Not Anymore

The rumpled covers of your bed are sprawled out behind me. I half expect them to still retain some warmth some essence of you. They remain stone cold beneath my touch though, like marble carved into an illusion of comfort.
It’s the last thing to pack. Everything else has already been piled into plain cardboard boxes; their lids sealed closed with tack, brown tape.
Inside rest old toys, which though broken, you still could never bring yourself to throw away. C.Ds which you collected, slotted around the vinyl albums that you found at car boot sale in Leeds. You spent weeks locked up in your room, listening to those old things, just being wonderful bazaar you.
Another box is crammed with scraps of paper. Portraits you drew of people I never met, places I never saw, yet somehow in each one you included me.
You said it was because I was your little sister, the person who you would always love the most and could never be replaced. Therefore my essence was always with you.
Your room was once a collage of your life, the walls almost pulsing with the vibrancy of who you were. Now they just stand stark and white.
I didn’t want to give up on you. I tried to convince them that there was still a chance, I tried to convince you! But everyone just shook their heads and looked at me with pity. Especially you.
You held me as I cried, whispering that everything was all right and that I would be fine. My own fear outweighed yours and you left calmly.
Everything isn’t alright thought. I’m not fine. Because your bed doesn’t retain your warmth, and your room no longer echoes you. Not anymore. None of this holds you anymore.

Trust Mum

Trust mum to buy me a diary for my fifteenth. I should have realized when I saw that smile on her face. You know the one I mean, the sort that just screams “you’re going to hate this present but your mum thinks it’s the most amazing thing in the world for you.” But of course, I got all excited and actually expected her to have got me something decent this year. Ripping off the shiny pink wrapping paper I was faced with the monstrosity of monstrosities. The cover was lime green leather, with a fluorescent purple heart sewed into the middle. The pages inside were all a matching shade of purple with green lines etched into the paper.

“So?” My mother asked. “What do you think?” I didn’t reply straight away. The diary lay in the palms of my hands. “It’s so you can write down your feeling and emotions.” She babbled, practically bouncing up and down in excitement. I didn’t want to write down my feelings and emotions, I wanted to keep them locked away in my head. Where they belonged. “I just saw it in the shop and thought of you straight away.” Thought of me, my mother must be out of her mind, how could she see this and think of me? “I just knew you would love it”Steadily I looked up at her and plastered on my widest, fakest smile.

“I love it mum” I told her, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. In the corner my little brother was practically wetting himself, “really I do.” I’m not joking, at this she actually squealed and clapped her hands.

“I always wanted a diary when I was little” she gushed, “But we could never afford to waste money” She looked sad for a moment, Gran and Granddad had had never been well off, and mum had worked really hard to make sure that Stuart and I always had what we wanted. Within seconds though she returned to her normal over hyperactive state that resembled a five year old on E numbers. She leapt up and catapulted herself out of the sitting room, as she crashed around the kitchen searching for candles and the cake. I was left with a brother in hysterics and diary that I had to now fill.

Entry One

Dear Darling Readers,

I must say that myself and technology have not been seeing eye to eye recently. Or would that be eye to circuit board? I’m not entirely sure to be honest.

Sufficient to say, I have no idea how to send an email blast from Hotmail, and also my email account seems to be refusing to acknowledge the emails some of you lovely readers have given me, as real emails. *silent rage*

So Hotmail and I are not on brilliant terms at this moment in time.

However, I shall continue writing and publishing to the website, and I shall work out a way in which to get the chapters that will not go online to those who have so kindly said they will read them.

Here’s hoping that you read this and understand, (or I’ll most likely tell you in the morning before form or at break seeing as most my readers are at Newport Girls with me at this point in time.)

As you will see Henry Granger and Crystal Tears are both now updated on the site up to their most recent entries, and I have also included my poetry so please comment if you can.

Love to all my readers

Carol J Forrester

My Favourite Pen

My laptop stands open, the harsh white light of a blank page staring out at me accusingly, because for some reason, I seemed to have betrayed it. Instead my hand creeps for the slick, silver curve of my favourite pen. The one for which I even search shops, to find the right sized ink refill, just so it can live a little longer.
It lounges in the cradle of my hand, its tip hovering over the lined expanse of a new notepad, my excitement pouring through this extension of me, waiting to spill out. Elbows resting on the unyielding wood of my desk as the world drops away, and a million voices rise to clamour for my attention.
Characters of youth and age, scrabble towards the page beneath my pen, their desperate dash to be the ones who finally spring to life in words and ink. Slowly the nib comes down and the white of the paper is blemished, unchangeable now in its imperfection, but perfection does not exist in the mind of a writer.
Plot lines and people, fall out of my head in scribbled, vague messes, as if I stare at them through a stranger’s glasses.  But as the pen moves, black lining what was once clean, those blurs begin to sharpen and change. Pirates hang from the rigging of long lost ships, sailing across uncharted waters. While fairies dance across roof top beams and enchant sleeping children. The witches hide in mountain valleys, their skin coiled with spells and Elvin Queens sit on lonely thrones, while their children scorn their choices.
Sometimes I will stumble, and the pen with stall and stutter. Unspoken words hang broken, unfinished, mixed in among confusion along my brow. Soon the rhythm comes rushing back, plunging into fantasy, worlds that spin and twist and turn inside no one but me.
So as I sit with pen in hand I see almost everything. It’s not the world I visit though, the one supposedly occupied by you and I, but the great expanses of kingdoms and domains that unfurl within imagination. My home is wandering among ideas and capturing in words what I feel and see.