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First blog post

I’ve spent the last two years writing, partly as a means of coping with life (I have PTSD and a few skeletons in my closet that I’ll come to at later dates). But in writing to cope, I have found the thing I was born to do. That’s a bold statement, I know. But it’s true. Days that I don’t write, I feel twitchy and unsettled. Writing is a drug. Only, not a dangerous one. It’s my lifeblood. And so, I want to share it with you.

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Welcome to my first official blog. I thought I’d start with a little background information into me. As a child, I wrote stories all of the time. I was an only child with a passion for Enid Blyton, so most of those stories were boarding school related. All of them were about friendship and adventures.

As I got to my teen years, the only things I wrote were angsty-type poems: the kind a lot of teenagers wrote and still write today. I then got a BA Hons degree in Literary Studies, graduating age 21. Somehow, I then worked in the insurance industry for the next thirteen years (I know. I can only apologise. Please don’t judge me on that!).

When my Mum became completely bed-bound in 2010, I gave up work to become her sole carer. I spent her last precious two and a half years looking after her and learning that she was the strongest person I ever knew, or am ever likely to. I miss her every day, and her death influenced my writing greatly.

Which leads me to this blog. I’ve spent the last two years writing, partly as a means of coping with life (I have PTSD and a few skeletons in my closet that I’ll come to at later dates). But in writing to cope, I have found the thing I was born to do. That’s a bold statement, I know. But it’s true. Days that I don’t write, I feel twitchy and unsettled. Writing is a drug. Only, not a dangerous one. It’s my lifeblood. And so, I want to share it with you.

I hope you like it.

An Acrostic

An acrostic about The Maldives. Acrostics are not my forte. I say that before you read it. But, it is what it is.

 

Maldives lead-xlarge

 

Religion important among the islanders

Everyone who lives here must be Muslim

Paradise to all who browse holiday sites

Underwater environment watched through SCUBA

Butterfly fish float

Lionfish chase clown Nemo

Inhabitants friendly, living on 200 islands

Change coming through deeds of others

 

Ocean levels rising

Fear of losing more homes

 

Mohamed Nasheed, one-time President,

Assembled cabinet meeting underwater

Leading calls to implement change to save

Dolphin and whale playground

Influx of tourists endangering tropical paradise

Villingili Island; the highest point

Estimated to one day drop below the tide

Signalling an end to coconut huts on white-sand beaches

Tetrafied

Tetra Fish

 

Tetrafied

 

Alice knew as soon as he entered the bar she would be leaving with him that night. His beautiful olive skin and inky-black hair called out—like a siren—to her womanly desires. His indigo eyes locked on Alice’s, and he took the seat next to her. “Hi, I’m Jack. Let me buy you a drink,” he said, immediately summoning the bartender’s attention. 

After just two Martinis, Alice found herself linking arms with Jack and leaving the bar. As they climbed into a taxi, her stomach somersaulted. She hesitated, contemplating what she was about to do. She had never picked up a guy in a bar before. That was an occupation of the beautiful and confident; not Alice. With mousy-brown hair and pale blue eyes, she was too plain to ever attract someone at first sight. At least, that was what her mother told her.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she followed Jack along the rocky stone path to his front door. The house loomed high over them, casting a long shadow in the moonlight. A small flower garden alongside the path looked well-kept. Surprisingly so, for a single man in his twenties.

The old, wooden front door creaked as it welcomed them inside. In contrast to the aged exterior, the heart of the house was light and contemporary. Before Alice had even noticed Jack was missing, he returned; hands carrying more Martinis.

As they settled on the cream leather sofa, they began to explore each other. Their mouths locked and their bodies entwined. The electricity was sharp and Alice could feel herself start to let go. Then she saw it. Oh no. A wave of nausea flooded her bloodstream. 

“Fish!” she yelled, “I hate fish. Oh my God, they’re staring at me!”

Surprised, but wanting to reassure her, Jack said, “It’s okay. They’re not looking at you. They’re Mexican Tetra fish; they have no eyes.” 

But Alice didn’t hear. Throwing open the front door, she ran as fast as her feet would carry her. I’m never picking up a one night stand again, she thought, as she rounded the corner onto her own street.

Crooked Cottage

This is just a little piece of flash I wrote.

 

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

 

Crooked Cottage

 

I pause at the gate, taking in the slant of the thatched roof and pale patchwork stone. The sign says ‘Crooked Cottage,’ and I know I am at the right place. Smoke winds its way from the chimney, catching in my throat. 

I raise my hand to the door knocker, but there is a sign reading, “Do no knock. I will see you.” The temperature drops a good ten degrees, I’m sure. Suddenly, I’m aware of my nerves. My heart thumps behind my ribcage. Tanya had better be here already. The prospect of being alone with this house and its owner sends a shiver up my spine. 

When the door opens, I am greeted by an old woman with violet eyes and wild grey hair. “Come in, dear,” she says, in a voice so soft I can barely hear. I start to say thank you, but she puts her finger to her lips and instructs me to hush.

Instinct tells me to run away, but greed for the revered chocolate hangs over me like a spell. Tanya has not stopped talking about it all week. 

“Is Tanya here yet?” I asked the witchy-woman as she leads me through the house.

“Shh,” she replies, “Quiet.’

“Why are we whispering?” I ask.

As she motions for me to sit, she smiles and begins to explain. “This chocolate is the most perfectly silky, sweet, magical chocolate. Whatever you want from it, you will get.” She pauses briefly, then says, “The secret ingredient is fairy dust. But fairies are timid, they are easily frightened, so you must be quiet around them.”

With a sceptical hand, I reach for the chocolate and put some in my mouth. Instantly, I understand. My mouth bursts with sweetness, and all thoughts of apprehension dissipate as I groan my appreciation. A happiness I haven’t felt since childhood floods my veins. Licking my lips,  I turn to the old lady and whisper, “Thank you. Can I come again?”

Painted Eggshells


Painted Eggshells

Painted Eggshells

 

filled with lies; my life unfolds

a shattering glance, my blood runs cold,

painted eggshells; breakable

crack and fall, with fractured skull

hospital beds, disinfect

the part of my life you don’t detect

one time a punch, one time a kick

lying on the floor, feeling sick

my body cries with muted pain

you took all of me, made me feel insane

although you’re gone, locked away,

I lie awake, waiting for the day

you seek me out, and make me sorry

it gets hard to breathe, I’m so full of worry

I heard you’re changed, you regret your deeds,

but that just doesn’t cut with me

the scars you left are deeply etched

and I don’t need to hear your regrets

Waggle Dance

This is a silly, little poem I wrote after watching a documentary on honey bees.

 

Honey Bee

 

Oh, come with me,

Said the honey bee,

Let me show you where to go

If you take your stance,

Do the waggle dance,

The nectar, it will flow

Now, get in line,

To see where to dine,

Just follow my dancing rear,

We all join in

Then we take to our wings

In a quest to please Queenie Dear

It may seem funny

We produce so much honey,

But the profits we never see,

They end up in a jar

And are shipped afar;

The saga of a dancing bee

Miracles

Miracles

 

Do you believe in miracles? Speculate on your idea of a miracle you’d like to see happen.

Do I believe in miracles? In short: no. Sorry to be boring and unimaginative, but I don’t. I believe we all control our own lives. At least, that’s when we don’t have someone oppressing us and controlling our lives for us. But, I do believe that if we want something, we have to do whatever needs to be done to move closer to that dream. The kind of people who really annoy me are those who whine constantly about how much they hate their lives, and how they want a better job, more money, etc. But they change nothing. They don’t look for another job. They don’t ask their boss for a raise, or more responsibility. They just keep everything the same, and expect change to fall into their laps. That annoys the hell out of me. Especially, when I know people who have worked their butts off to get where they are. Continue to work their butts off. So, that’s my realistic take on miracles. 

Despite my thoughts above, I remember constantly wishing for a miracle when Dad was slowly dying of cancer. Especially, in the last couple of months. I would see him growing weaker and weaker, and I would hope—beyond hope—that he would be one of those people you hear about who make sudden, miraculous recoveries when they are within days of death. A part of me genuinely thought he would. Until the last week. I had to keep hoping. But it didn’t happen. Because miracles aren’t real.

If I could have a miracle, though, it would have to be world peace. I would make everyone tolerant of everyone else. People could live alongside one another, knowing their beliefs are different, and be happy to call them neighbours. The whole world would get along. Now, that would be a miracle. I really don’t understand why it can’t be that way. I don’t understand why people who pray to different Gods must be enemies. I know it’s been the case, like, forever, but I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Alternatively, I would make chocolate the healthiest food on the planet. Ooh, world peace or healthy chocolate . . . tough call.

The Dark Beast, Depression

This is such a great description of how it feels to live with the beast.

The Bipolar Writer

Most nights, I would find myself ending the day wondering if it was still worth it to be alive. There would always be this battle in my head, weighing the pros and cons of ending my life. It’s probably why I have always had such a hard time falling asleep. Living life with depression and more specifically suicidal thoughts is a balancing act. You are constantly trying to find ways to keep yourself from teetering too far to either side. You get too happy, you’re in danger of finding yourself in a nosedive back into depression. You get too depressed, you’re in danger of ending your own life. You really can’t win with depression, and that’s how it gets you to play its game. Not only to you have to deal with this unyielding back and forth, but you also have to deal with the inevitable whiplash that will come…

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