All posts tagged: creativewriting

All This Fence Sitting Is Giving Me Splinters

I woke up this morning not feeling utterly destroyed, as I rightly should have seeing as my partner’s sister in law and I demolished three bottles of wine between us last night, so I’m counting today as a win. Today is also the start of Nanowrimo, a competition that I adore and try to take part in most years. This year however, I’m not so sure. Darkened Daughter is currently lurking around the 53,000 word mark. Now I could decided to partake in Nanowrimo and write another 50,000 words to go on top, giving me 100,000 to play around with later. Or I could ignore the event all together and just write the rest of Darkened Daughter or as is the current case, leave it sitting on my desk where it glares at me in neatly spaces lines demanding to be given attention. I’m on the fence. Nanowrimo is great for giving writers that push to get stuff down on paper, but can I really go into it knowing that most of the book is …


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.” The caravan was small, moving down the southern roads from Hareth towards the open planes of the Burnt Desert. I joined them mostly by mistake, a misunderstanding in some backwards tavern far off the road to nowhere and very decidedly unhappy to see me traipsing through their doorway. What actually happened in that tavern was something of a blur. Next thing I knew my horse is tied to the back of a cart, my hands are bound to the saddle and a Hedge Witch is trying to poke my eyes out with her glare. ‘Don’t even try it,’ she hissed. ‘I know a warlock when I smell one.’ A friend of mine once said that ‘magic is just science we haven’t quite worked out yet’. I thought it was a fantastic way of looking at the world and I sort of clung onto the idea from there on out. It made sense to me. As a writer magic can be an important tool. …

Skin: Blogging 201: Poetry Day Three

You thickened your skin until it was armour. Poured yourself into the mould of something else as if it would keep you from harm and wielded smiles like knives. Made even your mother believe that this shell was deeper than a hair’s breath of water. He words bounced like ping-pong balls, plastic and harmless. When your laugh became acrylic, like the nails you gauged down the chalkboard with a voice that wasn’t your own, something fractured in this friendship. We became acrylic. We became snappable. I was at a bit of a loss for what to write this morning in response day three’s prompt: Skin – Prose Poetry – Internal Rhyme The prompts themselves were not the issue, mild exhaustion is and honestly, I’m craving the weekend already so I can spend some time curled up in bed with ‘American Gods’ by Neil Gaiman and not have to worry about anything else for an hour or two. So here is my mildly exhaustion contribution to Day Three.

What Is Your Gift?

The rose that bloomed between our lips wilted. When we brushed away the petals and cleared the crumbs of brittle leaves all that we had were sheets. Stark and white we stretched them, from corner to corner and smoothed away the creases, lay together side by side and searched the ceiling for stars. ‘I’m sorry, this is all I have to give.’ I really wanted to write something better but this was all I could come up with. Comments and thoughts on this would be hugely appreciated as I have no idea what I was trying to say here. For all the faffing it took to write it still doesn’t strike me as written.


Fall in with me here, these lines will not march themselves. Why are you waiting? Stay and we will go without, leave you the dust of our wake. No idea what’s going on with my poetry recently.

Daydream Girl – A Haibun

Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream. Kahlil Gibra They called her Daydream Girl. Eyes, tucked away in the letters of books, spine crackled and binding frayed. She was music, tripping up over loose pavement stone in the hopes of digging out stories long ago buried in the sands of time. Her hands were skeleton keys pushed into every lock on sunken chests pulled up from abandoned rib-cages. Took care not to hurt the crustaceans as she pulled them away mail-link by mail-link until only the under armour remained. She poured laughter down my throat and burnt out my lungs with song. Left me bellowing misty dragons into the night. Ran my hands across the tempo of her chest and told me to dance with the beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. They will not tell me where to find her again. These words are brittle, there is nothing of you here and I am tired. I wrote this piece and realised that it has a lot of similarities to last night/this morning’s …


I’ve seen you pluck time like plums heavy and warm from branches out of our reach. For you past, present, future all blend into one and each moment lingers, spreads across your face like light creeping in on lazy Sunday mornings. I have followed you through doorways unseen down staircases dreamed and across rivers summoned in single breaths. There is creation in your lips, like those plumbs you sow stones that turn to seeds grow into trees stand taller than us both. I have seen this universe remade in your eyes.  Jacek Yerka, 2011 A rather random little poem for Magpie Tales’ weekly writing prompt. I was going to write an Alice in Wonderland based story but decided to go with this instead. Let me know what you think.

If We Were Having Coffee

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that I’m on a Neil Gaiman binge again. I’ve got Smoke and Mirrors out and on the desk because the short stories rattling around in my head keep ping-ponging past the exits and I’m not entirely sure what they’re trying to say. There’s two deadlines now instead of one and I think, I might, just send off Little Red because I’ve been told that you just have to keep submitting until you find the right judge. If we were having coffee I’d tell you that I’m submitted for the Nantwich Words & Music Festival but I’m not sure how I’ll do and every time I think about those poems whizzing off to someone else this coil of dread pools in my gut and really, I don’t want to think about it at all. If we were having coffee I’d tell you that Darkened Daughter is sat untouched and that Headquarters was the plan for today but I didn’t quite get round to it and Before, I Was …

Boundaries In The English Countryside

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Boundaries.” After growing up in the countryside I found that my perception of boundaries wasn’t the same as everyone else when I went to university. I had two close neighbours when living with my parents. The bungalow on the other side of the hedge and the farmhouse a quarter of a mile down the road. The rest of our neighbours were the people on the farms who’s fields bordered our own. At university my flatmates didn’t agree to this definition of a neighbour. If someone was more than a mile away then they couldn’t possibly be your next door neighbour. I got tired of trying to explain that in the country-side it just sort of worked that way. Farming is an isolated occupations and you often find that rural communities are the ones where everyone knows everyone and if they don’t know you then they know your aunt, or you mum or you granddad. The boundaries shift in the countryside and seem to become more blurred. Where …