Tag Archives: Creative writing

Possessed by a Kardashian and no I don’t know how we ended up there

How can a book be so well written but then ultimately pretty boring? How does that happen? How can I stop that from happening. Is it having a fully fleshed out world but nothing much going on in it?

I just got done reading a book called Ink and Sigil. The writing was awesome, the characters were great, the world building was *chefs kiss* but I was bored. I was bored a third of the way through, half way through and then near the end I just wanted it to be over.

Yet I liked the characters and I liked the world, I think it just goes to show how important a page turning plot is to me. I say to me, because I know a lot of people like meandering stories or slow burns. I’m not really one for it, unless it’s a ghost story with the promise of a juicy story coming. I’m talking ghost gossip in the ranks of keeping up with the kardashians if the kardashians were poltergiests.

Imagine being possessed by a kardarshian? In the future, rather than people being possessed by demons or victorian ladies (so many victorian ghosts) they’re possessed by kim kardashian?

“So, tell me from the start how it began?”

The lady sat across from me shuffled, her legs crossed one way and then the other more times than her hands patted her knees and her eyes flicked to her husband.

“It was the selfies,” she all but whispered.

Her husband nodded, his eyes not leaving the lip gloss stained carpet. “Then the cushions.”

The woman stifled a cry, pushing her fingertips into the corners of her eyes instead. “She started to push cushions into the back of her pants and up her jumper.” She stroked a hand through already finger dragged hair. “First it was just the throw cushions, you know, small ones. Then it got worse… soon she found California kings and…”

“And we don’t even know where she got those,” her husband finished for her.

Ahahahahahaha. Is that cruel? I hope it’s not cruel! But the idea of someone being possessed by a kardashian and it leading them to leaving lip gloss stains on the ground, endless selfie taking and pillow padding… well, it gave me a chortle.

I can’t even blame the sugar today because I’ve had none. Oh, tell a lie, I ate a peep. I always feel like a monster eating peeps. They’re just little peeps! Such cute little chicky looking sweets.

I think I might start writing again soon. I’m starting to get that pull, or is it a push, towards continuing a story. It might actually be the continuing rather than starting something fresh that’s holding me back. Nah, probably not, I’m just holding myself back.

But I was talking to my friend, an incredibly talented artist, about how old work can just feel like such a drag. I just have so much old work to go back to. And I hope I will. So many half finished stories. I hate thinking about it but sometimes I can’t help but wonder how different things could have been if I’d been medicated sooner and been able to finish all those stories. Or maybe I’d have never started them at all?

Even so, I need to crack on. I’m 34 now, so I’m no spring chicken! A summer chicken possibly, but thankfully not a winter turkey. I’m hungry now but I don’t know what for. Yes, I do, I want roast potatoes. Yeeesssss. Okay, those are going on my list of things that I want to cook this week.

Although we haven’t been grocery shopping properly in weeks. We subscribe to Hello Fresh which is pretty awesome for two mentally unwell adults who don’t want to survive on take out alone. It takes out all the mental tomfoolery of meal planning and prep and boom ingredients alone and recipe cards. So I still need to be doing something that becomes a routine nightly, but it isn’t too much that my thoughts mush together and brain shuts down. Rubbish, I know. But, if you know you know.

Anyway, I hope you’re doing well. 🙂

Arbie X

WP Serial Killer

[WP] A serial killer who wishes to terrorise a town. However none of their victims stay dead for long and don’t seem to remember them being killed. In this town lives a serial necromancer who unbeknownst to the serial killer is ressurecting every victim. [by Randomcurry]

“You attempt to make it so we can’t have nice things, I make it so people can have all the nice things and more.”

Beth waves her finger at me. Long, black painted nails dancing in front of my vision. Her pale skin shining beneath the glow of the lamp.

“Could you at least let me finish first?” I glance down at the begging, pleading, half dead woman beneath me. Her brown hair sticking to the holes in her chest. “I mean I get it, you’ve made it your lifes mission to make my lifes mission pointless but can I at least god damn finish?”

I plunge the knife into my victim’s neck, twist it and yank it out. Blood spurts all over the sidewalk. I let out a sigh, the sigh groans into a scream, and I sink my head into my chest.

“You see, you wouldn’t even let her keep her nice coat clean. What a mess.”

I glare up at Beth. I loved her once. Loved that she was blessed with the ability to bring a voice back to those thought long dead, adored that she was grateful for life in all its forms. A mosquito prolonging its life by sucking out ours, a maggot wriggling on the floor, a small bud peeking its colourful face through dry dirt. She appreciated it all. But it was more than that.

“You think you’re better than me,” I huff out as I lift my aching bones upright and sweep a gloved hand through my short blonde hair. “You think you’re more worthy but you’re just as bad as me.”

She was already kneeling down, pouring her thick purple bubbling substance from its vial into my victim’s throat.

“It’s all about control in the end,” I continue, wiping my knife clean. “You yearn for it as desperately as I do, it just manifests in a different manner.”

I kick my worn shoes against the ground, little splashes of water diving towards the woman on the floor.

“You can think that all you like,” Beth adjusts the bottle cap and tucks the vial back into her jacket pocket. “And I’ll continue to think you just like having me around.”

I laugh. A deep throaty croak that partially wants to stay put in my throat.

“You follow me,” I say.

“You give me reason to,” she replies.

We study each other for a moment longer. I killed her once, and she brought me back to life long before that. We are a cycle, but not one that could work together in the bedroom. Instead we gravitate towards one another then push and pull until we nearly spark, until we sore through each other’s orbits again.

“Tomorrow,” I mutter, turning away from her and into the shadows.

I hear her giggle, and glance over my shoulder to see she remains in the light.

The lewdest of earworms

This post is going to have some profanity in it. I don’t normally warn about something like that, because I have a lot of profanity in me, but oh boy will this have some interesting lyrics!

First of all. Let me tell you that I am foot stupid. Foot stupid you ask? Well you didn’t, but for the purpose of this blog, we pretend that you did. Ahem, what is foot stupid?

Foot stupid is knowing that a specific pair of shoes will give you NASTY blisters if you don’t wear socks and NOT wearing socks anyway.

Who did I think I was? The Mike Tyson of the foot world? Like I could just throw caution to the wind and have my stinky feet sockless in my shoes without a care in the world? Well now, for my brazen disregard of foot rules, I have to suffer.

Plasters can’t even keep these bad boys safe. But it doesn’t matter. I have a Stella now. I have responsibilites and I can’t skip walkies because she’s an aussie and her energy is that of a toddler on sugar sticks! I’ve thought about walking in flip flops but I mean, the bugs out here… THE BUGS OUT HERE.

There is a bug called an ASSASSIN BUG. Not fluffy tiddly winkle bug, ASSASSIN. And one bit my husband. No, not bit. They don’t bite. They stick their long mouth thing inside your skin and melt it. MELT IT.

Sorry for all the shouting but those things are no joke. I saw one near Stella when we first got her and someone may as well have been walking towards us with a gun I reacted so badly. But I heard my husband yell when he was bitten by one. They supposedly feel like a bullet wound.

EW argh. They’re all over me. I feel their legs scuttling across my arms.





So, have you ever thought about what your last words will be if you die?

I did earlier today.

I wasn’t going to die. I wasn’t even close to it. But the song that I was singing to my husband, the song that’s been stuck in my head for days now, morning and night, is quiiiiittee the song.

And as I rounded up on “lickin’ on my balls” I realised that if I died, I did not want my last words to be:

“I’ve got bitches all over my dick every day, suckin on my balls, lickin on my balls”

As hilarious as it would be. As it is. Imagining my mother sobbing, asking my husband if I said anything before I passed.

“She went in peace, with bitches lickin on her balls”


Well anyway, I did not want it to be that. Although maybe I should have that written on my gravestone. I always imagined I’d be cremated but with an epitaph like that I feel like I’m wasting beautiful poetry!

As vile as those song lyrics are, the tune is so damn catchy. I’ll post it so that I can look back in shame in the future.

I hope you’re all having an interesting day in the best possible way!

Arbie X

PS If I lose all followers after this I understand. I truly do. But…

I got bittttchhheeessss alll on myyy diiickkk every daaaaaaay!

Tricksy fingersy

I have made the wise decision to write a blog post while my nails are wet. I just painted them black, cause I’m cool, and I thought what better a thing to do than to write a blog post!

I just noticed this paragraphs look smaller than usual, why is that. What you do, format gods?

If you can’t tell already, I have no idea what to write about. I just want to write again. Is enjoying writing the same as being in love with your own voice? You know when someone talks a lot and people go “tsk tsk, in love with their own voice that one” Well is writing the same? “In love with their own head voices that one, pfft.”

Huh, maybe?

I should really be writing some fiction, but I suck at that at the moment. I can’t describe shit. I can’t create. I can’t imagine. I know, don’t say I can’t but I seriously can’t. It’s just white noise.

Just brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I mean, vsssssssssssssssssss. Yes, vssssssss, that’s how white noise words.

I’m almost caught up with posting my fantasy over at royal road though, so I need to write soon! I know they say to just sit down and write but what if it’s really bad?

Would you continue building a wall with crumbling bricks and partially hardened cement? I feel like you need to at least have some part of your soul on the read when you go to write. You can’t go in like stodgy porridge and expect anything substantial. I know, then you edit. But I don’t want to edit shit. You can’t polish a turd or whatever it is.

I dunno, maybe I’m making excuses. But, I’ve been writing for twenty years and I think I know myself well enough to know something is too quiet.

*knocks on head*

mm, definitely some hollow rubbish going on in there.

If my spelling is awful by the way it’s because I’m just rambling away and I’m writing this straight up on wordpress where there is no spellcheck.

Oh well.

Anyway, there. I wrote something. With nails fourteen-year-old me would be proud of.

Hope you’re all writing and getting that good stuff down.

Arbie X

if only in a dream…

I feel awful. Not necessarily physically, but mentally. I feel like I’m betraying my life, my spouse, my goals and dreams. Ironically, ever since that dream…

It’s been a number of nights now and I’m still dreaming the same dream where I’m myself only better. This is what I mean. I’m comparing my life to that of a dream version of myself and I’m beginning to want things I never thought were important.

I never cared for expensive cars, big houses, carefully placed yet not sentimental ornaments. I always told myself, I made a promise to myself, that should I ever amount to any sort of wealth it wouldn’t see my pockets but it would go to charity. And here I am, waking up from the same materialistic Groundhog Day dream wishing I could go back into it when only a few days ago I wanted to stay out of it.

Oh, to add to this, there’s no crash. After that jarring experience where I would wake up and be dragged back into that same point of the jolt and the blackness, there is none of that now. It’s just the dream. It’s just waking up next to my husband, but rather than it being our life, it’s a different life. One I wonder, one I keep trying to tell myself, isn’t better than the one we built together. That is what I mean about feeling like I am betraying him, betraying us.

I feel like that is only the beginning though. It’s like an addiction is forming. I used to not look forward to sleep, I’d feel sad that the day was over, but now I want sleep just to go back into that dream. I’m starting to feel irritable if I’m woken just as I’m falling asleep. Our dog barked and I had to bite my tongue to prevent the anger spilling out.

In the dream we have a dog, too. This fluffy little thing that bounds around and wouldn’t look out of place with a gold medal swinging from its collar. Our dog is some kind of mix, some shaggy thing that got frisky with a shepherd dog or something. What is wrong with me? I love our dog. I waited my entire life to get a dog just like him and now I’m even comparing him to some dream variation of himself.

All I feel is guilt and the only answer to that guilt is the dream, and that thought process is one I keep pushing away. But, my arms feel weaker as the walls close in, comforting yet steel walls that draw my eyelids closed from this real world.

I can’t say if the presence is still there or not. I spend so much of my time in that room just willing forward sleep that even if it was I probably wouldn’t care to notice. I wonder if my husband has noticed anything odd with me? I wonder if he knows, or if I should tell him.

Every part of me rejected the idea of telling him. A thousand little voices all crying no filled my head. A warning that telling him would mean the dream would die. For that reason, I know that I need to tell him. I tell him everything. Why have I not told him about this?

Arbie X



Note: This is all fiction, none of it is real! I do wish I had a scraggy dog, though.

Part One – There but not there

Part Two – and now in dreams too



I didn’t write how this works in the previous posts because I wanted to just get on with writing it and not worry about anything. But, just so people know what I’m doing, this is my take on the subreddit NoSleeps form of storytelling.

Basically, people write about paranormal or just weird things that are happening to them as though they are real, and people reply as though it is real. It’s like a roleplay between a writer and their audience. I never really expect anyone to read my posts and so I didn’t take the time to explain. I hope this clears things up.

Please also note that this is purely for fun and these are drafts that I write, read through for error and then post. There may be inconsistency in this story (if anyone is following it) because I have no idea where I’m going with it.

A long time ago I wrote that I was going to do this on this blog, and then I never did. This is partly the reason I just got on with it two days ago. I haven’t been on reddit and read NoSleep in some time, but it is brilliant with some very, very good writers. So I highly recommend it.

I’ll be posting the above in a future ramble!

I do hope you’re all well.

Real Arbie X

[HORROR] Get Involved and Have Fun!

Hey everyone!

This is an update post so I’ll keep it short. I mentioned in my previous blog post that I was planning on writing a short horror series in the style of Reddit’s No Sleep, and other tales that ask the reader to suspend disbelief. And so, this is what I am asking of you!

When you see a post with a title that begins with this: [HORROR] please enter a world of phantom possibilities with me. Feel free to comment with questions, ideas, advice, similar experiences (real or made up!), concerns for the character or others in the story, and basically have fun! Also feel free to comment about the story itself (if you like it or if it sucks and you want to throw rotten fruit at me) but please understand all of my replies on these posts will be in character.

The first of these stories will be rather simple and written in a casual style. I’m going to be learning how to do this but also using this as an exercise. I do, however, plan to possibly continue Vrytolka (with some edits to modernize it) in this style. If you haven’t read the beginning of Vrytolka, please find it here.

Oh, one final thing! Many of these stories will be the first in a short series, so please also watch out for their updates from the characters!

Thank you for reading! If you don’t wish to get involved with these stories and would prefer to only read them, that is just as wonderful for me! If you do want to get involved in these stories through the comments then wahey! Either way, I’m looking forward to seeing you there!

Please enjoy!

Arbie x

The Fall of the House of [us]Her

The last of me was the first thing you noticed, between smiles that never reached the eyes and laughter that came at all the wrong moments, the end caught your attention before the beginning, and mine was caught on anything but





What about a girls downfall is considered so irresistible?
that tears need be wiped dry
and why must rage be quietened
for her to be

You thought my end was in the promise that next year would be the last
when you’d offer a kiss goodbye and I’d smile, give in return and then thank you for seeing me as
such a delightful

Such a worthy
Fixer up

And if you see me as a home I understand why you took the hammer to my heart
but excuse my confusion as this
I thought laid the hearth one day we would sit our children before
yet you fixed the cracks in the walls
only to leave all the windows open
for rain to fall inside
to stand and watch
as rot wrapped around these arms
where you’d promised to wind daisy chains
the white of their petals stained red
from the thorns of roses that restrained


You could step once more over my threshold
where if only you had noticed
that the first time a home is damaged
it may learn to stand again
it’s foundation hardened
however superficially

But the second time
it is left empty
it’s crumbling walls
and creaking floors
no longer irresistible

To an eye that saw what could be
rather than what already was

It will fall

Those with the Fear of Drowning

You see, I have these issues.

I know. I know we’ve been working hard.

Or well, I’ve been talking and then forgetting what I’ve said right after and you’ve been li… you have been listening, right?

Because, this is about that thing I told you.

Yeah… please keep your voice down. That thing.

Okay, good, good. We’re on the same page. Where else could we be?

Anyway, back to… back to that.

My fear of drowning.

I don’t think it’s so relevant anymore. No. Not because I’m okay now. Can you stop trying with the antidote and just enjoy the poison, for once?

Drowning, I was talking about drowning…

When my eyes are closed, I’m already there. Something has wrapped itself around me and my blood is freezing, its rivers twisting around my body and causing all my veins to become ice.

Yeah, I’m aware it’s December and cold, but look at me, so wrapped up. I should be warm.

But, the snow has settled inside and a ghost is screaming in its storm as though it is the one trapped with me and not I with it!

Perhaps it is not on the inside at all, perhaps its fingers sink through my flesh and wrap around my bones. A reminder of what I will one day be. Buried beneath earth but above another who once breathed as I do.


A bit morbid! Sorry… it’s just, it’s just such a funny thing.

I spend so much time trembling yet I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

Something… is really wrong.

I mean obviously things aren’t quite right or you wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t be having this conversation, but…

Have you ever slept in a bed of lies?

Had a liar stroke your skin before they flay it with a tongue that would sooner be cut out than spill the truth.  And why spill the truth when your blood is so much more precious?

I believe if it could be a gemstone it would be the most coveted. Given on every engagement ring and set into all wedding bands. Would it not be sweeter to be betrayed by the one whose life you bore on your finger? For it is impossible to truly wear ones heart on a sleeve.

I ramble all the time. And I never seem to make much sense!

I don’t lose sight of my destination. There is just a constant fog in this place. And it is beautiful when it allows me to sit still and admire as it rises above the frost covered riverbanks and settles about church spires.

But, when I need to move on it conceals the path and petals of flowers close upon my approach. As though night… is stalking me.

But, I can see a light in the distance! And I believe it to be the sun, but then it dances in such a way I also believe it to be no more than a mischievous creature. A sprite with its lantern, luring me to a swamp where I will be stuck further still.

I speak of destinations as though I know how this story ends, but the chapters are pages strewn across the floor, that I suppose you are trying to piece together.

What an impossible task you have before you…

Yes, I said there was a church in that place. I’m not religious, but we all need a place of sanctuary and when the moon is all that lights the forest, even though it is of my own creation, I see shadows that even the wolves can’t protect me from.

But, if I can find my way to the sleeping stain glass windows and my hands are steady enough to bring thunder to the doors, I am granted entry.

No, no one else is inside. It is a sanctuary after all.

Ah, I thought you might ask about the rivers…

Only at my bravest do I look into their waters. I know how deceptively they can turn. Take their serenity from my view and in the place of aquatic weeds and childhood stepping stones come the faces of the lost.

I don’t know why they come to me in that place. Isn’t water said to hold the future?

They look through me and the fog and they look for the warmth of the sun as if it’s all they’ll ever seek! A desire for warmth. The weeds their shackles and stones their weights. They placed them there!

I know this because while I slept beside haunted waters in whispers they warned me.

But when I am awake, I have little choice, all I can do is stare into their eyes or their deathbed and I choose their eyes because the river is all too welcoming.

I wonder, if when Robert Frost said the woods are lovely, dark and deep, he thought of them as I do the river.

But we all have promises to keep, do we not?

Sorry, I feel I have become distracted again!

Have I told you… have I told you of those with the fear of drowning?



If you haven’t heard it yet, you can find the audio of this here!


This was written to be spoken so I’m sorry if it reads a little rough around the edges.

Thank you for reading!

Kidnapping Death’s Daughter Art – Robin

Hey everyone! Meet the usually chilled (hard to remain calm when your twin has died and a crazed librarian is telling you to get him back you need to kidnap Death’s daughter), sensible and loyal Robin. The story slips between his own and Sophie’s, until it finds them both in danger in York.

The art is, of course, by the wonderful Shio and you can find more of her work here: https://www.artstation.com/shiofuu

Just like before, this post is about the art, and so snush and shush I will. I hope you like him!



If you’re unsure of where this character calls home, he is from my urban fantasy Kidnapping Death’s Daughter. Please find more information here: Buk Talk

And here be a synopsis:

Ever since Robin’s brother died, every morning has risen with a new question, all of them echoing the grandest and most desperate: Why?
Until the day after Peter’s funeral, when a librarian with an odd sense of humour, and an even odder creature for a pet, reaches out to Robin and whispers an irresistible opportunity.
“Death has a daughter, steal her.”
The questions have changed. Could this be a bargaining tool against Death? What will he say when Peter is returned to him?

How do you kidnap Death’s daughter…

His cousin Caleb is intrigued and eager to join his adventure, and if the next morning rises with too many questions, now, at least, they have a clue to find the answers.
They leave for an ancient city by dusk.

In York, cathedral spires claw at the moon, gargoyles peer down on cobbled streets from wooden beams, and the creatures of Yr Oerfa feel their skin prickle as they sense the change war brings. Amongst them, hunted by beings more dangerous than two mortal boys, Death’s daughter is writing her own story, and it, too, begins with loss.

Kidnap her? First they need to find her.


Thank you for stopping by!

Arbie X