, as far as I remember. It was two very different experiences. The first time, I think my dad wanted to show my sister and I what church was...

Dear Nana

I don't believe in the afterlife 
I never really did 
You get one life, then it's all over
Shall I die, life forbid 
But I know you'd be proud of me
If still you were alive
If only from some distant place you could see
My sister and I
And despite your ashes in the ground; you live on
In the scent of a shining yellow rose
Now I know I barely knew you, of only tragedy 
But I hope that you believed in me before the close 
The pages of your life now ripped in two
And me, a child -- too young to understand 
But I know you must have loved me
So now, in my mind on your shallow grave I stand
I have only one memory of you, before your death
Now I canvass my mind it's two 
You arose from your bedroom, into the living room 
Where I had taken a seat on your arm-chair...

Prologue: In The Beginning

"Get your bioluminescent hands off my daughter this instant or so help me I'll shoot you through the heart." She lowered the gun to His chest, just left of the center.    
    "Well, that's you, isn't it, dear? You never could resist a pun," He said, chuckling. He dropped the warm bundle to the cold earth. Some of the quilt unraveled, reveling a pale pink infant. The baby cried, scrunching up her red face and balling her tiny, chubby hands into fists.                 
    The woman grabbed the baby, shooting Him a glare. She still --however-- held the gun, pressed firmly to His chest. "If I did this now, you'd deserve it." 
    He sighed. "If you do, you and I both know it won't be the end."                                                 
    A gun went off. The woman ducked to the ground, setting the baby next to her in an instant, but He remained standing, apparently unfazed. 
    Two...

The Drabble

Crumpled Wings

As I looked out over the azure water, I knew no-one would remember me. Or this moment. My dark wings were crumpled with the weathering of years; my eyes were tired, but open none-the-less. A swallow dived and swooped over the bay. The fallen never last long on this mortal coil. I knew that this was the moment; the moment I would be forgotten, forever lying at the bottom of the ocean. I knew my wings would not hold out, that they would crumple along with me. My heart didn't race, rather slowed. I knew that this was the end. 

Pre-Christmas Profiles

December Profiles of Human Beings

13 years old, female 
She's tucked into a chair with arm-rests, switching intermittently between writing, wasting time by sitting upside-down on the plush red rug, re-reading Shrill by the amazing author Lindy West, behind the cover of her maths book, and actually doing maths. Schist- she was caught on her laptop and had to make up an excuse about thinking of something and needing to write it down. She crunches on the remnants of the mint and caramel lolly she was eating. The Christmas tree beside her glows with fairy-lights, the wind outside picks up a bit, nearly overturning the pomegranate tree. Her legs are tucked up onto the peach-coloured plush of the royal-seeming chair, as they have been for hours. 

15-nearly-16 years old, female 
She's somewhere at school. Back in the place she swore never to go back to, probably in  class or eating. Or maybe she's run away from that pit of horridness...

Letters

The Christmas was somewhat subdued that year in the Reynolds house-old. One eighteen-year-old son having been hidden and claimed dead, the risk his secret being exposed would pose too great to risk going to war. One fifteen-year-old daughter desperately wanting to help properly in the war, but not allowed because she was 1. too young, and 2. too female. Damn those people who make the rules about war. And then, of course, one mother terrified for her eldest son, just twenty-three and missing in war. If William didn't appear in another week, he was surely dead.
    "Florence?" Alex asked warily, looking over at where his younger sister was smashing the tip of her dip-pen into the paper faces of politicians who had done nothing to allow women to fight in the war, one by one.
    "Yes?" Florence's eyebrows were knitted together with the anger and worry of weeks like this, holed up in the small cottage...

My Opinion

Here I am, waiting for the water in the pot on the stove to boil so I can cook two eggs. Usually I would have boiled the jug first, so it would start boiling a lot quicker, but today I don't want to do that. It may or may not have something to do with finding a dead spider suspended in the water of the jug two days ago, hanging there like some strange specimen kept preserved in amber. The jug has since been washed out and used by my family members, and as far as I know none of them have dropped dead. Maybe I'm just over-cautious. 
    So, I'm sitting here trying to write something. Waiting for water to boil. I think I'll write about how societies stereo-types negatively effect most of the population. 
    Now think about this for a minute, has anyone ever told you to not wear something because it wasn't right for...

Me.

A dark-haired girl walks outside the house. Her hair is shoulder-length and a bit frizzy, with a slightly-to-short fringe. Her freckled face looks younger than thirteen, maybe eleven. But she is thirteen. 
    The girl is wearing neon floral leggings, but somehow she pulls it off. Her shirt is a black Pusheen one, maybe to balance the colour. Or maybe it's just because it's the first T-shirt she found after showering to tame those unruly tangled locks. 
    The girl is wearing rainbow socks, a part of the gift from the youth branch of the city-council, which suddenly decided that under fifteen-year-olds weren't allowed and kicked her and a whole bunch of other kids off the committee.
    The girl walks to the car and unlocks it with the clicky thingy, retrieving her pride stickers from Typo. She turns and stops walking for a minute on the way back to the house, watching the noisy minor bird...

Sonnet. 3

I am so very tired of these people 
The ones who tell me they are trying now
They preach and place their hands in a steeple
Saying I am hurting you, oh but how? 
Now I reside in endless fear, unjust!
The sweet cocoon of childhood soon popped 
And they believe me still of them to trust
So yes, after the insults for they shopped
I can't believe a word thee said, darling
Thee pelts me with an endless spray of stones
And leaves me and injured animal snarling
To to kill and fend for myself all alone
    If did not I have other friends I'm lost
    But thee will never know what is the cost

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

The Story Of Me

Never before have I felt so motivated to write. 
I quarantine, I have mostly simply survived how I had to. I would eat chocolate, binge-watch Netflix, and draw and write the kind of things that were okay, but by no means ground-breaking. 
Now, after sitting staring at a blank screen for hours just this-morning, I finally have the idea which will hopefully change my teenage life. 
This strange ambition began a few days ago, at the museum, of all places. Ciara and Mum and I were sitting in the café in Melbourne museum, waiting for our orders to arrive. It was a weekend day, one that should be fun, but wasn't. 
I remember 3 things about that trip to the café: 

  1. ​There was a jet-black pigeon inside. It was so dark, that I thought it's eyes were pure white until it flew down from it's perch to rest on the ground near me and I could see it properly. To...

A Poem For All The Small Towns

A small town, not the heart of a city
But the heart of the world for a child
Lakes of cobalt and and trees so pretty
In the south of New Zealand where the weather is mild 

Underneath lie the secrets, yet to be told
Where we only see the surface of the dam 
For some being young, for some growing old 
Or just buying coffee is the plan

Then we will return 
To the hearts of big cities 
Where university students learn 
Of things in midsummer pretty 

Now we all wonder, of things we don't know
Where the heart of the world beats slowly 
Near a coffee shop and the place where post goes 
And even the criminals aren't lowly 

But past the car drives 
In the blink of an eye
The mountains it climbs 
And forgets what is wise

For children, in it's heart
A bump in the road is a mountain 
The distance keeping apart 
The world...

Tasmania

In Tasmania the bluest water 
The waves crash over hidden sandy shores
The ferry our silent giant porter
On the island for Hobart we're on course
To be there before the day turns over
So night is a mere gift to be received 
Driving past patches of grass and clover
Upon arrival we are so relieved 
The house a cool oasis from the day
A basement sort of part of the ground floor 
So now away from the arrival bay
We soon will leave for a year out that door
    Tasmania the home of friends of ours 
    Under the sky and the ivory clouds 

Icy Honey Eyes

I met a young boy on lonely row 
He and I were certain to be some friends
But what he truly was I did not know
I said thee soon will meet both of our ends
One day did I and he fight for a while
Thee hates me for something I am said I
He's stunned and turns my frown into a smile
Trust not not those who meddle is what is wise 
If thee trusts any man who walks a path
Thee must for sure know this is not so wise
But he and I did not, so walk our path
And don't deceive just look me in the eyes
    If thee believes those who so quickly lie 
    Be warned, my friend, of icy honey eyes

Sonnet. 1

When people are desperate they will kill 
Whether friends or enemies matters not
They will shoot them down with sufficient skill 
And leave them in the shrubs to die and rot 
We turn a blind eye for a longtime friend
And what they do can matter so little 
For if we turn our heads we'll meet our end 
And our great friendship will die and whittle
The branches of this friendship soon will die
This driftwood will be gone to green seas 
​And all we've been living shall be a lie
And all they've done is hurt and trackdown me
And whether friend or enemy they be
We'll die and be reborn from greener trees
 

Writing

Being an author isn't always about book signings and publications.
It's writing a chapter-plan at 12 o'clock at night whilst sitting in bed. 
It's your eyes being tired from staring at the lamplit page of your typo notebook.
It's you hand being so used to scrawling down notes that it's almost as easy as touch-typing.
I said almost.
And then it's noticing that the first letter of each line has got further and further out down the page as it did when you were little. 
It's already regretting the decision to write this now because you'll be tired at scouts tomorrow. 
It's your diet coke pen bein heavy in you hand.
It's not being able to get to sleep when you actually ty and wondering if it's the actual diet coke you drunk earlier. 
Was that today?
It's then remembering that coke has never stopped you sleeping before. 
It's realizing you only tried to sleep for to seconds before giving...

Excerpt From My Novel (Warning: Slight spoiler, so if you're ever going to by this when it's eventually published, BE WARNED)

The figure in a black cloak scoped the area. They knew the old abandoned barn would light like a candle once they put a match to it.

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

The Story Of Me

Never before have I felt so motivated to write. 
I quarantine, I have mostly simply survived how I had to. I would eat chocolate, binge-watch Netflix, and draw and write the kind of things that were okay, but by no means ground-breaking. 
Now, after sitting staring at a blank screen for hours just this-morning, I finally have the idea which will hopefully change my teenage life. 
This strange ambition began a few days ago, at the museum, of all places. Ciara and Mum and I were sitting in the café in Melbourne museum, waiting for our orders to arrive. It was a weekend day, one that should be fun, but wasn't. 
I remember 3 things about that trip to the café: 

  1. ​There was a jet-black pigeon inside. It was so dark, that I thought it's eyes were pure white until it flew down from it's perch to rest on the ground near me and I could see it properly. To...

Creative Nonfiction Competition 2020

The Story Of Me

Never before have I felt so motivated to write. 
I quarantine, I have mostly simply survived how I had to. I would eat chocolate, binge-watch Netflix, and draw and write the kind of things that were okay, but by no means ground-breaking. 
Now, after sitting staring at a blank screen for hours just this-morning, I finally have the idea which will hopefully change my teenage life. 
This strange ambition began a few days ago, at the museum, of all places. Ciara and Mum and I were sitting in the café in Melbourne museum, waiting for our orders to arrive. It was a weekend day, one that should be fun, but wasn't. 
I remember 3 things about that trip to the café: 

  1. ​There was a jet-black pigeon inside. It was so dark, that I thought it's eyes were pure white until it flew down from it's perch to rest on the ground near me and I could see it properly. To...

Pandemic Memoir

Wishing stuff.

Wishing. Hoping. If'nly. ICould. Write. Novels.

December Grab Bag

Time Travelers (read footnotes (after you read it though))

Write about a character’s first day of work at an unusual job.

I guess I'm writing my own prompt now because no-one else has done it yet. 

Wed 2/12/2020
Today I finally learnt something I have been dying to learn for six and a half years. It's not every day you get an opportunity to be a time-traveler and find out what strange thing disrupted time and space in 2020. Especially if that means traveling 208 (according to my calculations?) years in the future. 
The time travelers arrived at our house in Bath, telling me I was the best person for the job of working out what the hell kind of thing happened in 2020. Cassandra was a little dubious about the whole thing, but I'm home safe and sound now, so it's okay. 
I had to be taught to write like a person from 2020, not from when I'm from. It took a while to learn, but we had...

December Grab Bag

Time Travelers (read footnotes (after you read it though))

Write about a character’s first day of work at an unusual job.

I guess I'm writing my own prompt now because no-one else has done it yet. 

Wed 2/12/2020
Today I finally learnt something I have been dying to learn for six and a half years. It's not every day you get an opportunity to be a time-traveler and find out what strange thing disrupted time and space in 2020. Especially if that means traveling 2008 (according to my calculations?) years in the future. 
The time travelers arrived at our house in Bath, telling me I was the best person for the job of working out what the hell kind of thing happened in 2020. Cassandra was a little dubious about the whole thing, but I'm home safe and sound now, so it's okay. 
I had to be taught to write like a person from 2020, not from when I'm from. It took a while to learn, but we had...

Amanda-Rose At Alpine Lodge: Prologue

Agnes Carpenter dreamed of oranges. But as the dream progressed, the oranges turned into toasted marshmallows, which then turned into an inferno.                                                              
    The old woman awoke, sitting bolt upright in the hotel bed. Agnes’ thoughts turned to her grandsons -and if she would ever see them again- as she became aware of the gravity of this situation.                                                             
    Smoke was seeping under the locked door of the room. A few flames had begun to lick at the ornate rug that spanned the wooden floor. It was late afternoon, just hours after Agnes had arrived at Alpine Lodge.                                     
    “This is not how I die,” the wizened woman muttered, tucking a strand of wiry...

My Dearest Indigo

My dearest Indigo, 
I hope this letter finds you well, and that your husband is treating you so. 
Here in London, things are not going as one would hope. Do not worry too much over it however, as I have most of the rabbits in the house under control. 
This is an apology, for all the things I said. I did not mean them, they were whirled out of my mouth without desire, as anger took over me. I hope that you can forgive me, and we can possibly one day be what we were before. 
In my haste, I left my quills and ink in Edenborough with you. You can keep them, as a reminder of what an ungrateful and manipulative person I was to you, and that I am truly sorry. 
Yours, 

Amber Cullivan 

As I turn the letter over in my hands, wondering if this time she's really changed, as strong gust of wind shakes the shutters. Maybe...

Dreams

In every child's mind there is something connecting them to dreams. In children the world over, this phenomenon is present and correct, dying out only as humans reach adolescence. And then there are the missing children, the ones who choose following that dream element over their own lives. The children who fade away into fog, or follow the butterflies over the mountain valley and into something beyond - what, no-one knows. 
    I was once one of those children. Living and loving, but free as the currents that carry tumble-glass across the ocean. I was Indigo Reynolds. 
    The dream element is indescribable, something only children can really see. It pulls at their hearts, manipulating their wish to be a part of something, showing them that the ocean is unfathomable, and that death and life are as mingled at the sand on the sea-floor and the salt-water that sooths their raging spirits. 
    Sometimes, when special things...

What I Wrote In Writers' Group

Welcome to the wild playground, where we tame bulls, and drink the juice of wild cacti. The wind blows sand in my eyes, Mia's coarse hair is tousled. 
    "Howdy, podners. In these wild parts of the playground, we roam the west and tame wild horses," Mia pushes me into the sand, rolling her eyes, the colour of a black-bird's wing. 
    "All I said was that the crows are not the same shape as bulls!" I retort. 
    We tame the wild ravens, chase rabbits over the hill as the sun sets. Mia's skin turns bronze in the setting sun, a chill passing through us as day turns to night. 
    The monkey-puzzles on the edge of the park jostle together in the breeze. 
    And so, that night, we walk over the hill in the wild-west playground. And never come back.
 

Assorted Poems

I once knew a girl from Christchurch 
She owned lots of Baby Yoda merch 
She was a great skater; the master of ice
And did circus and sat on a perch

I once new a boy from Hobart 
He was very terrible at art 
He'd never heard of et tu
Making Shakespeare blue
And a kayak he would cart 

I met a girl named Aislinn 
She did lots of art and would grin 
Ash obsessed over dragons
And owned all of four cats 
And mean people she would take it on the chin

 

The Bench

The bench has been there for all of six years, but it's story is rich and fascinating. We'll begin with the tale of how Oskar Milford once lost something very important. It all started when Oskar was in his faze of trying to be a cool person, like the ones in books. This was the first year that the bench was there, you see, and Oskar was the first to sit on it. 
    "Ugh, it must be here somewhere!" Oskar's friend Emily cried. When the pair had gone to sit at the bench, Oskar had been walking ahead, taking a seat before anyone else in the world. 
    "Maybe someone stole it . . ." Oskar was ever the dramatic child, he would come up with some ludicrous idea, the sensible presence of Emily would revise it, then they would do whatever it was that Oskar schemed. 
    "Okay," Emily began matter-of-factly. "No-one wants to...

The Calm Before The Storm

The heat of the Australian sun beats down on my back, though the clouds are dark and stormy. It's that summer-storm kind of whether, where the sky looks like the underworld, and the heat is almost unbearable. It's my favorite kind of whether. 
    "Taylor!" Mary's voice is swept to me on the wind, from her perch on the hay-bale on the other side of Oreo's paddock. "C'mere, Tays." 
     I turn to face her. Her curly black hair is a tangled mess from the strong wind, as I imagine mine must be. "What are you doing?" she asks me, jumping off the hay. 
    I smile, rubbing dust from my eyes. "I'm going to see if it's still there." Mary nods, understanding my meaning. 
    "Okay, can I come with you?"
    I take a deep breath, breathing in the heat and smell of an impending storm. "Yeah, okay."
    Running across the...

The Calm Before The Storm

The heat of the Australian sun beats down on my back, though the clouds are dark and stormy. It's that summer-storm kind of whether, where the sky looks like the underworld, and the heat is almost unbearable. It's my favorite kind of whether. 
    "Taylor!" Mary's voice is swept to me on the wind, from her perch on the hay-bale on the other side of Oreo's paddock. "C'mere, Tays." 
     I turn to face her. Her curly black hair is a tangled mess from the strong wind, as I imagine mine must be. "What are you doing?" she asks me, jumping off the hay. 
    I smile, rubbing dust from my eyes. "I'm going to see if it's still there." Mary nods, understanding my meaning. 
    "Okay, can I come with you?"
    I take a deep breath, breathing in the heat and smell of an impending storm. "Yeah, okay."
    Running across the...

The Cave

Walking into the chamber my heart races like I've just finished running a marathon, though I'm walking quite slowly; as you would in the face of inevitable death. But this is the only way to save Angelica.
    The air smells old, and strangely enough, like . . . cherries? Yes, the sweet smell of red cherries. It's strange, being in an underground cave, walking into a chamber with oak doors, and then smelling cherries. 
    I continue deeper into the chamber. It's walls are covered in human teeth. Some are fractured, some perfect white corn kernels, definitely from children. 
    I take a shaky breath as I near the end of this corridor, towards what can only be the stuff of legends. But, if truly no-one ever survives the queen's wrath, where do the legends come from? I must be foolish to consider the possibility of survival as plausible, or maybe I'm just deluded from hunger...

November Grab Bag

Watching

The undeniable truth around the paths 
The ones that eucalyptus takes over
The purplish silver of shadows duly cast 
On the ground the lovely dandelions and clover

And from the shadows, untamed ravens watch 
Their eyes as dark as night and ruined minds
And the eucalyptus flowers, a scarlet splotch 
But little of this southern desert truly defines
The creatures lurking in our stolen minds

From the long grass a serpent watches
It's glistening eyes are never blinking 
The sandy earth is owned by little crosses
In the muddy swamp a branch is slowly sinking

The beauty of the stolen lands and grasses
The golden light on the trees and in the sky
And when the sun sinks over the earth into Apollo's casket
All mortals and ravens know is a world of lies
And all the crawling mortals hate for us we despise 

Now the lonely night is sinking slow and deep
The ravens are cawing their woeful song  ...

You

My words won't stop when I'm around you
Roses; how to grow geraniums; dead bodies; 
I just don't stop talking
But now, as I sit alone
I stop talking and hear my words 
Tumble out
And I realize that you make me happier than anyone
In the world
But you'll never know
So I sit here, with you
As we talk about pressed flowers
And make jokes
And you look at me for just a second
With your olive-green eyes
And we both smile
And I keep talking
Because around you my mind goes twice the speed
And when our hands brush my heart goes twice the speed
And everyone else around doesn't matter
And the people I fight with don't matter
Because I might slightly love you

-Your not-so-secret-admirer 

Raphael and Maya

Raphael screamed with all his heart. It felt like choking, unable to breath, yet unable to stop the flow of screams. He knew she was gone, the girl he had given all his love to, and more than that, he knew it was all her fault. The way she'd smiled the first time they had met, Raphael, is it? We will be great friends, I think. Now, she was gone. She hadn't even looked back as she stormed out into the rain, away from Stormdale, away from Raphael. The girl had been right, they had been great friends. But at what cost? Raphael's breath was short, his amber eyes were red from crying. He felt helpless, he would surely die here, alone by the river. He tried not to scream, to hold it in so people wouldn't find him. He gulped, his chest felt broken, his throat was sore from crying. It hurt more than anything else, that the girl...

The Strange Wants Of Us

I feel it a strange pleasure; the want to meet with someone who disagrees with your existence. And yet I so keenly seek out the cruelty, for perhaps it does make our pain feel more valid.

On Track To France

Eighteen-year-old January Humphries was sick of life in St Mewump. It was a nice village, the people were friendly, the old stone walls and sprawling fields were charming. But there was something about it that bored her half to death, it wasn't something about St Mewump exactly, but it was something that wasn't there. January longed for distant coastlines and dark allies. She wanted to know of the world outside, of the big cities and of the towns at the bases of mountains. The German had a word for it, fernweh, unlike the people of St Mewump. St Mewumpians were the picture of English small-town stereo-types. They liked to stay put. Travel was simply never on the agenda for St Mewumpians. In January's opinion, they just liked sitting around eating sponge-cake and drinking tea.
    "Good mornin' Miss Humphries," the postman Gregory Thatch said, tipping his flat cap at her as he sped past on his bicycle. Gregory Thatch...

QUOTES OF MINE

"Seeking validation does not make you a selfish showoff - it makes you human."

My Quotes

"I forgot I had a life other than seeing people at co-op and wishing I could play the saxophone"
    
   - Me, a few minutes ago

Back Then

I miss the days when we could see each-other. I miss our friendly debated conversations on the intricacies of Percy Jackson. I miss the way we would make leaf piles in the autumn, and how we would sit on the bench. The bench was always a place of great amusement for us, how we could simply sit there talking about the most interesting things, and we would while away hours. The bench had a surprise, something that -the first time we ventured onto it's quite-possibly-rotting wood- was rather shocking. The fact that the bench wobbles back and forth then became rather amusing, and something we would make the best of, even making it an honorary roller-coaster. And I miss the way you would run to greet me when I arrived at the hall, how you would squeal my name, as if the mere fact that I had arrived there at all was something surprising. I would sit down, and you...

My Epic Monologue

How we mortals toy with our peers; to be loved by someone can only be the best of all the unattainable, but if one should hate another and they're feeling not mutual . . . the best one can hope for is to forgive. But when one, such as I, cannot forgive, what now? you may ask. You must cut the strings attaching you, you must break the barrier and admit that it will never be enough to be cared about, that someone must truly care about how you feel in order to love you. When the mortals of hate refuse to forgive, despite what they may preach, you must leave them. Bored a ship and sail to a far-off land, or simply cut the out, refuse contact, until they understand the gravity of this. When all these civilians do is tell you change yourself you must leave at dawn. But what if they refuse to leave you? you may...

Her Smirks

I still remember the smile in her voice 
I can recall her twisted tone 
Her jibes and teases, corrupt ploys 
A moral path of cobblestone
When she said the breaking thing 
The straw with I the camel 
She only intended on following 
Those to whom I don't hold a candle 
She believed herself righteous
That was in the wrong 
And as she want to guide us 
We have to follow along 
I still remember how she paused 
The longest silence still 
And for her hate - others applaud 
And my confidence she kill 
If I must show respect and grace 
For this religion she bears 
How come she smirks at my person's face? 
That I do hold so dear 
How come she smiles while calling me? 
The words of hatred past 
And still she jibes, lest I be free 
So this "religion" lasts 
If these she claims "are just beliefs" 
Then I do earn some to 
And...

Haiku (and review for review)

On our street's a dog 
He barks in perfect haikus 
He is Haiku Dog 

Why Do You Even Abject?

This is about pride or something. 
I have a desperate question; why would people abject to who someone loves? I also have an answer to a different question, "Why shouldn't they abject if it's just their beliefs?" Well, The answer is simple. 1. There are so many studies that show that people's sexuality is ingrained from birth. 2. It's none of your business who someone does, or doesn't love. And 3. If you don't want me to disrespect you for your hair colour, or how tall you are, then don't disrespect me for who I love. And still, you'd be annoyed if I constantly said I didn't like your religion, or said your Email address offended me because it mentioned it. It's no different - actually, it is. Because religion is more of a choice than sexuality. So this is why I don't like it when people say "Just don't mention it around me - because I don't like...

Be-You Can't Say that -Nt

Bent 
    Just a four letter word 
B
    E
        N
            T
But with so much hurt 
    Kept in a single word 
        And when you use it 
I can't 
    Help but
        Be torn 
Apart 
        The meaning 
            Eccentric
        Broken  
You 
Can't use 
                It 
                    It's not 
                            Okay for 
                                You to say
If I said 
    Anything 
    About how you are 
        Or what you believe 
You would 
    Be 
        Furious 
            You would 
                Hate me
But you 
Don't care 
        When 
            You use 
                    It for 
Me. 

You Tear Me Down

You break me to pieces 
    When you make promises 
    You can't keep to 
            And you tear me down 
    I'm bent 
Broken 
You can't do this anymore 
    You use your so-called "beliefs" 
        Against your own kind 
But I'm not 
    Am I?
        I'm not what you believe 
            I'm the "wrong kind" 
    And yet 
             Still you 
                Claim to be
                    My best friend 
    And yet
            Still you 
                Tear me down 
        Down to the red 
Australian 
Dirt 

Inventory

Olivia-Jess Wilson, 14, Invercargill

  1. A book titled Shakespeare's Sonnets and Other Poems
  2. Two tee-shirts 
  3. Overalls 
  4. Suspenders 
  5. Woolen trousers 
  6. A toothbrush and toothpaste 
  7. On the Origin of the Species by Charles Darwin 
  8. A book about tracing Scottish ancestry 
  9. A packet of boiled sweets 
  10. A gloss-printed photo, showing a small girl with brown hair holding a stuffed toy bunny, next to an elderly man with snow-white hair and scars on his face and a young couple, one with brown hair the other with ginger. The photo is taken in-front of a convenience store with a willow tree in the background. There is also a small rip in the right side of the photo, at the edge of the elderly man's overalls. 

The Problem With Some

The problem, I think 
Is that some people . . . 
Not everyone 
Put the cross before the steeple 
When they say they are just opinions 
That they choose to share with all 
They really don't understand 
That we're not opinions 
And just think we should take the fall 
They don't understand this; 
We've always been this way
We don't just make it our everything 
We choose to let it stay
And when they put the wrong things first 
We will all topple over 
Because we don't just "go on about it all the time"
Because that we're not allowed to makes it sombre 
Because if one goes on about their religion 
How is it any different?
The fact we aren't allowed to 
Just shows 
They are the ones who are belligerent 

The Religion

The day that brought the end 
Hard as I try, I cannot mend 
The words that started a lie 
And to sleep I will cry 
Her twisted tongues of poison 
Must not repent "for religion" 
And as she says "her preferences" 
Ignore, lest thy see my references 
The way her eyes glance down 
As she would have what I really think drown 
The way she she denies me peace 
Yet her religion still released 
Her thoughts must triumph - over all 
Over this greatness, must we brawl 
And as she is still the better 
Yet I change a single letter 
A Y for an I 
Surely shan't miss thy 
Yet still she feigns surprise  
Shall not she meet my eyes 
"Change you name or I shan't speak"
If I must change so much, 'tis bleak 
For if I change who I was born 
My very self 'tis all forlorn 
Religion is not fixt 
But of relent and anger...

The Beginning of September

My world is frozen 
In an eternal winter
My angels dozing 
My friendships splintered 

When those I thought 
Could be trusted with life 
Now conversing fraught 
Their fickle words start strife 

These people of land 
These demons of night 
Our uttered words planned
I banish torn fright 

Now forlorn do I whimper 
In betrayal of trust 
Their smiles only were simpers 
Now our bond covered in rust 

Her words I remember 
But how she would try 
To say my beginning to September 
Would be naught but a lie 

Her twisted tongue
Her words meant to play 
For church-bells rung 
At the end of the day . . . 

Her word I still remember 
Though doubtful she be
As the beginning of September 
'Twas beginning the end of me

When she said what she thought 
Like it wouldn't lose a life 
Her words cut though air fraught 
A rusted, sharpened, knife 

So in tartan skirts I morn 
For what I thought...

We Miss You, Sport!

Borderline-Sporty

By this point I've made extremely hurtful arguments with my closest friends into a sport. 
    I will start by telling you this; I don/'t follow sports. It's just not my thing. I don't watch rugby, I'm not tuned in to the Tour De France, watching it between lecturing my geology students, the way my dad is. And I don't know the names of all the best tennis players in the world. But I do enjoy sports. 
    When I was six or seven I played netball. I remember going to the club-rooms after playing a game of it, getting sweets and a whole large can of Fanta -which was a rare thing for a young child-, and spending a voucher for subway -that I'd earned for being the hardest trier in one of my lessons- afterwards. We never went to Subway when I was a little kid, so it was a special occasion to spend one of...

“Heaven of Freedom”

The Bitter Truth

Hiding from something; 
When those I trust turn against me; 
A feeling of pulling; 
Pulling me away from their "beliefs

When the world I know is ending; 
My friends berated me for being;
The elephant in the room impending; 
And leaving this behind is too freeing

They use their wretched lies; 
They claim that I overstep;
To lead to our friendship's demise; 
For useless arguments they prep 
 
And the worst of it; 
These are people I trusted; 
Ruthless punishment they permit; 
Our friendship broken and rusted

Repaired, unlikely will we be; 
Now I know their truth; 
They use their lies to punish me;
Now wallow I, in despair and ruth 

For when you know a person really; 
The end can be only all too dreary 

This is an attempt at a historical Lesbian love letter. I don't even know where to start with this kind of thing.

Dearest Emily, 
                I saw you in the rain, as you ran from a misty memory. We may be forgotten, but will be remembered as one; the suffragettes. Emily, I ponder on your query but am yet to come upon a fitting answer, 'tis pity that we both are expected to succumb as we wives and young ladies should. I have yet to marry the duke, but on the day to come when it must be; I will only be thinking of you. Please, oh - sweet Emily, I morn that the summer of our love is long passed now. Otherwhiles I contemplate on running, but where to? Where to run when none seem to hold the key to somewhere we can be? Where to run when running is doubtful, and at best shall leave you banishing thoughts of those you seek to abandon?
            Until another day, month or year, 
            Jane 

It's Going To The Red Planet . . . Hopefully

I watch the launch for a rocket 
Four minutes till launch 
The white smoke comes from the rocket 
People talk, saying about all the safety checks 
My parents talk about how the helicopter is folded up
Only three minutes till launch 
Will the bits come back for use, my Mum asks
Two minutes till launch 
The countdown is beginning 
It is light where the launch is, but where I am it's dark
Not long now
One minute till launch 
Imagine if it go's rouge, my parents say
Status check 
The proper countdown 
Liftoff 
The cloud is massive
It's going to the red planet 
Hopefully 

A Foreign Species

When I'm among Australian school kids, I am like a foreign species.
I, the artsy one.
I, the one who's never been to school.
I, the one who lived through the trembling earth, and learned about stories of it being a dragon. 
I, am a foreigner. 
The questions and comments flow like quicksand; Do you have any friends? What's New Zealand like? But how do you socialize? You're so good, I can't even draw a stick figure. So, you just do whatever you want all day? And on one occasion, I'm not sure where they got this idea, Do you have a pool, and just hang out in it all day?
But not everything they say is good; countless times, I've had people, old and young, ask how I have friends, or what it's like staying at home all the time. 
Being a Kiwi, homeschooled, artist, with Irish ancestors, is something that spurs on millions of questions from adults and...

White Noise Of Criticism

Sometimes people want to much of me
The names and faces, swirling, telling me to do better
Sometimes the white noise of all the criticism, telling me what to do better, rather than seeing how far I've come, is excruciating. 
Sometimes they don't notice how I've grown, the only notice my mistakes 
The words of what I need to change, swirling in a hurricane of hate
Oh, how I need the praise, how I wish it would equal all the tellings off 
It's not that good - that doesn't make sense - your hair is to messy - your not old enough - you need to improve on that- 
They don't notice that I'm trying 
Everyone is trying 
And so many people just criticize us
All the people
If they can draw, the are doing better than they used to 
If they can sing, they know the words 
If the can read a children's book, but don't want to read ...

The hollow tree

Three little girls
Younger than ten
With chocolate brown curls
Went camping, and then
They played on the swings 
And they saw all the sights 
For children have wings 
Childish delights 

These little girls 
Went fairy watching 
Notes written on stones 
They played with mood rings 
One day the oldest 
Of somewhere near eight 
The absolute boldest 
Left out fairy bait 

The children, they waited 
But they couldn't watch 
They had to return to their tents 
And the fairies came out 
Regards were sent 
From the fairies at hand 
For the very next morning 
When they went to check the tree
The new day was dawning 
Girls excited were three

Where before was a biscuit
Now there were none 
The fairies had taken it
The experiment done  
And the hollow in the tree 
Was still a mystery 
It would remain so forever 
To those girls three
And back they went never 
To that hollow tree

The Moralistic Grim Reaper

An ancient world, we still hold tight to it's ties
People - they praise the ancient ways
And they try, not to let it ebb and flow with time
But to meld the torture of the past into our very being
At last, some of these ancient constitutions lay to rest
Yet still, they block their eyes from seeing 
Some say the best we can do is try our best
But to others that's an excuse for being nettlesome 

Hateful, horrendous, smothering words
Their meaning embedded in the killings of the past
These are not just words as some have said 
This combination of letters; still, it's torture lasts 
They use things with meaning 
But change all that it is faithful to
And these ones sit on their laurels preening 
Saying they only only want to help you

Everything that is said and done
Without looking deeper 
They ensnare innocents in guilt 
The moralistic grim reaper 
Drowning people in honey  ...

Rebel Against Those Who Fancy Themselves Kings

How I yearn for things, the past it holds them
Sappho's life, it appeals to me
The island of Lesbos; how it could control them
The ones, the unbelievers; we'd be free
One cannot stop the love of Aphrodite 
We should accept it, rather than those who try
They try to reverse it, this becomes a burden 
Under our silent, southern sky

Aphrodite makes our choices for us
We, the mortals, we have no control 
But some, those fools try to reverse it
Mortals should know; we cannot change our roles 
Some - those fools - they abhor
They understand not that we lack a choice
They understand not that we wouldn't change
Those fools; at this they coil 
So, as society tries to change
Some, to change us they still toil

Aphrodite to me makes her appearance
She whispers, to the mind inside my soul
Her words; they draw me near
Rebel against those, who fancy themselves kings 
With...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

Read, Read, Write

Dear a child who loves reading,
Reading is a way of life, it is an escape route when things are too hard to bear. The fact that you love reading is a great thing, it is handy to always have a good book at hand.
I hope that one day you will pack a book into your backpack, and that the name on the cover will be mine. I hope to inspire people like you.
How has your life been recently? I hope you have plenty of reading material right now - so you can travel to Antarctica on a scientific research boat, or you can join a society of rebel poets, or you can fly a plane to the Amazon to save endangered animals from smugglers. 
Whatever you are doing right now, I hope to inspire you, to be the amazing author that you look up to. Like so many others were for me. One day, books in the...

Who Would Read This?

Who would read this?           
Who would read a romance set in part of rural Invercargill in New Zealand? Who would read a story about to kids who fall in love after one moves to the town where the other already lives? Would you read a book where one of the character's parents own the town general store? Would you read a romance, where the characters meet in secret in the hidden courtyard behind the dairy where grass grows through the gravel? Would you read this teenage romance? 
Comment any ideas you have for the story.

Dear Young Readers

Dear a child who loves reading,
Reading is a way of life, it is an escape route when things are too hard to bear. The fact that you love reading is a great thing, it is handy to always have a good book at hand.
I hope that one day you will pack a book into your backpack, and that the name on the cover will be mine. I hope to inspire people like you.
How has your life been recently? I hope you have plenty of reading material right now - so you can travel to Antarctica on a scientific research boat, or you can join a society of rebel poets, or you can fly a plain to the Amazon to save endangered animals from smugglers. 
Whatever you are doing right now, I hope to inspire you, to be the amazing author that you look up to. Like so many others were for me. One day, books in the...

The Haunting Of Cole's Bay Beach #Varmebolger

One time in Tasmania 
We were hanging around our camp
When someone spotted something 
And we went to get a lamp

From out of the tent we came
Clad in cloths but nil shoes 
But whatever they saw did not remain
So here we were alone

Flashing torches was the claim
Of what was seen that night 
But who were we to blame
If we ran away in fright 

In the kitchen we were to make popcorn 
To calm our raging nerves 
But it felt like a murder mystery 
So from the window we observed 

At least the others; they observed 
My back was to the window 
Then they all screamed 
And I expected, a hunter with a bow

Upon when I turned I did not scream
For they were all too jittery 
Once we were calmed down 
It turned out to be
A camper, with a torch 

From earlier that evening 
The others, they were terrified 
Thomas claimed that...

So Irish

Driving down narrow
Country lanes in Ireland 
So tiny, many are harrowed 
In the fading dusk
It feels like home, but shoots one arrow 
At my already saddened heart 

Mostly I feel joy
As down dusk-bathed lanes we drive
The rabbits act coy
As we approach our destination 
This place is so exciting, my sadness is destroyed 

Everything is so Irish 
It makes many of us grin 
But the long drive leaves us peckish
So we let ourselves in

Everything is so Irish
It brings great happiness 
Everything is so Irish
All melancholy is dismissed  

Excitement is in the air
In this little cottage in for a week we live
Outside somewhere is a foxes lair
Everything is so Irish
Like home; not where we live

The Morning Time

A wheelbarrow full of weeds, every day the peach blossom buds grow more obvious. In the morning the only sound is the creaking of the old house and the ticking of the clock, the occasional bark of a dog from somewhere in the distance. I can smell the lavender in my shirt pocket, that I picked yesterday, it's smell is both sweet and bitter, but in a nice sharp way. Under my feet the rug is soft, nothing like the pain of walking around all of yesterday in boots. Birds chirp and tweet outside, quiet, but in the morning that is enough. As I go to let Tilly outdoors, so she can roam her garden with pleasure- sniffing around the Irises to make sure no-one has done anything to them- I feel the crisp morning ear, cold enough that it feels thick, in the way fog does, not like normal, warm air. The plants in the garden are nothing less...

The Morning Time

A wheelbarrow full of weeds, every day the peach blossom buds grow more obvious. In the morning the only sound is the creaking of the old house and the ticking of the clock, the occasional bark of a dog from somewhere in the distance. I can smell the lavender in my shirt pocket, that I picked yesterday, it's smell is both sweet and bitter, but in a nice sharp way. Under my feet the rug is soft, nothing like the pain of walking around all day in boots. Birds chirp and tweet outside, quiet, but in the morning that is enough. As I go to let Tilly outdoors, so she can roam her garden with pleasure, I feel the crisp morning ear, cold enough that it feels thick, in the way fog does, not like normal, warm air. The plants in the garden are nothing less of beautiful, as the fluffy morning clouds skim over, unsure if they want to...

Winter Garden

Spider-webs stretch across the window, long free of any actual spiders. The frosty garden framed by cobwebs in the morning winter sun. A dove walks, or more . . . dances across the lawn, it's feathers puffed up, like the ruffled neck of a middle-ages gentleman's clothes, trying to keep warm in the cold. She coos to no-one in particular, waddling past the parsley. The peach-tree's bare branches are wintry and chilling, but the thought of it's soon-to-be blossoms is enough to make anyone adore it, besides; it is rather beautiful. The little cubby-house with it's wooden paneling and iron lion-head-knocker on the door, has not been used in quite a while - for fear of spiders you see. But it looks as if it belongs there, like an abandoned house on a property that would be quite lost without it. Rosemary grows to the height of a child, it's pot very much not controling it's size.

The Morning Frost

I just saw frost on the ground for the first time in four years. Like all short, sweet things; the frost will be gone by eleven o'clock. It having successfully toyed with, and chilled the grass, it will disappear into the growing sunshine. 

A Dark Past

Bats screeching in the trees 
Children running through the gardens 
A perfect mansion, aimed to please

We walk under trees 
With massive pine-cones 
Little children, about lake-monsters we teaze  

I love the way the gardens feel
Despite it's past
It's beauty's real

But underneath 
Is something dark
A sword is sheathed 

And in the past
There was torture 
This history lasts

There was hate 
Beyond repair 
People enslaved 

I hate that this history 
Even exists 
They claimed it was victory 

But it's still a garden
Where beauty does grow
Though my thoughts harden

So even though this was a crime
They were hateful and cruel 
We have to except it; things will change this time

Death

Death smells of bathroom candles. She glides toward me, whispering to me, calling my name. Her sent is fresh, but not in a nice way, like a combination of fabric softener and sink cleaner. There is a buzz, it hurts your form, more of a vibration than a sound, like that of an old car, the kind that makes your body shake. Death's face is pale, her eyes are beautiful lavender-blue, her nose tilts up, but is slim. She approaches, her jaw set and her eyes wide in an unnerving way. 
    "Say goodbye to your loved ones. You are coming with me now," Death says, in a ghostly voice. Her voice is floaty; soft edged and childlike. 
    As Death approaches me, June jumps forward. 
    "No! Take me instead!" She stands in-front of me, not budging despite Deaths advances. She seems so much more solid than Death, so much more human. 
    "If you...

Why We Need Pride #Proud

Pride. This word has been seen as the good, the bad, and the ugly for so long. Now it's time to take back our pride. People in the LGBT+ community have been hurt or even killed for it, so many people have died for it; it's time we started living for it. I have only once experienced first hand homophobia, it was from someone I thought was my friend. Lets call the person Jane. Jane was a friend of ours, my sister wanted to show her some fan-art that she did of a Harry Potter ship, because they were both hard-core Potter-heads. The fan-art was of a gay ship, my sister showed it to Jane, and she said; 'we don't approve of that sort of thing'. It was barely anything, just a rejection of one drawing, but it was because the drawing featured an LGBT+ couple, and to me that felt like a stab in the heart. To make...

Daisy-Chains And Dead Roses #Dramatize

People pass me without a glance, not seeing a little girl standing under the willow tree. I have came here every day for a year, and not once has a person payed the slightest bit of attention to me. They walk past every day, and I sit here mourning the loss of my best friend, making daisy-chains to lay on her grave. Only eleven, and I no-longer have anyone to turn to. My days are spent singing and thinking of her, of the girl who was taken too young, only ten. Death is a bitter, bitter visitor; She comes, bringing her sickly sweet perfume of dead roses and slightly-over-ripe mandarins, and she takes everything I hold most dear. So here I sit, singing to the dead girl, who's life was taken by Death, and feeling the regretable sting of guilt that she didn't take me instead.

Revenge #Dramatize

Fifteen years. Fifteen long, lonely years I awaited you. And now . . . as you stand before me, you quiver my young Robin. You quiver in fear of what lays ahead, in fear of me! Step forward, my child. How I have grown in these past fifteen years, how I have improved. But even before I became what I am today . . . I had the ambition to do great things, or terrible things if I was guided wrong. But now I know that these things; the ones which I intend to do, once I have power over the ones who once controlled me, are not so terrible after all, for after all; the end justifies the means. And so, as you quiver before me - you remind myself of me when all of this began. I was simply a vengeful child in the beginning, but now . . . as the climax of this battle nears; I...

We Don't Owe Anyone Our Hearts

Darling, darling; we aren't grown-up yet
Flirting, itis not a marriage proposal; it is a game
We donot have to be in love, for feelings to exist 
So even if thy doesn't, to flirt I shall persist 
Oh to be young, to try to love, to fail
Oh to tell something sweet; not a sorry tail 
The stories of the past - so gruesome and grim 
Who would really be Juliet? And die onstage as the lights dim
We can enjoy something, thatis not a tragedy
We can see what love is, something between true love and apathy
    So remember we're young, we don't have to be torn apart 
    We can still like each-other; we don't owe anyone our hearts 

Darling, Darling

Oh the sting of love unrequited; the sting thy left me feeling
When thine flaxen hair is tousled, only slightly from the breeze 
Oh darling, darling; such a term of endearment
The way when thy laughs, thine laugh is filled with ease 
Thy doest not hath't to be any-ones queen, but how I'd love if thy'd love me
So love me darling, sooth my racing heart by saying; yes I'll be your queen
And once thine queen-ship is complete; marry me and say my sweet 
    Thy is the most beautiful, thy's absolute; and though beauty isn't everything,
    Thy's rich with it; inside and out, not the kind from a tomb which one can loot

One Dead

One dead; some still alive
One lost; without we cannot thrive 
One married off to a man of great pedigree 
To them she's gone, I'm sure they'd all agree
One still stands; without a care, for what they've lost, beyond repair 
One prefers solitude, even in the mild summer - of July and June
And finally . . . one's only remembered - by a merry tune

Our Foolishness

If thou do not adore me, does not birth my infirmity
For I still cannot have thee, but still I own prosperity 
So without thee I'll flourish, and without thee I shall die
For thou'll never love me; it'd be a foolish thing to try 
And though my feelings make us fools, in every single tense,
I still enjoys time with thee, so let foolishness commence 
    Our foolish youngness; without a care, is still more thine than mine
    In a wooden hall we paint our lives, under the clouded winter sky

Our Foolishness

If thou do not adore me, does not birth thy infirmity
For thy still cannot have thee, but still I own prosperity 
So without thee I'll flourish, and without thee I shall die
For thou'll never love me; it'd be a foolish thing to try 
And though thy's feeling make us fools, in every single tense,
Thy still enjoys time with thee, so let foolishness commence 
    Our foolish youngness; without a care, is still more thou's than thy's
    In a wooden hall we paint our lives, under the clouded winter sky

Roses And Naan Bread #myrose

The first rose on my desk was kind of cute. By the fifteenth it was getting kind of weird.
    As a fourteen year-old nerd, I never thought I would get a date, let alone a secret admirer. I shouldn't be that surprised really, I've been asked out a couple of times, but it always happens to be someone I cannot stand. I just want my Newton Pulsifer from Good Omens. Is that to much to ask? Or maybe Mr Darcy . . .
    Anyway, today there was another rose and love note on my desk. They are always typed out, probably so I don't recognize the hand'writing, and this one is no exception. It reads:
    Dear Jay, 
    Shall I compare thee to a summers day?

    Very funny, My secret admirer put a Shakespeare quote on it this time, this is getting weirder by the minute. 
    "Hey, another note from Mr very...

Wombat Forest

Their house is wooden
It's veranda warmed 
By the morning light 
The bush creatures torn
To stay or take flight 
In this forest they call bush
The eucalyptus trees
Where kookaburras laugh 
At tilly's pleas 
To see the forest 
Not just some trees 
Like the old red plum
We sit under; at ease
Sit at the picnic table
Covered in moss
And in the crisp morning air 
I sketch something 
Not very well done
But who'm I to care 
The smell of freshly baked bread 
Carries on morning air
And inside we troop 
For bread by the fire
So come the kangaroos 
Outside the window
As soon a we're gone 
They're laughing at us
Of this I am sure
But now we can't go back there
Not any more
For the danger it places
Is much, much to high
So we can only remember 
And sigh a sad sigh

Awake Before Dawn

Uhtceare, this is me
I never woke at dawn before
But now, in sadness and in hope
I start to wake up before dawn more
It's a habit really
One which I try to resist 
But sleep won't come
So I persist 
I cannot sleep with grace and peace 
My mind won't stop
I know not how some do it with ease
I lye awake before dawn 
Thinking about God knows what
I lye awake before dawn
Mustering all the patience I've got
So as the sun rises 
And light gleams in my window 
I lye there, trying to sleep 
As the small birds start to peep 

Chapter One: The Boots

The boots have been sitting in the same place for a very long time. I always wondered about those boots, sitting in the shoe-box, no reason to be there, I don't even know who they belong to. They have been there since last year, they just appeared one day, and no-one knows where they came from.
    The boots are battered, made of old, brown leather. with old twine laces, and worn rubber souls. As I live alone, by the woods, many people in my position would be scared. All by myself with a stranger lurking around, possibly a ghost or spirit, with material shoes. But me, I'm not scared, whatever left the boots there is friendly, I just know it. It must be, for nothing bad has happened in the time since the boots appeared.
      My Girlfriend lives on the other side of Ginger-Nut Woods, in a little town. She visits me often, both of us just last year...

Birthday Surprises For #Mysecondcontest


The plan was to surprise my auntie by showing up in her conservatory on her birthday. I live in Australia, but I am from Christchurch New Zealand. Having lived in Melbourne for nearly a year, my sister and I missed our hometown very much. It was nearly my aunties birthday, and Mum had hatched a plan. We were to fly to New Zealand by plane, stay one night at a friends place in the country, and the next day was Auntie Carmen's birthday, so we would drive to her and my cousin's house, and surprise the whole family. 
    The plain trip was the normal boring and passed quite quickly. At the airport the normal announcement rang out: Please do not let your children play on the escalators. It is a recording of a very exasperated sounding woman, which sounds more like she means: You are so annoying, letting your children play on the escalators.
     so there we were,...

Birthday Surprises For #Mysecondcontest


The plan was to surprise my auntie by showing up in her conservatory on her birthday. I live in Australia, but I am from Christchurch New Zealand. Having lived in Melbourne for nearly a year, my sister and I missed our hometown very much. It was nearly my aunties birthday, and Mum had hatched a plan. We were to fly to New Zealand by plane, stay one night at a friends place in the country, and the next day was Auntie Carmen's birthday, so we would drive to her and my cousin's house, and surprise the whole family. 
    The plain trip was the normal boring and passed quite quickly. At the airport the normal announcement rang out: Please do not let your children play on the escalators. It is a recording of a very exasperated sounding woman, which sounds more like she means: You are so annoying, letting your children play on the escalators.
     so there we were,...

Review For Review

Review for review. You give me a review, comment when it's done, and I'll give you a review too. Just something to do in semi-lock-down

My Piece For Competition #Proud

It was while everyone was hanging around before history class that it happened, I always thought that it would take me forever to find a girlfriend. It seems like all nice girls are straight.
    "Hey, Cass," Jackie says, sidling up to me with her uncanny confidence. "I was just wondering if you wanted to go to a cafe in the mall with me?"
    I panic, not knowing if she means as a date or what, "Sure, I know a great one. You don't have any allergies do you?" I decide to play it safe.    
    "No." 
    "Um," I really hope she means as a date, but that seems unlikely. "You mean, as friends?"
    Jackie laughs, "No." 
    Oh my God. She means on a date, doesn't she? Play it safe Cassie. "You don't mean . . .?
    "Actually I did, but if you don't want to that's fine,...

Let It Commence

Let the battle commence 
Let it be said, that hate is hate
Let it commence 
Let it commence, at any rate
The battle has to be fought 
The battle must be won 
If you don't approve, 
Then fight or run
Except you cannot 
Fight to win something . . .
That is not a win
It isn't a choice 
To be who you are
It's a choice;
To fight, what we are
It's a choice to hate on
Innocent people 
Let the innocents stay
You shall be defeated 

Let Treachery Commence

When lovers all be on strike 
Tell me, tell me dear; the truth
What hath cause' this bomb-shell
When all is fine, is't true?
People love but not mine own lonesome flesh
But most 'f all when I am loving you
So tell me, tell me dear;
What be th' truth
When love is gone an' lovers all on strike;
For replenishment of love for you
So love me, love me dearly
When all is lost, yet I am loving you 
Lovers all meet their dreary ends
But for the ones, who livith as thy selves 
And if not, let treachery commence 
Yet not if I keep loving you

Another Riddle

A riddle, I have one for thee 
'Tis a riddle for heart and life
So answer me this
If thy dares 
There are many in Paris
Rome is a thousand 
If you adore politics 
Or like witches astride broom sticks 
So answer me this
If thee hast the power
But thee doth n'need it
To simply understand me 
If trouble is afoot, or a hand
If thee's ever lust for distant lands
So jump on thy broom stick 
And sail away 
Go ride thy jarraffes 
For a year
And a day

A Riddle

The age-old burden in disguise 
With red-trucks, and butterflies 
When all these roots grow without end
They cage the dirt to gardeners tend
And when that dirt lays quiet an' still
The lovers and souls this burden kills 
So if you know of great things dead
Answer this riddle, by me lead

Get Me To Fifty Followers So I Will Host A Contest

When I reach fifty followers I will host a competition. I am about half way there, so it would be apreciated, (and in your best interests if you want to enter), if you would share around my work and if you like my pieces follow me. I have some cool prompts in mind for when I get to fifty followers, too.

The story of The Grand Canyon #Randomthoughts #Randomthoughts4

Every time that a heart breaks . . . something else breaks as well. From the little cracks in the footpath of lost teenage love, to the falling of an oak tree at the death of a close relative, and then . . . there's The Grand Canyon. It all started a millennia ago, when the Greek goddess Demeter was young. Demeter was the goddess of the harvest and of crops, the people adored her, for she was so integral in their way of life.
    "Alright dear, you go play with your nymph friends, and don't stay out to late," Demeter said to her wonderful daughter Persephone.
    Persephone left for the meadow, with a basket for collecting flowers, and Demeter went back to making the crops grow. Little did she know, that would be the last time in many years to come that she would see her daughter. Amazing what one can take for-granted when one...

Fifteen Year-old Over-spends So Much At Book Store That She Owes Her Mother Sixty Five Dollars #Conficiens

Fifteen-year-old Evanora Mc-Duff spent sixty five dollars on books at Robinson's Book Shop on Saturday, when asked by a reporter what prompted these so-called irresponsible actions, Mc-Duff used some inappropriate for a wider audiences, hand-gestures, and said: Because it is classics, it is actually a great bargain to buy so many great books for just sixty five dollars. I believe that if you are buying great books you should buy as many as possible because . . .  Unfortunately the recording device used for recording Mc-Duffs words crashed from an overload of book wisdom when downloading the speech onto a computer. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.
    The gist of what Mc-Duff was saying is that in lock-down, she has yearned for good books. Mc-Duff has an uncanny ability to find many, many books that she, and I quote her on this desperately need's. Basically, Robinson's is serene, incredible, and the book-shop equivalent of...

The Hike | #SomethingUnique1

As we walk along the gravel path, the scenery constantly changes. From peaks, with bushes covered in tiny white flowers, to thick eucalyptus bush, with massive, moss-covered rocks, probably five feet high. After a while of walking, the excitement of scenery changes start to wane, it is more of an Australian bush seeming walk than a fantasy trek. But, then, out of the blue, a beautiful beach appears. The water is crystal clear, the kind of blue that you barely ever see in nature, as bright as a Menelaus Blue Morpho, (it's a kind of butterfly). There is a rock ledge, over-looking the beach, but even that is a way down the hill. The weather is mild, the remains of a thunderstorm having disappeared minutes ago, but that doesn't make the trek past the peninsula any less tiring, we all wipe beads of perspiration off of our foreheads. The golden beach looks so inviting, just a quick swim maybe ....

Defenses

Tear-stained faces at sundown 
Inky eyes will cry, sobs of ocean 
Silhouetted brunette crown 
To wish it to be cured with spells and potions 
But pain continues without fail 
Fire the cannon and raise the sails 
Walls around thy emotions
Like defenses around a base-camp   

Fifteen Year-old Over-spends So Much At Book Store That She Owes Her Mother Sixty Five Dollars #Conficiens

Fifteen-year-old Evanora Mc-Duff spent sixty five dollars on books at Robinson's Book Shop on Saturday, when asked by a reporter what prompted these so-called irresponsible actions, Mc-Duff used some inappropriate for a wider audiences, hand-gestures, and said: Because it is classics, it is actually a great bargain to buy so many great books for just sixty five dollars. I believe that if you are buying great books you should buy as many as possible because . . .  Unfortunately the recording device used for recording Mc-Duffs words crashed from an overload of book wisdom when downloading the speech onto a computer. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.
    The gist of what Mc-Duff was saying is that in lock-down, she has yearned for good books. Mc-Duff has an uncanny ability to find many, many books that she, and I quote her on this desperately need's. Basically, Robinson's is serene, incredible, and the book-shop equivalent of...

Ghost Audience

The violin music floats down off the stage into an empty auditorium. I am the only one here to hear it, though I don't think that Brooke realizes anyone is in the room to hear her exquisite music. When the beautiful, melancholy piece finishes, I put two fingers to my mouth and wolf-whistle. Brooke clasps her violin harder, spinning around on the spot. 
    "Who's there?" she asks pointing her bow into the invisible audience. Then she sees me, standing alone, having heard her entire beautiful piece.
    "Jade?"
    I nod, smiling up at her, at this girl I didn't know possessed such a beautiful talent.

I have an important question about something, read this!

If I have published one of my pieces, and the group that the prompt was from is deleted, does my piece disappear? 
There was an announcement on the 'in this together' group, saying that if I don't save my pieces from their prompts, they will disappear when it is deleted. I really don't want this to happen, but I don't know if I would have to save them elsewhere, on word or something. 

The Unseen

Those Unseen Houses

The unseen houses
Beyond the fields 
Where chickens roam
And puppies play
The unseen families 
Out in the country
People drive past them
And very few see them
They stay the same
Through thick and thin
Those unseen houses
Unseen people 
And unseen they grin
Grin to the world
Because people can see
Those unseen people 
But their not cumber-worlds
Unseen they work
Unseen they play
Those unseen families 
Unseen today
Unseen tomorrow 
They shall stay unseen
Drive down small lanes
To see the unseen
In the middle of no-where 
Where people love life
Unseen families 
Safe from trouble and strife  

Chapter two, I guess

"Well Girls?" Ms Jacaranda purses her lips.
    "I don't know, it's just that going on a quest is a lot of responsibility. you know, what if it doesn't work out?"
    Circe looks at me when I say this, stunned that I would turn down a opportunity that tons of people in this school would kill for, probably literally. Well not entirely stunned, she knows I don't do quests.
    "I'm going, I mean-" Phoebe is interrupted just then by a knock on the office door. 
    A man opens it and steps inside. He wares a suit, much like that of human mortals in the eighteenth century, With a ruffled vanilla collar, and seems to have carried the strong perfume of Mexican Orange Blossom with him. "I am sorry to interrupt Mam, but there is someone outside who desperately wants to see you. I just couldn't dissuade them."
    Ms Jacaranda glares at...

Sun-Warmed Days

Dirt under my finger-nails
Gardening daisies 
And irises with snails
The wheel-barrow
Filled with weeds
A flock of sparrows
Some honeybees 

Green peach leaves
And apple trees
I find a hoe 
Dig chocolate dirt
Winter approaches
Through sun-warmed days 
Some birds I disconcert 

Tilly wanders
For winter doves prepare
Time mustn't be squandered 
As winter approaches 

Now it's upon us
The season of cold
Dinners a fuss
But still at sunset 
A light of gold

Chapter One

"The queen is dead." Iambus's tone has no mercy, no sympathy for what the kingdom has lost. He speaks very mater-of- factly.
    The crowd gasp, a few muffled screams escape. 
    "We all new this was coming, not many people loved our queen. But those who did, were loyal, and I am grateful for all of you. It will be a hard time; finding a new leader. But I believe that we can get through this together."
    The crowd cheers, cheering on this imbecile, just for the fact that he happened to be the queens advisor before she died.
    As one of the students at Junipers Collage For Trainee Leaders, I am not that surprised that Queen Sofia has been killed. The teachers taught us of the dangers at school, they scared off about half of the students with tales of past leader gory demises. I only stayed because my friends are there....

The Fight for Justice

No Justice No Piece

No justice means no piece
This is the truth
We are far from reaching justice
So we cannot call a truce 
People suffer and die
But we don't do anything 
So donate money 
Or go to protests 
Just do something

The white people twist the truth
It harms people allot 
When people twist their tangled lies
To make them sound believable 
Their tangled  web of lies

It always starts with just one lie
But in truth 
A white lie just means 
A good lie
And these are never white lies
Turning their words against them
At the tiniest slip-up 
Even minorities are people
Believe it or not
So everyone will make mistakes
And if you turn is on them
Well that go's into their tangled 
Web of lies

People are racist 
It always happens
And if you meet someone racist
Just turn your back
If you met someone racist
And didn't realize then
If they usually aren't 
Pull them up...

Another Stupid Love Story Not Worth Reading

Her hand slips into mine across the rug.
    "Is still like you, you know," Elizabeth says. Having her hand in mine makes it feel electric, like lightning flashing through me. 
    "One half of me is yours, the other half mine own, I would say. But if mine, then yours, so, all yours." She looks at me, perplexed.
    "You never did make any sense . . ."
    "What I just cleverly stated in Shakespearean, is 'I'm yours'."
    Her freckles shine in the dappled sunlight of the field. Her eyes wide she looks at me. "That can't be true, because I'm all yours."  

Another Stupid Love Story Not Worth Reading

Her hand slips into mine across the rug.
    "Is still like you, you know," Elizabeth says. Having her hand in mine makes it feel electric, like lightning flashing through me. 
    "One half of me is yours, the other half mine own, I would say. But if mine, then yours, so, all yours." She looks at me, perplexed.
    "You never did make any sense . . ."
    "What I just cleverly stated in Shakespearean, is 'I'm yours'."
    Her freckles shine in the dappled sunlight of the field. Her eyes wide she looks at me. "That can't be true, because I'm all yours." 

Old Sorrow

The blood on my ancestors hands, stains all who adore them's hands today.

The Things Between You Two

Love poetry; it is always about our feelings, I want it to be about your feelings
The way your smiles met each-others eyes
The way her hair was silky
Yours was so wild
And when you smiled at each other
The world was there
In that small piece of chewing gum
Or in many a stolen glace
I didn't know your feelings 
But then last summer
Years later it was
You told us the truth
About you and her
The story of love
And a tale of loss
Most people will tell you
That you will not find true love
At the age of seven
How wrong they are
I want this for her 
And I want this for you
Just tell her the truth
She could have feeling for you
So when playgrounds are empty
And we're children no-longer 
Please remember these words
And please tell her your thoughts 
But for now we're still teenagers
Talking about who fancies...

The Way That I Feel

You'll never know how I feel
I know it is true
You'll never know how I feel about you
We walk near each-other
But still far apart
Each time I call your name
There's a tug in my heart
For I know that you don't
Know the truth about me
I know you don't know 
The way that I see you
I know what I think
But you don't know it at all
The way your sprinkle of of freckles 
Makes me smile 
I think what it would be like
To hold you close to myself 
And I know that it won't 
Happen anytime now
Because I know you'll never like me
I hope that you'll know
The way that I feel
But at least for now
Our friendship is real

Henry

Your plait used to fall down your back 
All smiles 
Always joking 
Now your hair falls 
To your shoulders
And now we both
Grow older
But friends we still remain 

You used to say
You were a banana
And not a soul 
Said otherwise
You could say what you want 
And you didn't care
What others thought of you
Not once did I see
You stutter
Like me
I don't understand
Your confidence 
I'd love to be like you
I'd love to understand

You never thought badly 
I can't remember you frown
Everyone laughed at you
Silliness was your crown 
I remember you sarcasm 
Though it's so long since I've seen you
I'd love to see you again 
We'll meet by the bench 

writing streak week 11 day 3

The truth is in the ancient Greek, oh Greek is true, truer that stories now.

Endless Winter

Her bare feet crush the grass beneath, turning it to ice. Tears flow like braided rivers, down her apple cheeks. A cold mist circles Demeter, mimicking the ice in her heart, making it hard to see clearly, making her feel lost and helpless.              
    "Persephone, come home my darling, come home . . ." Her calls are lost to the crisp breeze, heard by none except her. 
    The cliff-side is near, but, through the thick fog, you would never know. Dark, leafless, oak-trees loom over Demeter, tall shadows, cut straight from the darkness in her heart. Not a soul is in sight, only Demeter, on this dark, lonely, hillock. 
    "Persephone! Persephone!" Although the goddess shouts, her heart doesn't seem in it. Like someone who has been searching for something for years, and doesn't believe in it anymore. Demeter calls with the voice of a broken soul. 
    Out of the fog, looms a shape....

writing streak week 11 day 2

It is true that people change, I have changed. When people change, they grow up, into something that they never imagined. But, they are still the same person.

Taking A Stand

There was once a woman
Her name was Rosa Parks
Rosa was brave
On a journey she embarked
She took a stand
She kept her seat 
She didn't let them push
Didn't let them defeat 

Rosa was
the most incredible woman
This because 
She took a great risk
But it payed off
And now we know
She started a change
Like dominoes 

Now people are fearful 
But this we can know
Rosa parks changed a lot 
And that has been shown 

Born Into Hatred

Man, woman, human. They all be slaves to what we call it? Culture. The burden of society lays upon us, like heavy dirt on an ancient grave. The innocents enslaved to no human it be, taken without concern, though it not come naturally. And in an ancient time where no-one is truly free, burdens so embedded no soul without the tropes. Lovers in ropes, people in chains, not 'loud by false leader be to be their own selves. Born into hatred, whichever side thy doth take.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 11

writing streak week 11 day 1

It is true that haters hate
Horrible people the world over
Hating on other peoples joys 
Saying it is unnatural 
People cannot think for their selves
It is the truth 
The whole truth
And nothing but the truth
That if people do what not harms anyone
You cannot judge for that
When people drain
On other peoples joys
Well this it the terrible 
Truth 

writing streak week 10 day 2

The waves rise high, as tall as a grown adult, and crash down with the force of the sea. Swirling and foaming with the restlessness of all the pent up feelings of the ocean.  
    Our boggy-boards are mere pawns of the sea, out of our control now. The salty sea spray stings our faces, we are soaked to the skin, being tossed around by the waves. Control is relative to us, we must run in order to walk, and we are always weary of the crashing surf. 
    The sky is overcast, the sand swirls around our feet in the knee-high water.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 10

writing streak week 10 day 1

As we walk along skeleton creek, gravel crunching under our feet, the rhythm is steady. Pukekos pick their way across the barren grass, like peculiar stilt walkers, on their long, spindly legs. The reeds sway and turn, excitedly rustling, uneasy and restless in the fading light. They are so tall, we are dwarfed next to their flaxen stalks. The sounds of nature surround us, the rustling of leaves, the chirping of something that we cannot quite tell if it is a frog, or a cricket. Mostly the world is quiet at this time, as the sun dips over the horizon, leaving a blood-coloured wash over the pale gray sky. It is light enough to see, but just dark enough that your vision is impaired, and everything is hazy. The air has a crisp autumn touch, leaving the tip of your nose just colder than it was when we left the house. We cannot see the water past the tall reeds,...

I Wish They Had an App for That

Aesthetic Reader

Aesthetic reader
The idea of this app is that when you are going somewhere, a restaurant, a shop, -wherever you are going really- the app can tell you what the aesthetic of the place is. It would be a bit like google maps, in that you could search for a place on the map, or click on somewhere you are interested in.
In addition, you would be able to chose a popular aesthetic, and the map would highlight everything in that aesthetic.
People would right reviews on how much each place fits the aesthetic that it is labeled as.

Pocket Poem

Love and Hate

Some say love and hate are separate 
But this I don't believe
There are no stone-hard concepts 
That from files we retrieve 
Love and hate are something else 
An abstract concept I think
Love and hate are so entwined 
That there is no brink
You can't be on the brink of love
it just doesn't follow
There is no true and even
Between love and hate
Most love to hate
Some hate to love
The are not set in stone
Love and hate 
Are not like siblings
Clearly set alone
Love and hate is more like mist
With breeze 
Together blown

Writing Streak Challenge Week 9

writing streak week 9 day 1

It is pride month in eight days, I am drawing a picture for the first day of June.

My entry for enchanted forest poem #LBC12

This forest is enchanted
I know it to be true
The trees sway 
In a beautiful way
Like dancers
Under the deep sky of blue
A kangaroo hops away
Like a spirit
Through the trees
A wombat borrow 
A secret spot
People are rare to be seen
The enchanted animals are not
A flash of blue
A sharp hard beak
A kookaburra sings from her tree
This forest is enchanted
The animals I see
A white feather
A cockatoo
It's yellow plume so bright
This forest is enchanted
I knew it from first sight 

Another covid-19 poem because I felt like it

This time is bad
For many at least
Many are sad
Covid-19's a beast
Destroying lives
Ruining things
You cannot high five
And you fill with panic
When the doorbell rings

It's okay to be sad
And it's okay to cry
Just stay as strong as you can
Or just make apple pie
Remember to connect 
Online or on the phone
Just remember there's good
Even if people are stuck at home
Animals thrive 
In places unlikely 
You can see the city
From the bridge near my house
And a good friend of mine
Made a toy mouse
So good things can happen
Even in dark
Just don't give up hope
Remember to take heart

Covid poem

Oh to go outside
How longing we are
To go live our lives
Not just from afar
How boring it is
How tremendously treacherous
To be stuck inside

To be stuck at home
However nice the home
It's only one place
How longing we are
For a familiar face

When troubles at hand
When we're stuck at home
Just remember the time
It took to build Rome
Just remember that all this
Won't seem so bad
When this is all over
So don't be so sad
Remember to talk
Even over the phone
For there are things that can be done
Even while stuck at home

Enumeration

SOme numBeRs

In my life are many numbers, these to name a few
One pet dog
Two sisters
Three best friends 
Until the end
Four best friends parents
My sister best friend and I's
I was five when I met her
Six I don't even knows
Seven at my sisters party
And eight years I've know her

The story of an orange cat

As I walk down the garden, to lounge under the picnic table, that is under the tree, I see something odd. A black and white cat sits on the picnic table already.
    Naturally I hiss and arch my back. But the stranger pays no notice, gazing intently at something behind me. I may not have much respect for this cat, but curiosity overcomes me and I turn around.
    There, on the lush lawn, beside where my owner is playing with one of those ghastly fluff-balls, is a dog.
    The dog is some sort of terrier cross and seems to be having a staring contest with our cowish friend.
    I decide that there is only one decent course of action in this sort of situation; I get the hell out of there and save myself.
    My paws pound on the stone steps as I bound down them. I can hear that...

Challenge Completed

So, one of these is not a ten second essay, I don't know if my writing streak still counts but I am doing it anyway.





I drift of to sleep, in a small cave on a tiny rocky island, lulled into a doze by the song of the rippling waves. The storm has calmed now, so, only a light wind and a sprinkling of rain remains.
    Harper turns over beside me, gripping onto me in her sleep and mumbling something about how she is not a child, not a child. 
    I am nearly asleep on the cold hard ground of the cave, but it is hard not to think to much. From what I can tell the others all fell asleep a while ago. 
    Harper's copper hair is tangled and crusted with salt from our impromptu swim. Her hands grip my shoulder and she mutters incomprehensibly. I sigh quietly and try to clear my...

One For Sorrow

I sit on the park bench, head in hands, my heart aching and body shuddering with sobs.
    You can never know how much losing a person you are close to will hurt until it happens. I haven't even lost her forever really, Lucy only moved country, but as a fourteen year-old losing her first Girlfriend it feels like she has fallen of the face of the earth
    I earn a few strange glances from passers by for my trouble, but they are all to busy in their own worlds to pay much attention to a teenager crying her heart out on a bench in the park.
    Someone walks up to me. I can see them in the corner of my eye, but I refuse to look up until they actually shake my shoulder.
    "Mia?"
    I gasp a little, someone recognizes me? Looking up I come face to face with a...

writing streak week 7 day 4

Never criticize peoples art if you do not make art, for they had the guts to make it in the first place. 

One For Sorrow

I sit on the park bench, head in hands, my heart aching and body shuddering with sobs.
    You can never know how much losing a person you are close to will hurt until it happens. I haven't even lost her forever really, Lucy only moved country, but as a fourteen year-old losing her first Girlfriend it feels like she has fallen of the face of the earth
    I earn a few strange glances from passers by for my trouble, but they are all to busy in their own worlds to pay much attention to a teenager crying her heart out on a bench in the park.
    Someone walks up to me. I can see them in the corner of my eye, but I refuse to look up until they actually shake my shoulder.
    "Mia?"
    I gasp a little, someone recognizes me? Looking up I come face to face with a...

Solidarity

Covid-19 poem, (I am not a poet but drastic times call for drastic measures)

Out the window are no people
On the streets or in the shops
Out the window are no lovers
Out of hope when all is lost
But all is not lost
All is not gone
We can 
We will 
Carry on
Send cards
Play games
We must stay together 
Even if we are apart
Our hearts connect us
Our homes protect us
Even in our darkest days 
There will be light
There will be love
Out of my window sits a dove
Living still and loving still
A magpie warbles in a tree
There is good for all to see
So stay together
Don't break apart 
For we will are still together
In our hearts  

writing streak week 8 day 3

Never end a story with 'it was all a dream'. Just don't.

Writing Streak Challenge Week 8

writing streak week 8 day 1

Art is not about knowing how to draw, it is about knowing how not to draw. 

Writing streak week 8 day 2

I drift of to sleep, in a small cave on a tiny rocky island, lulled into a doze by the song of the rippling waves. The storm has calmed now, so, only a light wind and a sprinkling of rain remains.
    Harper turns over beside me, gripping onto me in her sleep and mumbling something about how she is not a child, not a child. 
    I am nearly asleep on the cold hard ground of the cave, but it is hard not to think to much. From what I can tell the others all fell asleep a while ago. 
    Harper's copper hair is tangled and crusted with salt from our impromptu swim. Her hands grip my shoulder and she mutters incomprehensibly. I sigh quietly and try to clear my head. 
    I hear a noise outside and my senses peak, fear of the unexplained is the greatest fear of all. 
    
 ...

continuing from my short story

The rock grows closer, jutting out of the water like some obscure pirate ship.
    "Guy's, we are going to crash into the rock in ten seconds." I don't know how we intend to get home if we are shipwrecked.
    Avery counts down the time until we hit the rock. "Nine."
    I don't think I can handle this.
    "Eight. Seven. Six."
    I rush over to the others and we huddle together, bracing ourselves.
    "Five. Four. Three."
    The four of us who are sitting on deck bunch closer, if we are going to shipwreck, we are going to shipwreck together. I'm worried about Avery though. I think she is counting down so we are all prepared, but what about her?
    "Two. One!"
    The ship jerks violently as our bow collides with the underwater part of the rock.
    I wonder something, "Avery, why...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 8

writing streak week 8 day 1

Art is not about knowing how to draw, it is about knowing how not to draw.

writing streak week 7 day 6

The storm rages on, our boat becoming more and more bashed up with every gust of wind, every icy wave.
    "Well at least you tried," Ebony consoles. She is not exactly great under stress, confidant most of the time but not great under pressure.
    Harper bites her lower lip, "What should we do now?" The question sparks a tidal wave of hopelessness inside me. What should we do now? 
    Avery has worked out which way is north by the position of the sun, but it turns out while I was asleep the main sail broke at the hands of a particularly strong gust of wind, so, we are left with nothing but the spinnaker which isn't going to be enough to get us back.
    The four of us, Harper, Ebony, Krystal and me (Ruby), sit on the deck, dad and worrisome. Avery told us to sit and rest for a while, she...

writing streak week 7 day 5

The icy water seeps into my clothing, making me even more cold. 
    I force myself to open my eyes under the water. I can barely see a thing and the sea is so cold that my heart is racing.
    I trained myself to be able to hold my breath for a long time but in the sea it is hard. The sand swirls around my like the storm above. I look around and can just see the compos sinking to the seafloor. I dive down toward it using all of my strength. 
    The silence is defining. I can hear my heart and little more.
    I make a grab for the compos. I don't think I can stay under much longer. The compos brushes my hand and I clutch at it, hope surging through me despite how worn out my lungs are.
    A massive wave creates an underwater-sandstorm and I have...

writing streak week 7 day 4

The boat lurches, it's deck sways and swerves, it's wooden floorboards soaked with icy water. I don't know how long I've slept for but it's nearly dark, or is it? I glance up at the sky, shocked by its colour. It is dark grey, covered in clouds, rain pores in buckets, soaking my hair and cloths so they cling to me, sopping wet. I realize with a start that Ebony and Avery are awake. Ebony is shaking Krystal with a force almost matching that of the roaring wind. I jump to my feet to help.
    "You're awake! Go wake up Harper!"
    A very powerful gust blows and the boat almost capsizes. On the small deck the others all seem to be doing something useful, I decide to help Avery with bailing out some water that has collected on the deck. 
    Krystal shouts for once in her life, "Guy's! We must have drifted a long...

Haiku's

I have written some haiku's.

My sister makes masks
They are pretty flannelette
Masks for everyone

Ciara makes us pies
Pies with apple and pastry 
They are tasty pies 

 

writing streak week 7 day 3

The five of us walk along the pier toward our vessel. The day is clear with only a few fluffy clouds skidding across the cerulean sky. 
    "So do you think anyone will notice our absence?" queries Krystal, nudging me from my right.
    Ebony looks over her shoulder to the dock behind us, "They might, but we won't be gone for long, it will be fine." She tosses her ebony hair, and walks of down the pier toward where the others are just starting to board the boat.
    "Harper!" calls Avery, lugging our freezer bag onto the boat. "Grab the other bag and stow it away."
    Harper does as she's bid, before we now it our small 'borrowed' sailing boat is sailing round the point.
    "So here is the plan," Avery states, "We are fishing for flat-heads, we need to get around that point there," she gestures to fisherman's point, "Because...

writing streak week 7 day 2

"Who are you?" the woman with seal fur asked brushing a lock of soaking auburn hair out of her eyes.
    The man widened his eyes, "I am a human, my name is Abraham. But who are you?" 
     The woman moved her feet, splashing lake water onto the shore. She glanced down, brushing water of her seal fur cloak. The man awaited her answer in silence. a cold wind ruffled their hair, The man shivered but the woman didn't seem to mind.
    "I am a selky, my name is August, I am the mother of your child." 

The Brass Owl

An afternoon of camp activities is enough to wear anyone out. Archery, canoeing, wheelbarrow races, it gets tiring. So, I am extremely pleased to be given a half-hour of free time. 
    As I walk into the cabin that I share with Elizabeth and Marlene I glance up and check that The Brass Owl hasn't moved. It's a strange thing, I first spotted it on our second day of camp, I could have sworn that is wasn't there the first day yet here is is. When Elizabeth and I first saw it we thought is was real, before realizing is was only a brass statue, still, I'm sure it moved it's head.
    Inside the cabin Marlene is already here, lying on the bed reading. She looks up, "Hey, has it moved?"
    "Nope, still sitting being creepy."                                                                                                                
    "Alright, well tell me if it moves," she says in mock seriousness.                                            
    Elizabeth walks in...

Five Line Fiction

chocolate biscuits

The cat settles in my lap. Lavender smiles sincerely at me, from across the picnic rug.
    "You know, Foxy seems to really love you." She gestures to the silver cat curled comfy in my lap. My heart warms, the sunshine floats down through the dappled shade, chocolate biscuit crumbs litter the pink checked fabric beneath us.     Lavender reaches out and touches my hand softly, clasping it in her own. maybe there is hope for us after all. 

Open Prompt

Elizabeth's Travels

I walk into the kitchen, my skirts brushing on the narrow door frame. The kitchen is small, just large enough for me and two other cooks to bake the bread, prepare the tea and cook the meat.                                                                           
    "Mr Addington wishes to see you Mam," Carol says, biting her lip.                                  
    "But there is bread to be made, I shall not leave you and Dorothy to do it on your own."        
    "We can manage Mam, he was very specific that you must come today."   
    Despite a rather uneasy feeling about this I walk down the staircase, towards the west wing where Mr Addington's study is located.           
    "You wanted to see me Sir?" I bow.
    "Yes, I have become rather distressed by the, er, rodent problem."                                                                              
    "Do you wish me to let one of the terriers loose again Sir?"                                                                                        
A minute smile noticeable on his face, the man...

Names, Names, Names

Names of things

A breakfast joint: Williams Wacky Waffles 
A new smartphone: Blueberry I-Phone 
An eyeglasses store: So you wanna look like Harry Potter
A dog pound: Lily's no-kill shelter; from Labs to Lakeland Terriers 
A highway: On the beaten track Highway
An island resort: Zeus's Island Paradise 
A new constellation: The Cartoon Dog
A pet polar bear: Lemonade 
A nail polish color: Pond-Slime Green
A new butterfly species: The Round-Bellied Green Butcher

One Day

Frida Kahlo Day

Frida Kahlo Day would fall on the sixth of July, which is Frida's birthday.

The day would be about making the best of any situation, it would be about art as well.

Frida Kahlo day would be a time to celebrate what Frida brought to the world, and how a bad thing can inspire good. On Frida Kahlo day families and friends would do activities such as learning to paint, because anyone can if they try.

The last important thing to acknowledge is that Frida's uni-brow was a symbol of how being different is a good thing, and that you should never be afraid to be yourself.

over all Frida Khalo Day would be a time to celebrate what you love most.

Open Prompt

Elizabeth's Travels

I walk into the kitchen, my skirts brushing on the narrow door frame. The kitchen is small, just large enough for me and two other cooks to bake the bread, prepare the tea and cook the meat.                                                                           
    "Mr Addington wishes to see you Mam," Carol says, biting her lip.                                  
    "But there is bread to be made, I shall not leave you and Dorothy to do it on your own."        
    "We can manage Mam, he was very specific that you must come today."   
    Despite a rather uneasy feeling about this I walk down the staircase, towards the west wing where Mr Addington's study is located.           
    "You wanted to see me Sir?" I bow.
    "Yes, I have become rather distressed by the, er, rodent problem."                                                                              
    "Do you wish me to let one of the terriers loose again Sir?"                                                                                        
A minute smile noticeable on his face, the man...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 7

writing streak week 7 day 1

The city buzzes with energy, it's buildings and lights taking on a life of their own with every car, every person excitedly chatting, every street lamp lighting up the Melbourne night sky almost as bright as daylight.                                         
    My phone buzzes, it's familiar tune lighting a spark in my heart at the thought that Layla might have responded this quickly. I glance down, flooding with disappointment, it's only Mum, telling me to be back to the hotel soon.                   
      For a girl from the country side of England, holidaying in Melbourne, I am already getting good at navigating this city. It's the opposite of that old song; the streetlamps don't beat a fatalistic warning, they beat with the heartbeat of the city, pulsing with life excitement and the never-stopping feeling that something amazing could happen, despite the fact that unless you count accidentally letting thirty cattle out of our neighbors farm, nothing that interesting ever happens to me. ...