Monthly Archives: March 2015

Sticks and Stones: Words DO hurt!

The fight I fight is a hard one to fight
In this unending battle of words and phrases
Rhetoric and politics
Sociological facts and behavioural economics,
One is often bombarded, assaulted,
By claims impossible to deny
Tension is constant, pride omnipresent
Once one is besieged, one loses all moral
The opponent gets cocky, and fires a barrage
Arguments big and small, almost makes you cry

But then, there it is, the loose thread!
A quick pull, and the façade falls to pieces
The assault has ceased, the arguments gone
The mighty foe now just looks dumb

Now I am the master of his demise!

… I won Best Speaker at a debate exhibition today.


I have cleared most urgent things on my to-do list to bring you this. It’s been a while and I just had a great day because of this victory in debate, so I felt like writing about it. This is my first attempt at pseudo-poetry, so don’t be too harsh. 🙂 See you all whenever. Take care.



Posted by on 30 March 2015 in Dragonspark



Roses are blue
Violets are red
I don’t know
I’m colourblind


I’m a bit disturbed by the lack of lighthearted posts on my part recently… I have been writing them I swear I just haven’t got around to posting (or finishing) them :/
Here’s one, I’ll work on the others…


Posted by on 24 March 2015 in Banzaï




The stench of betrayal hung around like rotting corpses in the old stale room. Long dead dust bunnies filtered their horizons. The layers of dirt over the windows lay like a palimpsest, concealing the light’s true purpose, clouding the room with doubt.

“Why do you go away?” She asks. Her tongue distorts the words, turning them around, trying to confer upon them the meaning of what she wants to say.

He looks at her coldly and says something sophisticated, because he knows that she will not understand. He toys with her, he knows how to control her.

But she wants to know now. She wants to understand. She understands that there is more than work, the perfume he wears as he returns is never the same as when he leaves, and hints of lipstick hide on his unsmiling lips.

He knows that she knows. He is toying with her.

She wants to know.

• • •

In the night she takes the key from the crumpled trousers she finds by following the trail of clothes thrown aside, like the corpses of ghosts who died time and time again, each night only to be revived the following day and dragged away by the demon who controls them. Who controls her. She wants to go outside, to see what he sees, is it really that terrible? Could it be worse? She creeps out. She has not been outside for a long time; the windows in the room are shamefully dirty and she couldn’t see the city through them. They change things, make them ugly.

She comes out of the building and sees pure light. Not the filtered light of the sun through dirty glass or the sick yellow light of old lamps, but light from a lamppost, unfiltered and bright. And the street and the city below is so full of light. How could she have forgotten? The world outside is a wonderful, beautiful place she thinks. She knows now that she will never go back to that dark room full of lies and things half said. Deceitful and hateful. She can never go back now, so she can only move forward, into the bright night. She does not know. She doesn’t know much.

She walks past a flaming car, mesmerised by the art; she think she hears fireworks and she thinks she sees a drunk man stagger out of an alley and collapse into sleep. She walks past a place she thinks people have nice meals because she hears laughs from within and it seems warm and inviting; she doesn’t see the two men standing guard on either side. She looks at the lampposts and wonders why some do not work. She wonders at the world. She does not know the world is round.

She wants to go home. She doesn’t know where home is. It is too far away. She has not been to a real home in a very long time. She is starting to forget what it means. She has so few words.

Music wafts out of a bar and she can hear a man’s voice singing.
“Why do you go away?” It asks.
“I go home” she says.
“Come back to me girl!” It says.
“No. I can not.” She whispers.
She knows that it was not talking to her.

She walks away to the darker parts of the town. It’s getting colder. She shivers, wondering what she is doing, where she is going. She knows there is no turning back. A man recognises her, she recognises him back, she runs away but he runs behind her. He takes out his phone and starts calling someone, she has no doubts about who is on the other side; she tries to run faster. People are cheering her on and laughing at her, she has no breath to reply. She doesn’t want to go back. She can’t go back. So when she sees her chance she dances through the roads, dodging cars, desperately trying to get away. She sees the truck too late.

She didn’t know much.

She didn’t have enough words.

And now,

she has nothing.


I’m quite proud of the first paragraph on this 🙂 palimpsest is a word my English teacher taught us in class and I’ve been wanting to use it since!


Posted by on 18 March 2015 in Banzaï


Little Secrets

Creeping downstairs quietly, no-one awake to hear a thing. Our steps are perfectly choreographed: down two steps, skip the third because it creaks, down three more then slowly slide down the bannister until the bottom hits our bums, then carefully forward, sharp left, avoid the noisy bits in the floor and the scattered stools in the kitchen until… Tommy turns the light on and says “We should tell Mummy…”
I quickly turn it back off and stay near it while I stare at my brother and Daniel whispers “Shhhh! Whose side are you on?!”
Tommy looks at us, admiring our complicity. He wishes he were like us but at the same time a little voice inside him is screaming “you shouldn’t be doing this!”
Reluctant to betray our trust after having passed the tests he gives in and follows meekly. We tiptoe past the drawers, sneak past the cupboard, crawl past the fridge, silently place a stool under the high shelf, climb unto the fridge and carefully pass the sweetie jar down to Tommy who stares at it in wonder.
“Whose side are you on now?” We ask triumphantly looking down at our younger brother, still mesmerised by the amount of sweets he had in his hands.
“Don’t take too many” we warn “or she’ll notice”. Tommy nods and takes a big handful before passing the jar back up to us.
This was the last test. He didn’t know this, he thought he was already in and he almost was but if he told on us this time… we could never include him in anything again.
“Are you worthy?” I wonder silently…


Written for the speakeasy (fiction/poetry) at yeahwrite:

Hey guys! I’m sorry I haven’t written for a while, for lack of time and inspiration (and missing deadlines and leaving the last two stories unfinished). I feel like this one is a bit bleh by the way so feel free to bombard it with criticism it’ll make me a better writer (and feel free to criticise anything else too).
Next week I have the school play on Monday and Tuesday in which I will be doing the lighting for the third year consecutive so I don’t think I’ll have much time and I will have homework to catch up on so I probably won’t make it 😦
Hope you have a nice week, and a nice next week, and a nice life and I will try to write more often 🙂

PS. Where is the rum gone? No-one made a reference to Pirates of the Caribbean! That film has the best quotes ever (not to mention amazing music) and you should all be ashamed if you haven’t seen it…


Posted by on 11 March 2015 in lost things