Molly_

United Kingdom

16
She/her
Will fight you if you aren't kind to yourself.

There is nothing else remotely interesting about me that I could write here.
Erm.
No, that's literally it.

Message from Writer

Book recommendation of the day:
the Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman, a book that made me cry many, many times.

I can't lie, I am very rarely consistently on here enough to be up to date, so I will say happy *insert date here*! Well done for getting this far :)

All feedback is good feedback :)

Published Work

Saturday Afternoons

Ah, Saturdays. 
Waking up at 7:30 am, a rabble of undesirable snakes (far too volatile to be considered butterflies) mauled my stomach, because in 5 hours I'd be- disgustingly- going on a 'date'. Three hours after that my friends would rally around me either in sympathy or congratulations. Unfortunately, it wasn't up to me which it would be, but a good-looking dark-haired boy called Harry who’d instigated the rendezvous. 
Thankfully, either outcome included furtively procured alcohol, so it couldn’t be all bad. 
How wrong I was.
Naive to the horrors that could accompany the burned-coffee smell permeating every commercial chain; ignorant of the sticky bile of neon-green drinks in our throats that we drank despite knowing that anything likely to glow under UV light or spelt with a 'z' shouldn’t be consumed.
Dressed in the intrinsically teenage attire of Jeans-and-a-Nice-Top with no consideration for the weather, I was up and ready by 8:00. So I waited. And waited. Then waited...

Why should I be /sorry/?

I'm sorry if I hurt you, if it's the thought of me that maims
your heart, your conscience, your pride, whatever it is your claim 
is the thing that drives your life force, the things that hide your pain-
but, please, you told me I was good enough, then inflicted me with pain 

I'm sorry I have a problem, that perhaps I'm not as sane as you- 
but I'm trying to try my hardest in every fucking thing I do  
I know I'm not supposed to swear, no one said that more than you
but how am I supposed to love a life when it's you I can't see through?

I'm sorry I'm not good enough. I'm sorry I'm not the catch 
you thought you had upon your reel, but instead you closed the latch 
on me, my personality, the talent I held so dear- 
you said I was a star, then shot me down when I was near

to...

Morrisons? Of course.

 Life is about as consistent as a compass over a nail.
I woke up at 7:30 am, a rabble of undesirable snakes (far too volatile to be considered butterflies) mauling the pit of my stomach, because in 5 hours I'd be- disgustingly- going on a 'date'. Three hours after that my two best friends would rally around me either in sympathy or congratulations. Unfortunately, it wasn't up to me which one it would be, but a good-looking dark-haired boy called Harry who had instigated the rendezvous. 
Thankfully, either outcome included furtively procured alcohol, so maybe it wouldn't be all bad. 
How wrong I was.
I was naive to the horrors that could accompany the burned smell of old coffee that permeates every commercial chain; ignorant of the sticky bile of neon green drinks in our throats which we drank despite knowing that anything likely glows under UV light or is spelt with a 'z' should not be consumed.
Dressed in...

it's Still Life, i guess

Breathe. 
Hear the thunder of cascading waterfalls, feel their cool spray kiss your cheeks with the tenderness of the first rain bruising the first flowers in the Garden of Eden. Don't eat the apple; don't heed the serpent; don't move.
Instead, you watch in awe as the Kingfisher erupts from motionless waters- so still they could have been solid- in a flurry of the blues and golds and splashes of white that mark royalty, a silvery prize writhing in his beak, the dawn stars glinting in the scattered droplets of displaced water. You recognize their regality is deserved. 
Slowly, effortlessly, you sink to the floor, fingertips grazing the damp sod. In practised silence, you kneel in the shadows, unwilling to encourage the final curtain on the finest show that life can offer. Internally, you beg for an encore- beauty derives from nature (this you know); she was here before humanity first walked and will be reborn long after they've run...

The Angel's Sin

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

(On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight.)

Skulking about a long-forgotten rusted playground upon a graveyard that had been forgotten even longer, were two demons. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped, casting a yellow eye to the church upon the hill opposite. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer upon a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Now, however, she was sprawled across the top of abandoned monkey bars like a smug child; the King of the Castle.  
The other figure grunted unresponsively. 
“Oh come on, Az. You’ve got to at least comfort me,” Grigor moaned, rolling to her front, wincing as the bars crushed her ribs. ...

The Angel's Sin

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

(On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight.)

Skulking about a long-forgotten rusted playground upon a graveyard that had been forgotten even longer, were two demons. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped, casting a yellow eye to the church upon the hill opposite. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer upon a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Now, however, she was sprawled across the top of abandoned monkey bars like a smug child; the King of the Castle.  
The other figure grunted unresponsively. 
“Oh come on, Az. You’ve got to at least comfort me,” Grigor moaned, rolling to her front, wincing as the bars crushed her ribs. ...

What's in a Name?

Sometimes, life sucks.
That’s it, no silver lining, no rainbow, not even a pat on the back, or ‘well done for trying’ sticker. Sometimes life just sucks. But sometimes, if life sucks enough, you can get a story out of it. Or two, if you’re lucky. I once knew a man who had hundreds of equally banal, depressing, rip-your-own-heart-out tales of woe that would leave you depressed for the rest of your days. 
This is mine. 

It was a Saturday, I was eleven years old, and a man came round for tea. I wouldn’t say he was an extraordinary man, but you couldn’t deny this was a man who led a rather irrational life. Actually, I’d quite definitely describe this man as eccentric, if I were being kind. As I am not, however, I will truthfully and wholeheartedly say this: if Cogsworth and the TARDIS had a child in Victorian-era England, and this child grew up in a circus while...

Not Quite the First Chapter

If you were to turn left at Priorwall Street, Liverpool, then turn right, before turning left again, you would drive into the River Mersey. This would not only ruin your shoes and cost you an unseemly amount in vehicle restoration but also earn you several peculiar looks from the general public- particularly Mrs Ecklestone and her toy poodle, Gertrude. And if you were to do so at nine twenty-seven in the morning on the 7th of September 1998, you would find a beginning. Our beginning.
Like most beginnings, this one starts with a cry; the first cry of life, of losing the warmth of the womb, of the doctors in their silly little masks. It has been (and always be) a perfectly reasonable reason to cry.
The owner of this cry, in this particular hospital, on this particular crisp September morning, (where coats were pulled tighter and umbrellas wrenched inside out) was abhorred from the moment his eyes opened. He...

magpies aren't black and white

Across from my garden, there is a conifer tree.
It has been there since we moved in, what, ten years ago? It never changes, but I don't suppose trees tend to while people are watching, or while it's settled into a suitable spot. Intermittently swaying in the light breeze, it tends to just sit there. Nothing remarkable, really, but, I suppose I'm watching it. Perhaps the conifer at the bottom of my garden has stage fright. Perhaps that's where the phrase 'trembles like a leaf' originated, within each surprisingly spiky needle. 

Within these boughs lives two magpies; I watch them every day from my window when I really ought to be doing maths, or attempting to belittle Romeo and Juliet further than they already do themselves (I mean, really, who falls 'in love' in two hours?), or figuring out Chatelier's Principle because apparently, he lost it. I'm not sure how long they've hidden in the boughs, chattering coyly to one...

Map Change

Morrisons is a State of Mind

I live in Europe, more specifically Britain- although really it's England- and if you want to be pedantic, it'd be the North West of England, but not really, properly North, no, because we barely class as north, but are more north than south and not in the middle enough to be from the Midlands, a bit above Manchester and quite a bit lower than GeordieLand (Newcastle) yet only slightly below Southport, and very, very near to Liverpool, however, I'm not from Liverpool, because they're very protective of the label 'Scouser' but that's a different story altogether.

I am from the Wirral; over the water from Liverpool, and part of a lovely county called the Cheshire. We've garnered such legends such as Paul Hollywood, Michael Sheen, Fiona Bruce, and I chooseto claim Daniel Craig, Taron Egerton, and Paul O'Grady (because one was born in Chester but grew up here, one was born here and moved to Wales, and the other...

Map Change

Morrisons is a State of Mind

I live in Europe, more specifically Britain- although really it's England- and if you want to be pedantic, it'd be the North West of England, but not really, properly North, no, because we barely class as north, but are more north than south and not in the middle enough to be from the Midlands, a bit above Manchester and quite a bit lower than GeordieLand (Newcastle) yet only slightly below Southport, and very, very near to Liverpool, however, I'm not from Liverpool, because they're very protective of the label 'Scouser' but that's a different story altogether.

I am from the Wirral; over the water from Liverpool, and part of a lovely county called the Cheshire. We've garnered such legends such as Paul Hollywood, Michael Sheen, Fiona Bruce, and I chooseto claim Daniel Craig, Taron Egerton, and Paul O'Grady (because one was born in Chester but grew up here, one was born here and moved to Wales, and the other...

Cake and Custard


Sat in the tree at the bottom of the garden, hidden high in the boughs 
That was the day we laughed ‘til we cried, tears streaming down our faces like sap down the oak
It was the day Billie Porter went soaring from his bike after nicking our ball and broke his leg. He was in a cast for weeks, remember? God, it was the funniest thing in the world, wasn’t it- 
When we were seven, lurching away from his mates? But we were faster, you and me, and we sat highest in the tree munching our way through his sweets. 
You said
“Today. Today is a good old day” 
I nodded. I didn’t know what you meant. We were only seven. 

Kicking an old apple around a field, trying to dodge the missiles it sent flying at our face and tearing at our shins. We did a keepie-uppie challenge to impress the girls. 
Jessie Lyons was beautiful, wasn’t she?  ...

25 Words

Disappearing Act

You said we were forever- that our friendship was carved in mountains we clambered over, sewn in the river we swam. 
Why aren't you here?
 

Song Writing Competition 2021

Some Days

 Hey kiddo, some days matter, most will be hell 
while you're tossing every dream down that old wishing well,
but if you close your eyes, make a wish and don't tell, 
the stars'll pull a blinder; throw a ball and you're the belle 

You're incredible and everyone here knows it-
Laughing in the downpour, dancing in the rain, 
You're chemical with that smile, don't compose it, 
One day you'll be grinning from the hall of fame 

But you work too hard, stay up way too late 
Forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget to go out in the day 
I know it's hard to see life in the same way
but why hurry to the station when there's not any trains?

Cause, kid, remember this;

Some days matter, most will be hell, 
while you're tossing every dream down that old wishing well,
but if you close your eyes, make a wish and don't tell,
the stars'll pull a blinder; throw a...

Memory Object

Patchwork Memories

A satchel hanging on the door;  a mug of tea gone cold.
The ghosts of laughter still in the halls like a story left untold. 
He peeks into rooms and crevices,  poking at his mind,
He draws conclusions and he relishes in the worlds that he can find. 
The front room transports him to his youth,  drawing memory and pictures alike-
Recalling a house where he ran uncouth,  and a black kitten sat upon a red trike.
 
The kitchen brought the grazing of knees, a whirlwind summer romance,
Sharing gifts in the winter breeze, and a drunken attempt at a dance. 
Memories plunge into his conscience, forever suspended in the boundaries of his home,
In the garden singing songs of nonsense with friends, whilst playing catch with a gnome. 
Like a drunk, he drinks in his past drowning as he devours his life,
Eyes (focused but still seeming glassed) show the pain of recalling his strife 

A photograph with...

The Wish

In the beginning, there was nothing but a swirling mist woven between the atoms of an unmade universe. 
Then, there was a Woman. 
Clothed in a silver dress and sheets of stark white hair, she was beautiful, gliding through the nothingness like a ghost ship. Easily as enigmatic. Easily as formidable. She was a dealer leading the blind in a game of poker with blank cards. She had the potential to be the creator of all that could be and the undoing of all that ever was. 
She granted wishes but on one condition- they could not be undone.
Creating the first man, she sculpted an idea and breathed into it the essence of life, the droplets from her breath hanging in the darkness like something yet to be placed. 

“What do you wish for?” she asked, her unearthly voice echoing in the nothingness. 
Thinking, the man frowned. And then, in a cautious tone, he said, 
“An answer. How many...

Song Writing Competition 2021

Some Days

 Hey kiddo, some days matter, most will be hell 
while you're tossing every dream down that old wishing well,
but if you close your eyes, make a wish and don't tell, 
the stars'll pull a blinder; throw a ball and you're the belle 

You're incredible and everyone here knows it-
Laughing in the downpour, dancing in the rain, 
You're chemical with that smile, don't compose it, 
One day you'll be grinning from the hall of fame 

But you work too hard, stay up way too late 
Forget to eat, forget to sleep, forget to go out in the day 
I know it's hard to see life in the same way
but why hurry to the station when there's not any trains?

Cause, kid, remember this;

Some days matter, most will be hell, 
while you're tossing every dream down that old wishing well,
but if you close your eyes, make a wish and don't tell,
the stars'll pull a blinder; throw a...

the angst of a teenager in love [redacted]

Love? What do you know about my love? What do you know about the pain that never stops, the pain that makes me feel like I've been ripped open from inside, that...that feeling that comes with love. The one that isn't love. And it isn't pain. It's more like acceptance. Acceptance that you have made me vulnerable, and that I would do anything to love you past my welcome. Give me that chance, and I will love you, 

 I will love you as the bee loves the flower, and the flower loves the sun. I will love you as the fish loves the water; the skin loves the needle; the ball loves the net. I will love you as the dirt road loves the car, and the car loves the friends, and the friends love each other. Like the drunk loves the drink or as the Turk loves the dance. We used to have all the time in the world,...

I can't say it

I don't know how to say I love you. 
I don't think I ever have, really.

I'm never sure how to tell you that if you weren't in my life then birdsong would be synonymous with silence, that summer could be replaced with sheets of cascading rain and I still would not notice. That the aroma of each and every sweet-smelling spring flower would lose its scent if you weren't in my life. 
I'm not even sure how I would go about telling you that life would be banal, days would be lifeless and futile, and the moon, the stars, the galaxies so far away would be no more alluring than the dirt at my feet and no more enigmatic than the wants of a minstrel if I lived a life where you loved anyone but me. 
I suppose I don't know how to articulate the dragons I'd slay to win your favour. Maybe not a dragon. But definitely a...

Better Days

Ladies of Yesterday, and Ladies of Tomorrow,
And Ladies of All-The-Space-In-Between, 
Tell us a story of Better Days,
Of ones we missed or are yet to be seen

Tell us stories of friends, and days in the sun, 
And parties stumbling well into night,
Tell us of times we embrace others with grins
And children go wild with guiltless delight. 

Bright eyes in high streets; smiles seen without masks. 
Please, tell us these days lie ahead,
Ones where mosh pits, and ballet, and Shakespeare coexist,
And by the greatest, our people are led. 

Lords of Light, and Lords of Darkness, 
And Lords of the Ineffable Unknown, 
Grant us the wish of Better Days to live for, 
An act of mercy after the lack you have shown 

Let us be free to make our mistakes and excuses, 
Let us know the true price of love, 
Let us make memories, sing out of tune with friends,
Soar with the twittering birds high...

Plastic Container

Some days 
                  I sit beside my windowsill and ponder 
                             
                                 have I lost? 

                            is this all I can give?
                                                                                       
 No. 
           I am not lost, I am misled. 

Then I recall a forgotten truth, one to remind me of my worth


I have a cake 
                         
   ...

Forever

Maybe,

                                        if life was to be loved,

                                                                                                                  and to be loved was to be alive,



 you and I would have had the time to scour the skies for stars

     brighter
      and older        and more beautiful

                                                                               than...

Normality

Undoubtedly, this year’s been tough; our normal has been turned on its side, 
From online school to being outraged at maskless actors… in films from 1985 
It’s been strange to comprehend at all, the year when everyone became a baking fanatic, 
Wondering if this is ‘the end of times’. It’s not. We’re just dramatic.  
Like Raymond Blanc we became master chefs; like Gordon Ramsay, we shouted. A lot.  
We went for more walks than The Wombles to the point where even the dog would rather not.  
And that, it makes it almost sound laughable. Like it was easy, it was a bit of fun. 
But it hasn’t been, really, has it? Some days you were bored of it. You were done.  
People lost loves ones they can never replace, and they will always be missed,  
And half the time those people were treated like merely another name on the list.  
That became normal so quickly, forgetting that statistics are people...

Cake and Custard


Sat in the tree at the bottom of the garden, hidden high in the boughs 
That was the day we laughed ‘til we cried, tears streaming down our faces like sap down the oak
It was the day Billie Porter went soaring from his bike after nicking our ball and broke his leg. He was in a cast for weeks, remember? God, it was the funniest thing in the world, wasn’t it? 
When we were seven, lurching away from his mates. But we were faster, you and me, and we sat highest in the tree munching our way through his sweets. 
You said
“Today. Today is a good old day” 
I nodded. I didn’t know what you meant. We were only seven. 

Kicking an old apple around a field, trying to dodge the missiles it sent flying at our face and tearing at our shins. We did a keepie-uppie challenge to impress the girls. 
Jessie Lyons was beautiful, wasn’t she?  ...

the life in the hands of the living

                              What are our lives, if not lost in the care

                 That lies so engulfing, so mundane yet so rare?

The noise and the silence, the rise and the fall-

                Why do we have no leisure to walk free and walk tall?

                             We have no time to sit or to stare, 

                no time to watch sunset waltz through the air. 

Not a second to spend on the rustle of trees,

               nor a minute to laugh until weak at the knees. 

                            Like spiders, with thoughts, we’re constantly weaving, 
...

The Drabble

A Hundred Words

Breathe.

We can do this- of course we can do this, who're you kidding? A hundred words is more than enough! Maybe I could write about an alluring lady as she waltzes through the darkness, the silence only broken by the occasional scrape of her heel along a hardwood floor.  Or...or maybe I could write about a fearsome dragon! Yeah, with scales as impenetrable as bedrock, or the fridge at 2am. Scorching thatched roofs as it soars overhead with wings the side of- no, too long. 
Think. I've got it! The perfect idea!

I'll start writing-
Oh for God's sake. 
 

Dust Jacket

It is 2:43am and I Don't Want to go to Sleep

PROMPT #1: WRITER ID
What is your favorite genre to write? 
Fantasy 

What is your favorite genre to read? 
Fantasy or mystery!

What draws you to the WtW community? 
I love having somewhere to get and give feedback without it feeling like a burden 

What do you find most challenging about writing?
Starting; that first page is a nightmare

Most exhilarating?  
Getting more pages than expected written!

What is one goal that you have for yourself while here? 
To finish the first draft of my book using the feedback I get from general creative writing pieces :)

PROMPT #2: ALL IN A NAME

Were you named after someone?
Sadly not, although I might just pretend I was named after Molly Weasley 

Have you always been called a nickname?
I have an extortionate number of nicknames; Moll, Molls, Grollster, Nashers, Nasher, Margarita, Ian Malcolm (long story), and Grooligan, to name a few!

Do you know anyone with the same name?
Fictional...

Self-Love

5 Reasons I Love Myself, and 5 Reasons You Should Too

1. I'm painfully funny. Everywhere I go, I cause rib-splitting, tear-jerking, slapping-your-knee-and-howling laughter with my Hilarity. I'm serious. Wait- 

2. I think I'm quite nice, or at least I try to be.

3. I am fiercely competitive. Is that a good thing? Maybe not. Do I love it anyway? You guessed it!

4. I am very good at giving personalised book recommendations.

5. I've been with me for a while. Turns out I'm decent company.

Why YOU should love yourself

1. You're stuck with you for a while, you should love you for future you, too. 

2. You've been through all of your struggles, and you're on the other side of them (or if you are in them, you'll be through them soon, I promise)

3. You are beautiful, inside and out 

4. You have got so many talents, and so many more you haven't discovered yet. 

5. Because you deserve it. 

Why you should love ME 

1. Of course...

Names for Nature

Between a House, a Church, and an Angry Scouser in a Nissan Micra

Between my house, the Old Church on Marlowe road (I can't quite recall its name- something St Andrews, I think), and the constantly gridlocked main road heading north towards the tunnel, is some grass. That's it, really. Nothing much. Approximately seven feet wide at the base by a length of a dozen at best (coming to a rather sudden-but-not-quite-pointed-enough halt to be triangular, because I think throwing an unexpected shape in there might have startled the construction worker, or whoever goes around building knee-high fences around extremely small areas of grass) this hugely insignificant scrap of land is overlooked by most passers-by. 
I, however, stumbled upon it one evening, fairly recently. Being in a... philosophical mood, let's say, and it being the first time I had been out with friends (who I go to school with and am [or at least was until two weeks ago] a part of a bubble with) in some significant while, with a...

Book Review Competition 2021

Book Review Competition 2021 - Good Omens

Sir Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's Good Omens is a linguistical masterpiece that intertwines romance, betrayal, growing up, and childhood with an effortless flair of divinities, flustered angels, demons who 'did not so much as Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards', 17th-century prophets, and the increasing tempo of the drumbeat as Armegeddon inches steadily closer. It really is that simple; I'm onto my fifth read!
Tremendously benign, endlessly inventive, and unorthodoxly funny, Good Omens is, plainly, a delight that satiates the need of lovers of each and every genre. 

(Excluding horror, unless you find Witchfinder Seargent Shadwell's eating habits positively ghastly [spoiler, you should!])

The book begins as every book does- at the beginning- but this time, we really mean it. Follow the toils of the ever angelic Aziraphale ('an Angel, and part-time rare-book dealer'), and the painfully stylistic, Queen-loving demon Crowley as they journey from observing the beginning of the world as we know it, to trying to prevent the...

The Birth of a Star

In the beginning, there was nothing but a swirling mist woven between the atoms of an unmade universe. 
Then, there was a Woman. 
Clothed in a silver dress and with stark white hair, she was beautiful, gliding through the nothingness like a ghost ship. Easily as enigmatic. Easily as formidable. She was a dealer leading the blind in a game of poker with blank cards. She had the potential to be the creator of all that could be and the undoing of all that ever was. 
She granted wishes but on one condition- they could not be undone.
Creating the first man, she sculpted an idea and breathed into it the essence of life.

“What do you wish for?” she asked, her unearthly voice echoing in the nothingness. 
Thinking, the man frowned. And then, in a cautious tone, he said, 
“An answer. How many wishes can I have?”
The Woman looked at him, impressed, and smiled. 
“As many as you...

Names for Nature

Between a House, a Church, and an Angry Scouser in a Nissan Micra

Between my house, the Old Church- I can't recall its actual name- on Marlowe road, and the constantly gridlocked main road heading north towards the tunnel, is some grass. That's it, really. Nothing much. Approximately a base of seven feet and a length of a dozen  at best (coming to a rather sudden but not quite pointed enough halt to be triangular, because I think throwing an unexpected shape in there might have startled the construction worker, or whoever goes around building knee-high fences around extremely small areas of grass) this hugely insignificant scrap of land is overlooked by most passers-by. 
I, however, stumbled upon one evening, fairly recently. Being in a... philosophical mood, let's say, and it being the first time I had been out with friends (who I go to school with and am ((or at least was until two weeks ago)) a part of a bubble with) in some significant while, with a child-size plastic sword I...

Pandemic Memoir

Pandemic Memoir- Six Words

 IT Crowd, Series 1, Episode 2

Better Days

Ladies of Yesterday, and Ladies of Tomorrow,
And Ladies of All-The-Space-In-Between, 
Tell us a story of Better Days,
Of ones we missed or are yet to be seen

Tell us stories of friends, and days in the sun, 
And parties stumbling well into night,
Tell us of times we embrace others with grins
And children go wild with guiltless delight. 

Bright eyes in high streets; smiles seen without masks. 
Please, tell us these days lie ahead,
Ones where mosh pits, and ballet, and Shakespeare coexist,
And by the greatest, our people are led. 

Lords of Light, and Lords of Darkness, 
And Lords of the Ineffable Unknown, 
Grant us the wish of Better Days to live for, 
An act of mercy after the lack you have shown 

Let us be free to make our mistakes and excuses, 
Let us know the true price of love, 
Let us make memories, sing out of tune with friends,
Soar with the twittering birds high...

Help! I need to shave 36 words!

In the beginning, there was nothing but a swirling mist woven between the atoms of an unmade universe. 
Then, there was a Woman. 
Clothed in a silver dress and with stark white hair, she was beautiful, gliding through the nothingness like a ghost ship and easily as enigmatic. Effortlessly, she oozed knowledge and wisdom; she was a dealer leading the blind in a game of poker with blank cards, and she had a role. 
She granted wishes but on one condition- they could not be undone.
Bored, she sculpted an idea and breathed into it the essence of life, creating the first man. 
“What do you wish for?” she asked, her unearthly voice echoing in the nothingness. 
Thinking, the man frowned. And then, in a cautious tone, he said, 
“An answer. How many wishes can I have?”
The Woman looked at him, impressed, and smiled. 
“As many as you can bear.” 
“...I wish for love,” he began.
“Then you shall...

Help! I need to shave 36 words!

In the beginning, there was nothing but a swirling mist woven between the atoms of an unmade universe. 
Then, there was a Woman. 
Clothed in a silver dress and with stark white hair, she was beautiful, gliding through the nothingness like a ghost ship and easily as enigmatic. Effortlessly, she oozed knowledge and wisdom; she was a dealer leading the blind in a game of poker with blank cards, and she had a role. 
She granted wishes but on one condition- they could not be undone.
Bored, she sculpted an idea and breathed into it the essence of life, creating the first man. 
“What do you wish for?” she asked, her unearthly voice echoing in the nothingness. 
Thinking, the man frowned. And then, in a cautious tone, he said, 
“An answer. How many wishes can I have?”
The Woman looked at him, impressed, and smiled. 
“As many as you can bear.” 
“...I wish for love,” he began.
“Then you shall...

Stay Alive

Stay alive for the 4am sunrises and the 5pm sunsets 
that cast the sky into colours it really ought not to be.
For the cat that lurks on the corner of the road and purrs 
if you stretch out a friendly hand. 
Stay alive for the symphony of stars that buzz in the night, 
blinding the abyss and paving the way for tomorrow, and
the amicable bus driver that smiles when he sees you. 
Stay alive for the bacon butties sizzling on the grill, 
the roar of the crowds and the sigh of the petals;
for the whisper of the trees or the smoke of the chimney,
or the way your mother says your name. 
You could stay alive for your bike, or your dog, or your work, 
or for the stranger you pass every day at the bus stop, 
the stranger that really is more of a friend. 
Stay alive for tomorrow, and the next day, and the day...

The Executioner


It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

(On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight.)

Skulking about a long-forgotten rusted playground upon an even longer-forgotten graveyard were two demons. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace.
Suddenly one of them stopped, casting a yellow eye to the church upon the hill opposite. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer upon a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Now, however, she was sprawled across the top of abandoned monkey bars. They weren't half as comfortable.
The other figure grunted unresponsively. 
“Oh come on, Az. You’ve got to at least comfort me,” Grigor moaned, rolling to her front.
“No, I don’t think I do,” the other replied brusquely. Two horns poked out of...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

The Executioner


It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

(On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight.)

Skulking about a long-forgotten rusted playground upon an even longer-forgotten repurposed graveyard were two demons. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped, casting a yellow eye to the church upon the hill opposite. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer upon a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Now, however, she was sprawled across the top of abandoned monkey bars. They weren't as comfortable.
The other figure grunted unresponsively. 
“Oh come on, Az. You’ve got to at least comfort me,” Grigor moaned, rolling to her front.
“No, I don’t think I do,” the other replied brusquely. Two horns poked out of...

An Analogy of Human Life

I've been thinking, and I don't do it a lot, if you had to create an analogy for human life, what would it be? One gargantuan analogy for the whole of creation; every adversity and accomplishment; every scene of serenity or bleak day of endless fog and ghostly mist and cups of tea gone cold...what would it be?
How could you shove it all under one umbrella? 
Scratch that, how do you find the source of life? Last time I checked, there's no map to help find yourself. There's no rulebook on how to be a person. There aren't even any guidelines, which I think is appalling and will have to make a complaint with the Big Guy once I get up there. Assuming I do.
Human life is so...versatile. Not in a strictly progressive motion, but within the overlaps, or in the spaces between the lines of the definition in the dictionary, it's undefinable. 
Technically it wouldn't be difficult to...

Runaway

It was the day I felt alive. 
You were at my side, laughing, screaming, swinging 'round the birch trees and falling perfectly to a heap on the floor. We lay there for hours amongst the leaves, praying we could stay longer. Forever couldn't have bothered us.
Like tomorrow, we waited, but forever never came. And so we ran through the intertwining trees, leapt over streams. We sang the songs of the dead, threw caution on the 3:00 o'clock bus, and paid no heed to the consequences, because we were alive. We were exactly where we belonged; with each other. When we jumped, we flew until we found a soft place to fall.
Laughter followed us like yesterday, always just behind us, and we were always on the edge. Oh, how I loved it. 
Belonging. I'd never felt it before. Belonging amongst the pattering of rain, and the breath of the trees and their whispering: the roots binding the soil...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

The Executioner


Today was the type of day that if a flood were to follow a famine, and a plague of locusts follow the flood, the rivers of blood could only flow so far before the Gods accepted they had ‘squat’ on today. 
A lousy, horrendous, good-for-nothing day, where the pains in Mrs Johnson’s knees promised a storm of black clouds, probably without any silver lining. 

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

On the contrary, it was mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 degrees dropping to 6 around midnight. Not that this is pertinent to the story. 
Immensely relevant, however, were the two demons skulking about a rusted playground. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as Lucifer...

Novel Writing Competition 2020

The Executioner



Today was the type of day that if a flood were to follow a famine, and a plague of locusts follow the flood, the rivers of blood could only flow so far before the Gods accepted they had ‘squat’ on today. 
An abhorrently lousy, horrendous, good-for-nothing day where the pains in Mrs Johnson’s knees promised a storm of black clouds. Probably without the silver lining. 

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

On the contrary, it was somewhat mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 dropping to 6 around midnight. Not that this is relevant to the story. 
Immensely pertinent, however, were the two figures skulking about a rusted playground. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as...

Writing without Purpose

Most of the time, I write with a purpose or a storyline in my head. Even if it's crashing down from the storyboard, half a plan (known as a pl or, conversely, an an) is better than non. 
But today, I thought I'd write until something was on the page. 
No characters, no plot, nothing.
Nada. Nichts. A brand new sparkling page, and a dull, banal mind.
Like a new-born foal or a recently hatched chameleon- if chameleons hatch at all- I shall stumble through the words and lack thereof like a drunken father lurching his way home. Hey, that was a double simile. A simile...squared?
Anyway, that part isn't exactly pertinent. 
Writing without a purpose is like striding outside with every intention to ride your bike, except you are blindfolded, your bike has no wheels, and you live on a boat. Technically possible, just slightly difficult in practice. 
My experiences with writing without a purpose tend to mirror whatever...

Writing without Purpose

Most of the time, I write with a purpose or a storyline in my head. Even if it's falling off the storyboard, half a plan (also known as a pl, or conversely, an an) is better than non.
But today, I thought I'd write until something was on the page. 
No characters, no plot, nothing. Nada. Nichts. A brand new page, and equally banal mind.
Like a new-born foal or a recently hatched chameleon- if chameleons hatch- I shall stumble through the words (and lack thereof) like a drunken father lurching his way home. Hey, that was a double simile. A simile...squared?
Anyway, that part isn't exactly pertinent. 
Writing without a purpose is like striding outside with every intention to ride your bike, except you are blindfolded, your bike has no wheels, and you live on a boat. Technically possible, just slightly difficult in practice. 
My experiences with writing without a purpose tend to mirror whatever on earth this is,...

Runaway

It was the day I felt alive. 
You were at my side, laughing, screaming, swinging 'round the birch trees and falling perfectly to a heap on the floor. We lay there for hours amongst the leaves, praying we could stay longer. Forever couldn't have bothered us.
Like tomorrow, we waited, but forever never came. And so we ran through the intertwining trees, leapt over streams. We sang the songs of the dead, threw caution on the 3:00 o'clock bus, and paid no heed to the consequences, because we were alive. We were exactly where we belonged; with each other. When we jumped, we flew until we found a soft place to fall.
Laughter followed us like yesterday, always just behind us, and we were always on the edge. Oh, how I loved it. 
Belonging. I'd never felt it before. Belonging amongst the pattering of rain, and the breath of the trees and their whispering: the roots binding the soil...

Not Quite the First Chapter

If you were to turn left at Priorwall Street, Liverpool, then turn right, before turning left again, you would drive into the River Mersey. This would not only ruin your shoes and cost you an unseemly amount in vehicle restoration but also earn you several peculiar looks from the general public- particularly Mrs Ecklestone and her toy poodle, Gertrude. And if you were to do so at nine twenty-seven in the morning on the 7th of September 1998, you would find a beginning. Our beginning.
Like most beginnings, this one starts with a cry; the first cry of life, of losing the warmth of the womb, of the doctors in their silly little masks. It has been (and always be) a perfectly reasonable reason to cry.
The owner of this cry, in this particular hospital, on this particular crisp September morning, (where coats were pulled tighter and umbrellas wrenched inside out) was abhorred from the moment his eyes opened. He...

The Executioner

Today was the type of day that if a flood were to follow a famine, and a plague of locusts follow the flood, the rivers of blood could only flow so far before the Gods accepted they had ‘squat’ on today. 
An abhorrently lousy, horrendous, good-for-nothing day where the pains in Mrs Johnson’s knees promised a storm with black clouds. Probably without the silver lining. 

It wasn’t a dark and stormy night.

On the contrary, it was somewhat mild for mid-October, with a high of 17 dropping to 6 around midnight. Not that this is relevant to the story. 
Immensely pertinent, however, were the two figures skulking about a rusted playground. They'd been commended for their skulkery; they skulked with purpose, and they skulked with menace. Suddenly one of them stopped. 
“I don’t want to do this,” Grigor hissed. 
She was a duchess of hell. Tall, handsome, and chiselled, she sat upon the right-hand side of the adversary known as...

You Just Couldn't Write It


Once upon a time, I sat down to write a book. 

Immediately, I fell in love with the characters and their idiosyncrasies; I'd see them walking down the street, or in the really rather eccentric supply teacher who wore a three-piece suit and carried a pocket watch, or in the joke raising lazy chuckles from the suburbs of the friendship group. Everything about them was special to me, and they deserved a story.
Armed with motivation, naivety, and absolutely no idea what was to follow (plus a pen, a notebook, and acceptance of several sleepless nights) I dove into writing headfirst, before realising far too late that the pool was closed for drainage. 
Everything went, to put it without swearing,  wrong. Not with my book, but with the world- of course, when I wanted to hunker down and actually do something, a literal global pandemic reared it very punchable head. Strange. It's almost like fate just went 'Nah, horrible idea....

Until the First Love Dies

You were my first love. Like the click of a lock, you trapped my attention in the flash of your smile, those perfections you claim are imperfect.

It’s only natural my love should fade over time, but, inevitably, you will engulf me once more. Like a blanket stitched of cotton and melancholy woe, your affection shielded me, and your humour intoxicated me. It always has. Your smile, your eyes, the scrunch of your nose when you laugh; you will always be the girl I loved. 

 I will love you as the bee loves the flower, and the flower loves the sun. I will love you as the fish loves the water; the skin loves the needle; the ball loves the net. I will love you as the dirt road loves the car, and the car loves the friends, and the friends love each other. Like the drunk loves the drink or as the Turk loves the dance. We used to...

Fly

Hey, it's tough. 
Undeniably, indisputably, irrefutably tough.
But it's okay: you can and will get through this. 
Like the lion and the hoop amongst the roaring crowds and acrid stench of popcorn in the throat; like the mother of three scrambling at her deadline amongst screaming kids and a fuse shorter than a burned match. You will get through this so long as the sun rises and the curtain falls- as the kettle boils, and the sparrows sing, and the teenagers moan. As certain as the sunflowers will burst unapologetically into the spring, encasing the raging ball of flame within fragile petals. Certain as that, the tunnel will end. The light will beam upon your shoulders.
The day it doesn't, the hourglass will tell a lifetime, and the dead will be early.
Once the final cork is launched; the last promise is broken; the last secret is shared. Perhaps when the last myth dies on the tip of the tongue,...

Setting as Mood

Summer

Addie had a feeling that something was coming to an end; she didn't quite know what, exactly, but she knew there was something
Aimlessly, she wandered down the winding path, over the gravel that crunched underfoot and sent travellers skidding uncontrollably into the low stone wall withered with time and wind. The wall stood stentorian as a marker between this and the Other Side. It had done so for years, and years had marked it well.
Amongst the dying heath, and spiky ferns, and molehills crushed so easily underfoot, the Other Side was rife with life; it crouched in the shadows- an amicable beast resting on its haunches and purred beneath the songs of birds flying higher than Sinatra. Veins pulsed through the undergrowth, so close to the surface but never quite breaking through. Why should it? Like a train track woven by the hand of the Creator, the river raced against the pulsing life, eager to drain it...

It's Raining Again

It's raining again. I can't take any more. 
It doesn't stop; from the moment that the first splash hits the floor, 
the smiles drop and the umbrellas rise, and hands raise to heads to shield vulnerable eyes. 
What's there to do? You just follow suit... like an ant in the march of the trivial pursuit-
is it of happiness or is that just a lie you brand in your brain to carry on the game? 
I march on and on, in the hustle of black wings. They fight and brawl and aim for eyes.
I don't watch the bustle, it's merely a disguise to contort the way we look to the skies. 
The skies that used to be exciting, all blue and clear, with promises of tomorrow you actually wanted to hear.
Now no one watches. And no one listens. There's no noise in the square, just black tarmac that glistens
with rain. I'm so sick of it. Of the...

There's a Star Beneath my Window

Isn’t it strange to look out the window and feel like a prisoner in freedom? 
I suppose lockdown has given me plenty of time to wish I was anywhere else; the stars, or the moon maybe. I love the night sky, how we can look up and see burning balls of gas that fizzled out of existence before we even opened our eyes. They seem so eternal and unchanging, yet when we look at them we are gazing from out of our window and straight into the past. That’s how life feels at the moment. Like I’m watching everything that could’ve been, and focusing on what hasn’t even happened yet. But even that has a comfort to it- the present is full of liars and discord and cups of tea that have gone cold. It’s day after day of calamity and, quite frankly, misery.
And it’s beautiful. 
Not because of the sadness, of course not, but the unity that comes...

Patchwork Memories

A satchel hanging on the door;  a mug of tea gone cold.
The ghosts of laughter still in the halls like a story left untold. 

He peeks into rooms and crevices,  poking at his mind,
He draws conclusions and he relishes in the worlds that he can find. 

The front room transports him to his youth,  drawing memory and pictures alike-
Recalling a house where he ran uncouth,  and a black kitten sat upon a red trike.
 
The kitchen brought the grazing of knees, a whirlwind summer romance,
Sharing gifts in the winter breeze, and a drunken attempt at a dance. 

Memories plunge into his conscience, forever suspended in the boundaries of his home,
In the garden singing songs of nonsense with friends, whilst playing catch with a gnome. 

Like a drunk, he drinks in his past drowning as he devours his life,
Eyes (focused but still seeming glassed) show the pain of recalling his strife 

A photograph with...

Dust Jacket

It is 2:43am and I Don't Want to go to Sleep

PROMPT #1: WRITER ID
What is your favorite genre to write? 
Fantasy 

What is your favorite genre to read? 
Fantasy or mystery!

What draws you to the WtW community? 
I love having somewhere to get and give feedback without it feeling like a burden 

What do you find most challenging about writing?
Starting; that first page is a nightmare

Most exhilarating?  
Getting more pages than expected written!

What is one goal that you have for yourself while here? 
To finish the first draft of my book using the feedback I get from general creative writing pieces :)


 

Last Day of June


June’s canvas sits upon her easel, palette, and brush off to the side.
Her husband looks up at the self-portrait, and ignores the tears that cloud his eyes.

He reaches out a hand to touch it, feel her warmth, just one last time,
He feels so cold, so empty without her, and soon scenes begin to play out in Carl's mind.

He was sent back to that fateful day, on the day that marked their marriage,
It was their 6th anniversary when June was told of her miscarriage.

She was heartbroken, a simple shell but Carl gave her a new meaning,
She learned to paint and sculpt, and June was slowly healing.

She was happy, so Carl was too, but when she did surprise him,
A birthday picnic ended in disaster when Carl lost control while driving 

Memories hit him like daggers; ripping into his heart and his soul,
Guilt and love and heartache, emotions Carl still can't control. 

His heart hurts...

Speed-run

What are our lives, if not lost in the care
That lies so engulfing, so mundane yet so rare?

The noise and the silence, the rise and the fall-
Why do we have no leisure to walk free and walk tall?

We have no time to sit or to stare, 
no time to watch sunset waltz through the air. 

Not a second to spend on the rustle of trees,
nor a minute to laugh until weak at the knees. 

Like spiders, with thoughts, we’re constantly weaving, 
And yet we think more about thinking than watching, perceiving

the world that surrounds us. So stop. Take a break.
Breathe in and relax. Learn from that mistake.

Every day wears a facade of the morose and the grim, 
Because we look but don’t see and we drown as we swim.


Those who note streams of stars through the night
Are the same ones who bask amiable in Nature's delight.

Step into tomorrow with...

Schrödinger's Glass

Being happy all the time is like trying not to blink,
Or trying to juggle sea urchins while writing in quill and ink,
Yes it’s quite impressive, it makes you likeable and fun, 
But sometimes always trying to be happy is a never ending run. 

While it’s pleasant to smile and laugh, play the jester of the court
It’s hard to remain so smiley when everyone thinks you’re solely of that sort
Once people get the image of you being light, funny, and breezy,
The next thing that follows the facade is the certainty your life is easy. 

Arguably, yes it is, your life is the best that in can be;
But that doesn’t mean that every single day is full of uninterrupted glee. 
Just know, you’re allowed to be sad, and think your life is a mess 
And yes, you are allowed to cry over what colour you want your dress. 

Don’t treat life like a performance, because when...

“Take Off Your Shoes, This is My House”

In the Future, Millions of Years Ago

When the first living thing existed, I was there, waiting    - Neil Gaiman

What are our lives, if not lost in the care
That lies so engulfing, so mundane yet so rare?
The noise and the silence, the rise and the fall-
Why do we have no leisure to walk free and walk tall?

We have no time to sit or to stare, 
no time to watch sunset waltz through the air. 
Not a second to spend on the rustle of trees,
nor a minute to laugh until weak at the knees. 

Like spiders, with thoughts, we’re constantly weaving, 
And yet we think more about thinking than actually perceiving
the world that surrounds us. So stop. Take a break.
Breathe in and relax. Learn from that mistake.

Every day wears a facade of the morose and the grim, 
Because we look but don’t see and we drown as we swim.
Those who note streams of stars through the night  ...

YOU in threes

Hey Look, It's Me!



Three quirks or idiosyncrasies.
Fist bumping everyone I meet 
Saying 'like' as every sixth word
Bursting into song every time someone says the lyric in conversation


Three communities to which you belong (these can be unusual).
Touch rugby club 
This one! 
A reddit page dedicated purely to Among Us 


Three adjectives your peers would use to describe you.
Funny
Smart 
Annoying


Three adjectives your family would use.
Mental
Polite
'Talented'


Three adjectives you would use.
Polite
Determined 
Irritating


Three things about you that very few people know.
I would love to be an actress
I'm struggling a lot with school despite the fact I'm smart 
I have a crippling fear of growing up


Three beliefs you hold.
I will not grow up, even as an adult
There is a God, but he tends to get stuff wrong and isn't as benevolent as perceived
Being childish (not in a petty way) is not a bad thing


Three questions you have.
What...

We Miss You, Sport!

A Little Bit of Irony

Sports. It isn't for everyone. 
See, if you had asked me, what, five years ago about the importance of sports, you would have been met with a bemused grin and been pointed along to someone who actually cared. At twelve years old, I had far more important things to be interested in than sports, like counting the dust particles within yellowing pages, or watching a cactus wither and die on the windowsill. Books, I decided, were much more my forte. 
Later that year, however, I would be coerced into the best decision of my life; joining a touch rugby club. Armed with no expectations, I entered the tumult of rugby balls, luminous cones, and a coach with a whistle louder than the fury of God, or perhaps a hungry cat at 4am, and I left with a best friend and a family that was just as raucous and insane as my own. Before I knew it, it had been three...

Why I Write

Oh, Hello!

Hello! Why am I here?
To answer a question, well I think I can do that. Fire away

Why do I write?
God, that's a good question. And, realistically, there's no definitive answer, is there? Oh, there is? Well then.

I could say I write because, if I don't, that strange woman with hooked fingernails and a beautiful face (that I'm sure wasn't hers) will come back through the tree at the bottom of the garden and throw my Dad into a river. She said she would all those years ago. It must've been a few hundred by now.
Or, I could say I write because it means I can escape our mundane existence, where fairies don't come round for tea, and princes aren't allowed to duel for my hand in honour with intricately carved jousting poles that shatter into a thousand splinters of wood like sunlight on thawing ice, or the beams of a torch in a diamond. I...

That Sort of Person

Simply A Good Lad

He's the type of lad to laugh at every joke you say, just to make you feel good about yourself, or to save your seat without knowing if you're coming, or to climb a tree and sit there for hours, staring at the stars and praying for the day he gets to see them for himself. 

We Miss You, Sport!

A Little Bit of Irony

Sports. It isn't for everyone. 
See, if you had asked me, what, five years ago about the importance of sports, you would have been met with a bemused grin and been pointed along to someone who actually cared. At twelve years old, I had far more important things to be interested in than sports, like counting the dust particles within yellowing pages, or watching a cactus wither and die on the windowsill. Books, I decided, were much more my forte. 
Later that year, however, I would be coerced into the best decision of my life; joining a touch rugby club. Armed with no expectations, I entered the tumult of rugby balls, luminous cones, and a coach with a whistle louder than the fury of God, or perhaps a hungry cat at 4am, and I left with a best friend and a family that was just as raucous and insane as my own. Before I knew it, it had been three...

Speechwriting Competition 2020

The Cost of Free Speech

‘It is easy to believe in freedom of speech for those with whom we agree’ - Leo Mckern 
But what, essentially, is free speech?
Is it an opinion, a derogatory comment, a political belief? Perhaps it’s debating whether chocolate ice cream or vanilla ice cream is superior, or merely a reliance on satire? 
Ultimately, it’s a privilege. A privilege that has been so abused and contorted that now the cost of a hate crime is paid for with your ‘freedom’ of speech. 
According to the Human Right Act of 1998, “everyone has the right to freedom of expression” in the United Kingdom.
Though sounding perfectly reasonable, myriads of people abuse their freedom of speech repeatedly, using it to disparage and tarnish those around them. 
One striking resemblance of this behaviour is the incessantly insensitive, inhumane and recently inactive on Twitter Katie Hopkins, a media influencer whose toxic views border on hate speech. Routinely as clockwork, she mocks people in the...

Speechwriting Competition 2020

The Cost of Free Speech

‘It is easy to believe in freedom of speech for those with whom we agree’ - Leo Mckern 
But what, essentially, is free speech?
Is it an opinion, a derogatory comment, a political belief? Perhaps it’s debating whether chocolate ice cream or vanilla ice cream is superior, or merely a reliance on satire? 
Ultimately, it’s a privilege. A privilege that has been so abused and contorted that now the cost of a hate crime is paid for with your ‘freedom’ of speech. 
According to the Human Right Act of 1998, “everyone has the right to freedom of expression” in the United Kingdom.
Though sounding perfectly reasonable, myriads of people abuse their freedom of speech repeatedly, using it to disparage and tarnish those around them. 
One striking resemblance of this behaviour is the incessantly insensitive, inhumane and recently inactive on Twitter Katie Hopkins, a media influencer whose toxic views border on hate speech. Routinely as clockwork, she mocks people in the...