Tag Archives: creative writing

Home…

Our house is not bricks and mortar, it is a living, breathing organism feeding constantly off our emotions.

It offers sanctity and solitude when we are stressed; comfort and warmth when we are at our lowest and neediest.

Its heart pulsates with every word that is spoken, every laugh that escapes and every tear that is shed.

Our house is alive even in the silent moments of night when it protects us as we sleep.

Its windows are beacons which guide us safely back no matter how far we travel.

In the stillness of time I can feel its heart beat in rhythm with mine.

Our house is not bricks and mortar, it is a living, breathing organism, it is our Home ❤

What’s been going on?…

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged so I thought I’d catch up with you all…

March has not been a kind month to us and unfortunately I felt as though I had lost my writing mojo. 

The ironic thing is that last March wasn’t good either (for exactly the same reason) and after struggling for the best part of the year it was starting this blog and picking up my writing course again that gave me something to focus on.

I had to take a couple of weeks off sick leave at the beginning of the month and, hard though it was, I completed my 3rd assignment (I’m in the process of studying with The Writers Bureau). It took so much effort to get the work done, but it kept my mind focused and I got there eventually. I’ve now had the assignment back and once again the feedback was great and very encouraging, to the point where my tutor really thinks that I should be getting on with my manuscript.  That’s a good thing right? 😃

So as I sit here thinking about my next assignment I’m beginning to see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel that I’ve been stuck in for the past few weeks. It’s time to get writing in My Little Book of Big Ideas and start entering some more short story competitions.

Here’s to assignment number 4, short story ideas and the beginning of my manuscript. 

I’m positive my mojo will come out of hiding eventually…

Back in Time…

When the phonecall had come Amy had been shopping, she’d collapsed to the floor, the eggs slipping from her hand; crashing to the ground in a melee of egg shell, whites and yolks.

It wasn’t that the call had been completely unexpected, after all her mother’s death had been a long time coming; it was more the wave of relief that drifted over her that had caused the most surprise.

A woman shopper had been the first to help, followed quickly by one of the store attendants who called for some paper towel and a ‘Caution – Wet Floor’ sign. Later this scene would make Amy laugh as she told her husband what had happened. 

She knew that she would have no choice now but to return to Filbert Street. 

The kindly shopper had escorted her to the store cafe where a cup of steaming sweet tea was placed in front of her. Amy smiled and cupped her hands around the mug to stop them from shaking, she was determined not to cry.

Amy had done well for herself, she was unrecognisable from the 16 year old girl who had left home one crisp Autumn day in 1999, broken and alone. 

She was living in a hostel in Leeds when Big Ben chimed in the new millennium and it was another 7 years before she’d gone back to visit her mum, by that time she’d graduated from university and was teaching. Amy had met David the year before and two years later they married, Amy did not invite her mum to the wedding.

She could still smell the rancid air that filled the house, a cocktail of cigarette smoke, over flowing ashtrays, mouldy take-out trays and empty vodka bottles. She shuddered as she recalled shoplifting for food because her mother had spent all their money on fags and alcohol. She was surprised at how adept she had become at it, but she’d had to eat. How the other girls had laughed at her because her clothes were old and ill-fitting. When her periods started she’d had to rip up a couple of sheets to use, she’d got the idea from a book about the Victorians!

She had slipped through the system like water through a sieve and no one had cared, not her teachers nor the neighbours. 

But now she was free…

Deep Underground…

The Earl’s Court was now in session. The Judge sat sternly in his chair, the veins in his forehead pulsating. The assizes had been broken and someone had to pay.

The Seven Sisters sat without conviction whilst the Black Friars mumbled incoherent incantations up in the gallery. In the dock stood Lady Highbury, her head held high; the Prince Regent looked on helplessly. 

Lady Thames smiled to herself as the Angel stepped towards the witness box, after all it didn’t matter who was guilty as long as someone took the blame…

Home Alone…

I haven’t written a post in almost a week as I’ve been feeling really poorly and had trouble stringing a coherent sentence together.  I’m not completely back on top form as could easily fall asleep (it’s only 1:45pm in the UK), but I’ve really missed our little community and have been annoyed with myself for not being able to write anything.

I apologise now for any grammatical errors or inconsistencies that may annoy fellow writers but as I say my head is still a little fuzzy but I think giving my mind something to focus on may help my blocked nose…

I hope you enjoy it and be kind to a poorly fellow writer 😉

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We all assume that we know our homes like the back of our hands. The nooks and crannies, the night time moans and groans that as children scared us, but we now find comforting and familiar. We walk carefree through our homes in the dark safe in the knowledge that the shadows are our friends and the creaking of the stairs its way of communicating with us. 

But what if things changed! What if you woke up one night and you felt the shadows were watching and taunting you and the creaking floorboards mocking every tentative step you made, how would you feel then?

I’m huddled on the sofa, home alone. The power’s been out since 8pm and the only light comes from the gentle flicker of the candles dotted around the room and the faint glow from my laptop. I’ve tried calling my husband a few times, but he’s not picking up and I just get his answerphone, I’ve left a dozen messages already, I can’t call anymore though because I need to conserve the diminishing life of my phone – I’ve no way of charging it.

I don’t normally scare easily, I’m used to my own company and can entertain myself even during a power cut, but tonight is different, it feels different, the house feels different. Outside it’s pitch, I can’t even see the tree line 100 meters from the house. I locked and bolted all the doors and windows like I do every night before I went to bed at 10 pm.

I’m not sure what woke me up, but I suddenly felt an icy chill as though a window had been opened. I found the latch on the bathroom window loose, Jerry must have opened it before he left, he’s always complaining about the condensation in there. Maybe I turned too quickly as I left the bathroom but I am positive that I saw a movement in the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. 

Here on the sofa, the creaks of the old pipes cut through me and chill me to the core. Every shadow hides a menace I know I am not strong enough to fight… And in the reflection on my laptop I can see its silhouette waiting…

Come in and make yourself comfortable…

I’d walked past these gates a thousand times, never stopping or curious to know what lay beyond.  But then they’d always been locked; a thick chain encircling the bars like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey.

Everything about tonight though was different. The moon hung limply in the sky obscured by burgeoning clouds. Rain fell in large droplets bounding off the gravel beneath my feet. 

It was the sudden squeaking of the loose gate that first alerted me to the fact that it was open. Wet through I clambered up the bank to where the Yew tree could shield me. The darkness swallowed the light from my phone, shadows mocked me with their inexplicable silhouettes.

My heart began to beat faster, the sweat mixing with the icy rain.  I was about to head back to the road when I heard the whispering, a dozen disembodied voices all talking at once, calling, begging me to come in.

As I slid down the bank to the road I turned back just once to see the silhouettes gathering at the gate…

Playtime…

They waved and danced about as Doris walked slowly towards the gate. It may have been near on 70 years since she’d last seen her brother and sister’s but she’d have known them anywhere.  Her heart leapt with joy at the thought of being reunited with them and tears trickled down her cheek.

Apart from their  mother, she’d  been the only survivor when the bomb had struck the house on that fateful night; but here they all were, back together again at last.

The sun warmed Doris’ face and her ringlets bounced in the sun as she ran towards her siblings, a five year old’s bones didn’t ache…