August 23, 2013
My Writing, Short Stories
childhood, church, death, fiction, flash fiction, friday, friday fictioneers, life, noose, short story, suicide, tree, writing
Hi again, I don’t think I’ve posted in almost half a year but I’m back, although I can’t promise I’ll stay, being so busy with exams coming up and all. Here’s something I whipped up for Friday Fictioneer’s, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff. I haven’t written anything good in months, my pathetic excuse is writers block but I’m trying to beat it. Anyway, here it is, constructive criticism wanted and I hope you enjoy.
It has been a while. For months I’ve passed this place and looked away, afraid to see the noose hanging from the tree. It’s gnarled knots and thick twisted branches, we used to climb across them and pretend we were monkeys’, or elves, or spies, giggling with glee, oblivious to all else.
So many memories, so much pain. I still remember our first kiss round the back, how we’d clambered onto the church roof, how once I broke my arm. I remember playing hide and seek, the last time I’d found him, hanging with a noose around his neck.
December 12, 2012
My posts a few and far between now, here’s a poem I wrote to pass the time though, hope you enjoy.
Pay… Or die.
You stand before your liege and your liege asks of nothing more.
The night wears thin,
Tis armour of yours shall not remain.
Stand in inequality or be thrusts into the reaper’s hands.
Write off your sovereignty or have your bones be carved with fate…
So be it, Virginia comes, comes creeping into your veins
November 27, 2012
celebration, end of exams, end of school, ender's game, english, english assignment, poem, poetry, sonnet
Woohoo! First I’d just like to celebrate the end of exams, which were actually last week, with the few remaining followers of mine, I don’t even know if your still out there and going to read this, I may be talking to myself but nevertheless. To celebrate the end of exams and pretty much year 10 all together, I think I’ll post an English assignment I had to do. Here it is, a sonnet to the book; Ender’s Game, by Orson Scott Card, we actually did a novel study on it last year but the teacher allowed us to write a sonnet for it anyway.
Ender’s Game Sonnet
A boy of eight, a third surplus child.
With the world’s fate in his murderous hand,
Once guiltless, once mild, but now wild.
Shed of his sins in space, only to brand
His strangely innocent but injurious mark.
Loved and hated, friends and enemies made
Ender by name, ruined dreams as his stark
Journey to the top pool left others staid.
Petted, fooled, isolated and betrayed
A ruthless abyss opened beneath him
A breach into a nightmare to evade.
With hands mutilated by death and grim,
Thousands killed in his wake, forever dead
It seemed. Yet no-one knew what lay ahead…
October 5, 2012
crystal, dark, darkness, friday fictioneers, house, kitchen, knife, living room, lock, lock picking, night, pain, prize, short story, silence, silent, strong, tears, theft, thief, ultimate prize, vase, writing
The house looked completely different under the veil of blackness, night had crept in and poisoned the place with darkness as she had crept in and began her search.
Picking the lock had been as easy as threading a needle through the hole in a truck tire, a novice could have done it with ease as well and it would have been that simple. The main entrance had led her into the main living room where everything was spruced up to perfection, not an inch had been left uncleaned.
As she crept into the kitchen, her knees bent and arms out poised for any interruption or quick retreat, she sighted the glimmer of the crystal vase encrypted with the ultimate prize. Her heart pounded with excitement as she reached the locked cabinet and began picking the lock.
The owners had not been quite so cursory with their choice of locks this time. Her frustration grew like a boil inside her as her first pick snapped in two, piercing the silence. She jammed another in just as she heard the slightest movement of well oiled hinges open from a room above, her heart raced faster and she stroked the knife in her pocket cautiously.
The second pick snapped as she heard soft footsteps press into the plush carpet of the stairs, she growled and grabbed her knife, knowing her presence was now known. She smashed the tip of her knife solidly into the glass door of the cabinet, fragments of glass shattered in all directions and spun on the wooden floor like ice shards on a solid slippery surface. She ignored the yell from behind and the broken glass as she reached in and snatched the vase.
Without second thought she turned and ran back to the door but a tall lean man barred her way, his great circular spectacles glinting in the moonlight which shone through a crack in the living room curtains. Panic rose within her as a flash of her previous time spent in prison crossed her mind, she wanted nothing more than to stay away from there forever.
She didn’t think twice as she stabbed the knife in between his ribs and felt it squirm towards his heart, he let out a final yelp as he sunk to his knees. A great wave of terror crashed down on her as she realised what she’d done, she’d never meant to hurt him she’d never done so to anyone in her life. She fled with tears carving thin rivulets down her cheeks and pain so strong within her she thought she was having a heart attack.
September 14, 2012
books, bookshelf, content, creative, dignified, fiction, friday fictioneers, knowledge, literature, manner, manuscript, realm, rest, she, spider, string, web, writing
She slammed the book closed in a dignified manner, knowing she had added a string of new knowledge to her ever-growing web of it. Carefully she slid it back into the bookshelf and dislodged another ancient manuscript which had been lost in time. The dust coating the edge of its yellowed pages, crammed in a rudimentary fashion, was easily blown away with a wisp of her breath.
With a content sigh, she leaned back into the comfy rocking chair which creaked with age like the bones of an old man. She flicked her heels off and rested her relieved feet on a box of more books, before plunging into a new pool of knowledge found in the realm of literature.
September 12, 2012
The idea had worked it’s way into her head, like a vine which wove it’s way so eccentrically into a trellis it took days to cut away. A single seed of an idea had been planted in her brain and grown so erratically there seemed no reason to cut it. She didn’t know if the idea was good or bad, just that it had to be done, so she got to work after thinking about it for two years.
With a shovel and hedge trimmer as her two most prioritised weapons, she got down to the dirty business of digging out it’s roots. Slowly but efficiently, she tore each single root out, no matter how small or big it was, whether it was the same as a hair width or a body builders arm, it was pulled out. She knew the roots were where it got it nutrients and water, water was an essential to living, so logically the roots were too. She hacked and slashed at the stem and leaves also, not only to release her blossoming anger for the vile thing but also to prevent it from making food, transporting water throughout it’s body and reproducing and spreading it’s evil.
At last she sat back on her haunches and sighed heavily with relief, her husband brought a deckchair and glass of champagne round and the two looked on happily at the large hole in the ground and wheelbarrow load of the plants remains. Her two children stalked off with stooped shoulders, relieved the painful summer holiday chore was over. She laughed and sneered at the evil remains of weeds and ugly plants the previous owner of the house had left behind.
“Great, we can use the firewood for kindling!” Her husband said.
“Good idea, and next weekend we’ll plant beautiful new plants there instead,” She sighed, the two laughed, littled did they know the children had heard and were groaning in aggrivation at the idea of another weekend working instead of wearing out their fingers playing xbox.
August 29, 2012
Poetry, Short Stories
cache, counting, ghost, golden days, golden time, immortal, moments, non-fiction, old, pendant, picture, picture it & write, poetry, realisation, short story, time, watch, writing
My Contribution for this week’s Picture It & Write, click here to see, is below. Hope you enjoy and constructive criticism is welcome as always.
They were the good old days, memories from that time are lathered in gold because they are my golden memories from a golden age. Back then when time was irrelevant, we felt like we had all the time in the world to share our special bond. Time didn’t matter to us hence why it spilled between our fingers and represented itself in occasional grey hairs which spouted amongst our normal young dark hair. We pretended it didn’t exist, we shoved it into the back of the closet and left it there, a ghost which sat and waited until the right time to come out and torment us.
By the time we realised it was real and it was there, we were too late, we’d let in stalk us in silence like a lion waiting to pounce. Time had separated us, it had torn the fake immortal chain which linked us, which we thought had been unbreakable. The chain had been broken and used to hold a pendant watch, a reminder he’d given to me before he’d left, that time was there and it was impossible to stop. He’d placed time in a cache of gold, to remind me of the golden days and that time was alway there, always watching your every move and counting down your final moments.