Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Summer Storms

It rained all summer,

but nobody else saw storms.

I drowned a little.

Drowned in dejection,

my own storms of solitude.

Early morning rain.

Late night, was the same.

I’m hopeful, sun might return,

but who really knows?

Bright beaches, lost, lights out.

My lighthouse, losing the will.

I want to sparkle.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Ferries To Nowhere

Dainty at the docks,

I am surrounded by space and spirits.

Reading tarot for Pocahontas,

while I wait for this new world to make sense.

Boats go to and fro,

freedom, so temptingly close.

I could go,

over the barriers and into the waiting water,

onto a boat,

to wherever she goes,

unsanctioned adventure.

Summer is a siren,

reflecting in wasted waves,

vanishing when my fingertips pass through her domain,

and I start to wonder if she was ever really there,

if I could ever hear her songs,

or if I was just losing my mind.

Like that time when I was twelve years old,

in my mother’s home town,

little girl,

feeling fancy,

on a ferry, crossing the Mersey,

living in a song,

because the world outside the notes and chords carried too high a cost.

I often wonder what it would feel like to feel nothing at all.

I feel like maybe I’d be happier that way.

Of course, I wouldn’t know that I was happy,

because I couldn’t feel it,

but the longing would be long gone,

and God, I think the emptiness might feel a little bit beautiful.

Oh, but God,

you gave me a heart (that has torn in every way),

so, here I stay,

in a constant state of something I can’t explain,

just… a state,

with no escape,

watching ferries,

fantasising about freedom,

but always being landlocked.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I wrote to a therapist this morning.

Detailing my drama,

that I playfully play off as diva behaviour.

I think,

what I really want,

is to be affirmed,

for all the maddening sadness to be heard,

confirmed and then confined,

to weeping pages,

airtight cages,

where it can’t follow me.

I used to want to be rich.

I’d dream of golden rivers,

private jets and rivieras,

but I don’t think any of it would make me happy.

I used to want to be happy,

but I don’t know that I know how to do that,

and I told them that (the therapist),

but I don’t know that they know either.

I wrote to them,

to say that I don’t know how they’re supposed to fix me,

but I’d like them to (I think),

but maybe it will be just like my golden dreams,

where I wake up,

one day,

in a cold,

confined room,

to a cold,

confined life,

and realise that there’s no such thing as fulfilment,

or happiness,

just a slow,

delusional road,

that always has the same destination.

Posted in Blog


Building dreams on my balcony,

breaking and rebuilding myself,

breathing smoke,

in and out,

as the sun sets,

my drink follows her down,

until my glass is empty and lonely.

I lift her anyway,

out of habit,

letting her coolness balance on my lips,

as my balcony dreams swim beneath me,

in the cool waters of my ambition.

Posted in Blog

Ella at The End Of The World – Episode Seven

Read more of Ella at The End Of The World

They’re dead.

We got there, and everything looked normal. They live… they lived in a remote area, and it just looked so… normal. Mum’s house is one of only three on the road, with just a little corner shop for company. The whole place was so quiet, empty, eerie.

Martin had insisted on bringing his crossbow. I can remember first seeing it, when we moved in together. It was just casually hung on the back of his bedroom door, as if it wasn’t a deadly weapon. It was there, all the time, just staring at me, and it, along with the knives scattered around the house, and several bats, always made me nervous.

I was nervous as I put my key in the door, both despite, and because of the crossbow. The house was creepily quiet as we stepped inside. Martin insisted on going first, sneaking through the hallway, peeking around corners, like they do in horror films, and I followed behind, as quietly as I could.

Mum was in the kitchen, motionless on the floor, her red hair, framing her face. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. I felt sick, but thankfully, nothing came of that either. She looked frightened. She looked so frightened. Her beautiful face, frozen in fear, a few splotches of blood across her pale skin. Aaron didn’t look frightened. Aaron looked hungry, knelt over her body, his hurried hands, in and out, in and out, drenched in blood.

I didn’t even see Martin move. I was absorbed, overwhelmed. My mother’s face. The blood. The sound of chewing, over and over, louder, louder, louder.

Aaron turned, and for a second, I thought he looked frightened too. His blue eyes, gone, red and full of rage, but the rest of his face, so familiar, my baby brother, so lost, so frightened. Then, it was over. The arrow pierced his head, and he fell, motionless, like Mum, on the once white, but now red kitchen floor.

Martin pulled me away, until they were out of sight, but I could still see them, hear them, even, all the way back to the car, all the way back to the border, all the way to wherever we currently are.

Chewing. Over and over. He was eating our mother. My little brother, who spent most of his life shovelling pizza into his mouth, while he played Xbox, was shovelling my mother’s flesh into his mouth, that never seemed to stop chewing. Chewing. Over and over. An endless, torturous hunger.

I don’t want to sleep, but I don’t know if I can avoid it.

I hate him.