Forget the Stars

Are your memories the same as mine?

Do you remember me for who I once was?

I never thought it would take losing you to find myself again.

To remember I used to feel something other than this, something less; yet how can feeling nothing be so much more than at least feeling something, anything at all?

I said I wouldn’t shed a tear for you, and I have not, but for us I thought they would never stop – they were empty as they fell, as within time I found myself too to be.

As the sky is now, as it was when you sighed,

“They should shine for us tonight.”

And I replied, in bliss without,

“Forget the stars.”

And as I search for them, as you once did, I believe they forgot us too.

 

This is one of those things that you write as a teenager when you first experience heartache. At least, for me that’s what this is. I mean it’s pretty dramatic. I understand why I was feeling that way though, so reading it is almost like finding an old diary entry. Now, with my eternal wisdom after many years (I’m actually still quite young and probably even more annoying),  I’d probably respond to a break up a little less romantically. Maybe that’s because now we have Netflix? Anyway, I actually lost this for some time so I was happy to find it again. Even though it’s pretty embarrassing, as you know I’m trying to get over that stopping me from posting, so here: posted. Oh, as for what I would change? I don’t particularly like the line beginning with “To remember I used to feel…” it’s a little too riddle me this for the rest of the writing. I prefer it just being simple and to the point. I have no idea what I’d change it to though, this is a part of old me and she can keep it as it was originally written!

Elizabeth

“I know you…”

I was repeating myself; in my mind, with my voice.

I was saying, “I know you, I know you,” mentally screaming, “I know you!” and I did, I knew her.

The light of a church shone brightly nearby and in it I could see her fair hair, her eyes: their depth and their emotion. The slight figure I had only recently held in the very hands she now restrained; how small and helpless se had seemed then.

My wrists weren’t bound but the pressure of her delicate hands holding them together felt like they were clad by iron.

I could feel the sweat dripping down my bow as I desperately tried to move my fingertips.

Reaching a hand upwards she ran it smoothly over my cheek, feeling the moisture on my face; my sweat, the heat of her breath on my skin.

She inhaled quickly, suddenly drawing her hand down to my throat and within seconds pushing me backwards.

My head cracked off solid stone and although already wet with sweat I knew the liquid now soaking through my hair was blood.

I gasped as her lips came to my neck. As I felt the sharp sting of her teeth piercing my skin, the pain of them sinking into a vein, the sensation of my mind opening to such an impossible possibility as I realised I had been expecting all of this but refusing to believe it to be true.

I felt my eyes begin to blur and body begin to numb, but my thoughts were clear and no, I could not go down this easily.

I clawed at her hair, tangling its waves in my fingers, pulling at the strands with what strength I had left.

I tried to scream, but I could muster little sound, little more than a spluttering that sounded more like I was going to vomit the word vampire than scream it.

Before me I could still see the lights of the church, how dim they were becoming, and with an emotion I cannot explain I realised my body was failing me.

I was but moments away from death…

I felt my limbs weaken, I felt the faintness, I felt the exhaustion, the submission, I felt my hands weakly fall down her back and I felt my lips part as I choked what I thought to be my last words:

“Elizabeth, please.”

“You are too alike. I thought that by ridding myself of you she would be gone; would no longer haunt me.”

I sighed knowing that such a thing to say should be followed by an outburst of tears. But I had cried, cried until I thought no longer tears could flow, and now it appeared as though they could not.

I placed my hand on his head as I felt him stir. It was gently that he did but I felt a rush of content flood through me knowing I had stopped in time. My peace ended abruptly as with his next movement I felt him begin to shake. I had given him my own blood in an attempt to heal him. It wouldn’t matter the type, my blood could heal any I had fed on, a way to redeem one’s self I thought bitterly and grunted a laugh.

I took a deep breath and looked down at him; he looked so weak, so helpless. I wanted to pull him closer, to tell him I was sorry and beg for forgiveness, but instead I chose to do something I thought I would never have the courage to do.

I pulled my coat which I had laid over him higher to cover his neck and the wound which I had caused. He needed to be kept warm. If I had the strength I would have moved him, but from trying to revive him I now had little; I was drained.

Steadying my breath I held my voice no higher than a whisper as I began:

“You know what I am, you always knew.” I said to him, as though replying to his previous comments, only a life time too late.

“But how I came to be, what led my path to yours, the result of which could have been your death in exchange for my eternal life, you will learn only through my story.

“A story I am finally willing to tell.”

You know, just yesterday I was talking to someone about how we get from A to B when writing a story. This is part of my A. When I get an idea, I first get a feel for it in my head, and then I write something in that world. I never have, and probably (unfortunately) never will, go straight to the plotting board. I like to write a sample first, something that gets me into the mood of the story. I found when I wrote my book that the final story turned out very differently to what I had first started writing, and I can’t help but wonder where I would have taken this story.

It was going to be about Elizabeth, our main vampire lady, and the love story that had destroyed her. Nothing new there then, but that’s okay. It was also going to somewhat link in with the Verity story I posted a few weeks ago, but now I know that Verity will be a part of my series, I don’t think Elizabeth will be joining her.

Anyway, about the writing: it ain’t awful. It’s when I was developing how to write. Now, I’m kind of over that over emphasis on everything that I seemed to have enjoyed doing back then. I’m also not so big on writing in first person, which I seem to have also done a lot of in the past. Supposedly, young adults (and I was a young adult when writing most of my Flashback Friday Fiction) relate better to first person, so I find it interesting that it’s also how I wrote. My book isn’t in first person, however. I now prefer to write in third and be a bit of an omniscient narrator (I know all your secrets, mwahaha).

Another thing I’m not so keen on is the switch in point of view so early in the story. It just confuses things and I’m fairly certain that I had planned for the story to be told all from Elizabeth’s point of view. I suppose I was going for some kind of reaction, wanting the reader to somewhat fear Elizabeth and see her as a mysterious character before I introduced her as the main.

I don’t have any plans to write this story. It actually might be one of the only stories that I’ve started and don’t plan to go back to. I think it’s because of how serious I planned it to be. I don’t recall having any characters in mind to add humour and now when I write I like to have those characters. Also, vampires. I don’t believe vampires have been done to death in literature, I just think that for me they have. I was massively interested in vampires as a teenager and read a lot about vampire mythology and, of course, I was a huge fan of Anne Rice. Now, I just feel bored the minute I see something is about vampires. Although, I do still really want to watch What We Do in the Shadows!

Until next writing time machine,

-A

In Which a Girl Follows a Cat

The cool flow of the water rippled between my clammy toes and placed me in a soothing day dream. I sighed peacefully as the warm rays of the beaming sun embraced my body.

I had paid little attention to the rustle of the trees behind me, and so I was taken by surprised when I noticed I had company. As his eyes met mine, I realised that he too had not expected to find someone in such a desolate area.

He sat down beside me and watched with me the darting of the flies across the glistening lake.

I looked at him sceptically as he reached forward in attempt to catch a wandering dragon fly upon the reeds, and found myself laughing as he steadied himself from a near fall into the water.

He did not look back at me. Instead, he turned his head sharply in the other direction and then rose to walk away.

I found myself following his light footsteps in a soothing silence.

He led me out of the small woodland which surrounded the lake, down a well-trodden path, and across to a large run down barn.

Once inside, I saw to my surprise that it held little but dust and scraps of hay. I tagged along behind him as he stalked to a dark corner of the barn. I eyed the rafters above me suspiciously as though any minute they may fall heavily upon us.

Once I had reached him I crouched down beside him and gasped at the sight below the hay he had uprooted.

A family of mice sprinted desperately from beneath their hide out, scattering in all directions as he made petty attempts to catch one. I pulled him gently away, deciding his game was becoming more of a cruel past time than light hearted teasing.

We walked in our familiar silence towards the gap through which we had entered, when suddenly above us we heard the sharp crack of thunder, and outside the heavy pitter-patter of rain.

Foolishly, I poked my head through the gap, as he sat down and watched. Within moments my hair and shoulders were soaked. Sulking, I made my way over to join him on a makeshift seat of hay.

As the rain grew heavier and the claps of thunder louder we huddled closer together, shielding one another from the crisp wind which swept its way in and wrapped its chilling grip around us.

I awoke to the soft feel of him against my skin and the distant calling of a name.

“Louie!” cried a gentle voice.

Sadly, I watched as he rose and began to leave me.

I sprang up from my position against the hay and grabbed him before he could go. I held him tightly to my chest and muttered softly, “Take care, Louie.”

He made his way towards the door turning only once, his amber eyes sparkling as he opened his small mouth and with a low purr gave me his reply, “Meow.”

Meeeeeerh. This is a weird one. Some of it I like and some of it I really, really, dislike – and much for the same reason I came to dislike the excerpt of VERITY I posted. I grew out of beginning sentences in the style I sometimes use above and so reading it now irks me a little.

It’s a shame really because I remember writing this story and it is about a cat I met in France. We didn’t go on any adventures, but I suppose I wrote this to remember him by and it doesn’t do anything. It gets from A – B but nothing is really going on. I suppose it’s just a wandering story. Admittedly though, it’s only recently that I’ve been prodding myself to remember the reader. It’s too easy to just get carried away wording it up.

I know I have something written about my own cat, and I remember preferring it but I can’t find it (this is a common theme, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m making my supposed favourites up!), I just remember it was called Paddy Paws.

Anyway, next week I’ll try to remember when Friday is. So, until then,

-A

A Matter of Revenge

My father was murdered when I was ten.

I watched it happen from the window of our small living room; I stood, I stared, I screamed, and I kept on screaming.

It was not provoked. He was walking towards our house with our dinner for the night, smiling at me as I gleamed back. He’d got Chinese food, perfect, my favourite.

Suddenly a man was beside him, lanky, is all I remember of his appearance. I thought he as hugging my father, until I saw a glint of silver, my father’s face contort as he stumbled to the ground, his eyes glancing to meet mine, the man pulling out the knife only to lung it back in a few moments later…

It’s been fifteen years: a lifetime.

I stand now, outside the prison, watching as he is bundled into a car, off to start his new life ith the security of a celebrity. This is not justice.

I have two choices, walk away and let this man live, or destroy him.

What would you do?

The previous morning

They announced it on the news of Monday the 28th of May; Kevin Gesh to be released after serving fifteen years for murder. He was good in prison, he did his service, kept clean, kept his mouth shut.

I was sat eating my breakfast at the time: cereal, milk, orange juice. I almost gagged when I heard his name. Then they showed a picture of my father “The murder victim”, that’s all he is to the media, something to bring in the ratings: I did gag, I was sick in the sink.

Wiping my mouth clean and splashing my face with icy water, I watched as my vomit and the liquid mingled, spiralling in the centre of the silver basin. I was in disbelief, yet I was not thinking about the murder… the murderer. I was throwing anything around in my head to not think of that. So instead I was thinking about having to use a fork to jam down the remnants of my breakfast which were refusing to go down the drain.

The phone rang abruptly. I twisted off the tap and walked through my obsessively clean kitchen to answer the small phone which buzzed aggressively on the eastern wall.

“Yes,” I answered, possibly rudely, I’m not too sure.

“Nathan, is that you? It’s your mother.” She choked through stuttered breaths.

Shit. I did not need this conversation.

“Yeah Mom, it’s me, what’s up?” I replied pleasantly.

Shit again, not the best of responses.

“Have you not seen the news, Nathan? They’ve let him out, they’ve let that bastard out! He murdered my husband, he murdered your father!” I think she added the latter hoping to get a more enthusiastically maniacal response than my previous.

“Yeah, I just saw it on the news; he’s being released tomorrow morning.” I replied calmly.

The phone went dead.

I wandered aimlessly into my living room and stared out of the large wall dominating window, out onto the quiet road of my cul-de-sac.

I rubbed my hands slowly over my face, pushing my fingers deeply into the sockets of my eyes, feeling the moisture increase, beginning to stream don my clammy skin. Pulling my hands roughly through my scruffy brown hair, bringing them down, allowing my fingers to claw sharply across my face, I collapsed onto the floor: a flurry of arms wrapping around curling legs as I sobbed loudly into my knees.

Wednesday 30th May

I’d slept badly. Woke like a crinkled prune, only grateful I hadn’t drowned in my 4am bath-nap. I’d spent the previous night wallowing in self-pity, hours and hours of a tick-tocking clock, my hands clutching the edges of a soft pillow, clenching it to my face, smothering my eyes and shielding me from madness.

My tears soon fled from sorrow to anger, it was with this rage that I got up, stormed into my black marble bathroom and took a hot bath. Washing away the sweat that soaked my body more than the soothing water did.

It was the dreams that taunted me, teased me, lured me, whilst bathing that inspired the beginning of my plans. I was in and out of sleep, my thoughts battering at me callously. Images of blood, of torture, of Kevin Gesh skinned alive, eyes removed, lids pinned to the brows. The usual things you hide behind your hands from in horror films.

I knew now that I wanted to destroy him, I just didn’t know how. I had never killed before, not even an ant; hell, I’m a vegetarian. But this isn’t blood lust, this is justice, I’m certain there is a difference.

After pulling on my jeans, a grey loose v-neck jumper and near enough matching beanie hat, I strolled nonchalantly to the full length mirror attached to my wardrobe. I felt nervous, my stomach flipping excessively – and I hadn’t even begun planning properly yet.

Besides, killing is easy; torture makes things more interesting.

I didn’t write any more to this story. I had some ideas in mind for where it might go but I never started to fully develop it like other stories I started playing with. I think it might be because the characters are very human in this story, and generally I like writing characters that are a bit odd, but somewhat cute. I don’t know, maybe I’m just making excuses up for not bothering to develop this – or, just being unable to.

In terms of writing, I don’t mind it too much. It’s pretty different to the voice I usually write in, but that made it more enjoyable for me to read. I made a mess of the punctuation and that kind of bugged me a bit. Although, as I keep saying, I’m still far from being perfect with that.

Anyway, this is a short one and a short write up. I’ll blog soon and explain why. It didn’t have a title, so apologies if it seems a bit odd.

Until next writing time machine,

-A

The Novice

How do I write?

How do I express what I think and feel with words? Do I just keep writing every thought I have in my mind down, or will that only be confusing? I believe it confusing.

Too confusing.

Am I to enrapture and tangle like a spider tangles its flies every person who lays their eyes upon

my words.

For these are my words, they are spoken every day a million times by a million different people.

But these words, in this order, these are mine.

And so it begins once again, I am who I always was but who I lost, I am now found.

Once again I can begin this

violent,

rushed,

mess of a love affair with a language I cannot perfect.

But I do not wish to perfect it,

as long as I am understood, as long as in minds my thoughts can be seen.

I do not wish to be heard,

only read and taken in with every breath you who now reads this takes in.

And so I can start again,

once more,

the spiral upwards, and this time if I head down, you shall follow it in every footstep as my shadow. As I am willing to share a destruction harmless to you,

as long as you understand,

it is harmful to the bearer of you, my shadow. It harms.





I don’t think spiders quite enrapture their flies, but whatever, I obviously liked the sound of the word. I think that’s one of the trickiest things with writing, finding the right word for the rhythm your sentence is moving in. Sometimes you can hear the sound you need but it just doesn’t fit to any word you can think of. And really, why isn’t herblesquerb a word in the English dictionary?

Anyway, this isn’t what I wanted to post up this week (I’ve lost what I had planned to post, because, you know, clutter) so I wrote it up somewhat begrudgingly. But, oh well, it’s here now! By the way, it was spaced in a particular way on paper so I’m pretty pissed that I don’t know how to keep it in its original form. But again, oh well!

It was pretty interesting to read for a couple of reasons. For one, I was obviously just learning about writing. I was a teenager practicing but I was also playing with the idea of what writing is about. Now I just write and it doesn’t feel half as enchanting as it must have back then. The thinking bit feels enchanting, the daydreaming, but the actual job of getting thousands of words down on paper is a bit of a drag. I’ve started to feel like a one trick pony already and I’ve only written one book. Moving on:

Secondly, I was interested in what I wrote at the end about the upward and downward spiral thing. That wasn’t about writing, it was about mental health. That’s a whole other blog and story for another time though.

Maybe by next week I’ll have found that poem, if not it’ll be a couple of pages from a story I started but never finished. Oh hoho, there are so many of those! One day… one day! *shakes fist*

Until next writing time machine,

-A

Verity

Snow bustled and blew in all directions as the wind swept it high and low, as though the pair were entwined in a wild midnight dance they spiralled and spun fiercely.

The deafening sound of the wind was the music to their movements; as all around frost clasped tightly to anything that became victim to its icy grip.

As was always the sight here, here where the sun shone brightly but its warm rays never touched and soothed. The land and all that grew upon it was forsaken to be forever trapped beneath layer upon layer of smooth snow. The few trees that grew here befell the same burden, and just as the land had grown cold, so had its inhabitants.

The people of this place were known for their brash mannerisms and seemingly black hearts. They were feared for their keen sense of justice and zealous rituals and in a time long past of the magic that was bestowed here.

To a sky full of stars that were once prayed to by people for the sanctuary and redemption of their family, they now prayed for their own greed and grew angry as their prayers were not answered.

But the hour was late and no stars blessed the sky this night; all that blessed its infinite darkness was the waxing moon, glistening with enchantment.

“Unbearable…this pain is…unbearable,” Sorrow lingered on these words, like poison it dripped off each syllable that was muttered weakly with deep rasping breaths.

His lips curled in a fierce snarl as he looked up into the sky, meeting the steel black eyes of what had brought this fate upon him. His lips began to part as he called out to the Gods of his people his final prayer:

“Verity…my sister, may you serve your destiny, as I have mine, and may we be victorious.”

With this, death took his final grasp for life and crushed it mercilessly before him.

In the night’s sky, patiently waited a magnificent creature, its emerald wings spread far, the scales shimmering with an unnatural glow, its intelligent Orrakan eyes glaring down with satisfaction upon its prey.

Opening its large mouth to reveal dozens of tiny sharp teeth it lashed out its tongue swiftly and licked over its coarse lips tasting on the air the life that fled the broken body below.

Smoothly it made the smallest movement with its wings, so small yet so great, it could not be seen but only felt on the wind, and landed heavily upon the balconies edge.

Flexing its huge black talons before it, it felt the coldness of the snow and let out a deep sigh that echoed against the marble pillars which were decoratively placed upon the snow covered balcony.

A low growl swept through the empty sky and the firs on the trees far below shuck with a knowing fear, and whispered through their leaves of the turning of time before them.

Blood swept before the great beast from every pore of the man’s body. It seeped onto the gleaming blanket of snow which covered the grand balcony he lay upon. It stained it deeply as it flowed, twisting and turning like a stream towards the black talons which flexed carelessly in the snow.

As the blood drew nearer the beast sunk its head low to the ground, spreading its large wings out behind it, leaning its head down so its long serpent tongue could touch the icy snow before it.

The cold which wrapped around the black tongue was soon diminished as the warm flow of blood swept upon it.

Overwhelmed with the liquid the Orrakan’s scales began to shimmer between emerald and a deep blue; glistening like an ocean.

Overlapping themselves softly, its gleaming scales shone brighter until slowly the Orakkan opened its eyes, there colour a deep powerful crimson.

When the blood no longer ran the dragon paused, its eyes wide and cold it stared forward at what was left of the victim.

Its jaw still ajar, and eyes fixed upon the flesh and bones, it appeared to be nothing more than a magnificently detailed stone carving.

Minutes past and the dragon did not move, did not blink, and to anyone who saw, did not breathe.

The night was silenced: no animal dare move, nor bird call out, nor tree rustle quietly in the wind.

Time was still and between the layers of lands and times an Orrakan’s soul twisted and fought to resist and yield callously to its bearer’s will.

An age passed until upon the chill balcony a sharp long cry was called out into the still night, as the Orrakan dropped its body heavily to the frozen stone, shaking and shuddering as its once gleaming eyes now shone dully as they rolled upwards and the Orrakan, in such a form, took its last breath. For where the Orrakan had fallen now lay a man, his form and features identical to that of the body which was beside him.

Fingers twitched and slowly palms met the floor as they pushed the body upwards to lean shakily back against the borders of the balcony.

Breathing deeply with his head now resting firmly in his hands and back against the cold stone, the Orrakan opened his new eyes. Violet shone brightly as they stared down with satisfaction at the new hands which it bore.

Pulling himself up stiffly and leaning upon one of the small pillars which made the wall between the balcony and the great drop below, the Orrakan flexed its human knees and listened with an Orrakan’s senses to the sharp cracking the bones made. He stretched his arms out wide, his fingers slowly and his legs fully. The confinements of his small human body were something he would need to get used to, but his soul was within him, and along with it his mind and senses. All of which he was grateful for, as the senses of a human, compared to that of his kin, were pitiful and weak.

Naked, the man moved towards the body before him and quickly began to undress him. His small nimble fingers were in this situation an advantage although there were slightly difficult to use at first.

He pulled upon him the deep violet tunic and black leggings followed by, but with much nuisance and irritability to him; a black leather belt which took longer than he hoped it would in the future to put on.

Scanning over the human’s now naked body he saw the signet ring he must obtain and with much effort he tried to remove it from the man’s binding finger, but to no avail.

He took from the ground the sword the man had tried to use against him in their final battle and using it he lopped off the man’s finger. There was no blood left to flow and so the ring came off easily once the knuckle was no longer there to confine it.

Pushing it onto his own hand he looked upon the violet gem which sparkled with life fastened tightly within a golden band.

He spat to the floor with great disgust as he knew he must wear this binding to the kin of the people who destroyed most of his own.

Grabbing hold firmly of the man’s wrist he dragged him roughly to beside the balconies edge, dropping him down he sat slowly upon him, the bones of his new body still cracking with his every movement. He knew now that it was only a matter of waiting until his own body would be impossible to differentiate from that of the one he sat upon.

A demon in the guise of a man is what they were. There were few Nekhlim, but it took only few to slaughter entire cities.

He waited, staring down fixatedly at his wrist until slowly the markings of the Nekhlim’s kin appeared.

Black curves began to spiral and curl upon his wrist, moving upwards slowly they continued the pattern to end just below his elbow.

The dragon hissed deeply to himself as he stared down at the black markings of the sacred city of Tiian. This brought back many horrid memories of the same marking brandished on the flags and shields of those who had come to kill so many of his people. The tattoo was deep as though it was of his own flesh from birth, as was speculated of all kin to the pure blooded family of Tiian.

Which now he must live among as their prince: spoken of by the people of Tiian as a god, the son of a cast out angel father and a sorceress mother.

One of the only few remaining Nekhlim was now dead.

There were few left but they were already being hunted and with the alliance he would bring to the Orrakan and Tiian people they would be found.

His kin would rule Tiian and with that gain access to the domain beyond. He would follow their will and take the title of Prince Karitch of Tiian, and he would make certain to bring suffering to all who opposed him.




And I’m sure he would do it smoothly, swiftly, greatly and grandly. Sheesh, how often did those little buggers show up? I think, at this time, I was really big on making sure every word had a friend. That and I guess I thought the only way to make something seem important was to add such descriptive words to it. Never mind the fact I’m talking about a shapeshifting dragon who is hell bent on righting the wrongs done to his people centuries past, that’s not quite big enough! Or grand enough, or great enough… sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

I think I was 19 when I wrote this. It’s actually pretty interesting for me because these characters (or at least their story) will be a part of the trilogy I’m writing, just not a major part until book three where we’ll meet Verity. Because yep, that’s where this story was leading: to be all about Verity! I’ll probably write it in the future. I think I have some of what happened next in with the rest of these papers so I’ll be sure to post it up if I find it.

There were a few things in this that I still do now. I still write in threes because I like the sound of it and I absolutely drag my sentences. The thing is, I grew up reading high fantasy and classics and in those sentences more than a few words long were hardly uncommon. For a long time I was also splitting sentences though, which I’ve only recently learned that it may sound pretty and come naturally but it can be confusing to the reader. That kind of thing comes with editing I think. I’ll talk more about that in a separate blog post because boy oh boy was I in for a surprise when I reread my book. I thought it was finished, it wasn’t. No sirreeeee!

Lastly, there’s using the same word twice while it’s still in the reader’s memory. I do it with the word wind at the start of this, and with snow quite a lot. It bugs me, it really does. I don’t know when it is that practicing writers start to despise doing this but it happens, and when you look back on something you’ve written and see it you itch so badly because you’re desperate to change it. Oh, there are also the inconsistencies that occur. Identical to the man beside him but then has to wait to become what? More identical? And then it’s night time but somehow still supposed to be shocking no birds are calling from the trees. Both of those are pretty easily fixed, nearly identical, owls instead of birds. Which is probably why it’s annoying they’re even in there.

I’m not going to nag at myself too much because just like with Valentine’s Day (and just like I am now) it’s all a part of learning to be a better writer.

I think next week it will be another poem because this took quite a while to type up and I have a few projects I need to be moving forward with.

Until next writing time machine!

– A

Valentine’s Day

Welcome, welcome

all aboard!

It’s Valentine’s Day,

time for chocolate and candy and flowers to horde!

Your lovers will adorn you in fancy gold rings,

to try lessen the pain of their infidelity stings!

But alas for today is no lovers jest,

it’s one day of the year to make up for the rest!

So forget the number three hundred, sixty and five,

and forgive your partner for all the times that they’ve lied.

(who really cares if they caught their lover cheating?

really getting down in the bedroom, not out at a meeting!)

But women remember what is usually considered a gift,

a shimmering watch, and not a slashed wrist.

And fella’s think now on her favourite song,

not different ways to kill her for all she did wrong!

So enjoy yourself all, whilst out at your meal,

and leave the blows of justice for fate to deal!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Ouch. I should have issued a warning about all the edge found here!

I vaguely remember writing this when I was roughly around the age of 17. I had in my mind it being recited by a circus ring leader. Each line would be spoken to a different person in the audience and he’d swing between them, the part in brackets he’d whisper into someone’s ear as they snuggled closer to their partner in fear.

Yeah, I remember this.

From the note on the piece of paper it looks like I couldn’t decide whether or not to use the word “and” in this part: “a shimmering watch, and not a slashed wrist”. It also looks like I was having my own affair with exclamation marks. Funny, because I can’t stand using them in what I write now!

I don’t know. It’s a silly piece of writing that I probably wrote because I was pissed at a boyfriend or something. But, I kind of like it. That may be because of the scene I imagined to go with it, though.

Next week I’ll post some fiction with a dragon in it. I’m trying to decide how best to post longer stories. They might appear in parts or I might just chuck it all in and give a gold star to anyone who reads the entire thing.

Until next writing time machine.

– A