As per usual, my apologies

I will apologise as I normally do for my lack of posting/writing/etc. However, just like many other 16 year olds around the country their is a little parasite we are preoccupied with, otherwise known as GCSE’s and with 26 examinations in total for me, I must unfortunately admit, short stories aren’t coming to me freely and as easily as they were.


However, some exciting news for anyone listening, I have proposed to organise/direct/write a production to be performed at my school, and the school has actually accepted my proposal! Which is rather exciting! And so, when it has been recorded/written I will post it on here for anyone interested.

If anyone has made it this far, or even started reading, congratulations, I’m impressed that you care enough to proceed this far, seriously I am, so best wishes to you, for listening,


Pursuing insanity

“You know that moment, when you were absolutely certain you saw something, running away in the corner of your eye something dark and fast, but the moment you try to see it again it has left and by the time you come to that conclusion you’ve already started to make the situation believable: it was rain on the window, a bird flying by, it was only a floating leaf, a trick of the light. But the truth is, you sort of still believe that you did see something out of the ordinary although there is no proof other than seeing. These thoughts echo through your head, and seeing is no longer believing because you don’t think it was ever really there, surely believing it is madness and nobody wants to pursue insanity.

Or that feeling and certainty of being watched and you look around trying to find the prying eyes and it turns out to be a cat intently staring, and wondering to itself about whatever you are doing and those eyes begin to disconcert you so you wave it away. But you still feel the eyes at the back of your head, but you lay your blame on the cat, there was nobody in plain sight, after all.

Or that feeling when you feel something touching you on your shoulder or your leg, and you try to swat it away but it feels like fingers moving further, going higher and higher but when you look there’s nothing there, so you tell yourself it is the nerve endings having fun.

Or what about those sharp chills you get in your spine, so cold you can’t move for a second, until you come to your senses and try to find where a draft comes from, but no windows are open anywhere and outside the sun is shining and the trees branches are hardly waving.”

“Yeah what about it?”

“I dunno, do you believe in the supernatural?”

“Nah, you ever seen a ghost? I haven’t. It’s a whole load of rubbish.”

“Yeah, I guess, but what if…. no, don’t worry. It’s nothing important.”



Written in response to The Creative Ink, writing prompt, September 6th.


Photograph credits to Seth Macey on Unsplash.


I love you, I do. All I was trying to do was get to you. I promise.

I didn’t know then, what I know now, it was a mystery to me as it will be to you. I didn’t realise until it was too late. I doubt this will ever make it to you, but if it does, please listen to my words, for me. I’m just so sorry.

There was a bitter cold that chased the warmth from my body. There was a sharp wind that pricked my sides with a similar cold, spurring me onwards and I kept going, trying to make it to you. The horizon was all I could see and it was relentless in continuing onwards and onwards. I could see no other lights than those that shone from the stars. There was no other hope for me to make it there, unless I followed the path and walked away from my footprints, which were already rapidly being filled in by snow, but even the direction of forward was a guess and the path was little more than a small continuous mound covered than snow. The car had broken down far away from where I am now, I had made it so far, I thought I would make it to you. I wished I would make it in time.

I kept walking, trudging, sliding onwards while my hope of  my survival dwindled further away, but I refused to give up. I’ve always remained stubborn. Haven’t I my love?

In the corner of my eye, I could see a glinting catching my eye and my spirits lifted as I turned my head to see it and I could swear to the heavens that I saw someone standing there, just over two hundred metres ahead of me behind all the falling snow. I followed my hopes and started following the person. I hoped against hope that they would wait, but when I finally met where they had been I couldn’t find any footprints. But I could still see the figure, closer now. Much closer.  Even closer. I kept walking and the distance between us shortened gradually. I could see their long black hair whipping around them halo like as it surrounded her from behind, while a denim jacked flapped around her sides. I called out to her, asking for help, yelling for her to stop and wait for me, begging her to slow down, but she didn’t stop, she kept walking ignoring my pleading or deaf to it all. Finally I reached her, and I tapped her on her shoulder.

She turned around to face me finally and she showed me what was in her hands, holding it out towards me. Her hair continued to shift and turn, covering her face in the wind. I told her she needed to find warmer clothes, but she refused to acknowledge my words, and proceeded to pass what was in her hands closer towards me. I continued to tell her that we would die in the cold out here, as she passed a clock closer to me.

I took the clock, and as I looked at it, trying to make sense of it, I looked back to her, to see her turned back and walking into the thick snow. I ran to catch up but neither her nor any indication of her presence other than the clock in my hands. I continued running, desperate, frantic, I felt my frozen bones cracking and crunching under the new effort. I screamed in dismay. I was lost hopelessly lost. She had gone and all I had was a clock. A clock. I looked down at the clock and realised that three hand had stopped. I hesitated, wondering what the last hand was for. But I knew I couldn’t stop moving for long.

They say that when you die, you see your whole life flash before your eyes within seconds.  But how would they know? Those who say it haven’t died just yet. I know otherwise, I do. In reality, you have twelve hours to say your farewells, see the places you loved, the people you loved, the memories you loved. I could have curled up on the sofa with you one last time. Or spent time on the beach collecting driftwood. I could have caressed the top of your head and smelt the Parmaviolet smelling hair, you say reminds you of your grandmother, while I kissed it. Those twelve hours should have been a gift, it is worth making the most of it instead of moping about the end or not even realising you’ve died. It’s hard, but I know it will be harder for you, there is more you will have to leave. I will see you on the other side.

It is probably best to die with family by your bed at a ripe old age, all pruned like a raisin and going in sleep. However, that is for the lucky, most of us go alone, painfully or somewhere unfamiliar. I know dying with family gives you the opportunity to kiss their cheeks goodbye, it lets you pretend all is normal for the time that you have left. But it makes it worse saying goodbye too, knowing they thought your presence was only a small breeze, that they mourn your death and will not find easy comfort, that you could have changed the outcome. But your thread is cut when it is, they only wind round the clock so many times until it stops, giving you the final full circle until you move on.

I wish I could have been with you there. I wish the car hadn’t broken down, or that I had gone there with you instead of another day of work. I should have been there anyway. I wish I had had another route. But know that I would die cold and alone again and again if there was any hope of seeing you and our child.

I didn’t know then as I continued walking, lost, cold and scared, that I had died much sooner. I kept walking and wasted my final hours where I could have relived memories, or watched a sunset the last time, enjoyed the snow like a child or looked at the individual snow flakes. In the end, in the last few minutes of my twelve hours, I found the woman again. She took my hand and told me to breathe, stay calm, she gave many soothing, calming words while explaining what had happened. Then she lead me up to the endless night, I kept turning around trying to catch sight of the hospital, before finally,  it all slipped away from my vision.

I know these words are only said in my mind. But it is what happened to me. I don’t want another person to fade away like I did, fade away with out saying goodbye. I hope that somehow these thoughts echo their way to wherever you are, to let you know, to tell you to make the most of your last twelve hours, it will mean everything to you when you get here.

I loved you, I still do. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the hospital in time. I’m sorry I went out into the snow. I’m sorry. I love you. I hope you know that. I wish more than anything I could have been there, that I could have grown old with you and looked after our little one too. But life is cruel.

I’ll say it again, I’ll never stop loving you. I’m waiting here for you,



I was going to share a/some video/s from the view from my new dorm, as the sunsets are something else, but my wordpress plan doesn’t permit videos, so I thought I would try to link it elsewhere? I don’t know where, but I’m going to give it a shot….

Click the link here:

Please enjoy the time lapses and apologies for any interruption as it gets dark in them (you can see my laptop light on the window/ insects climbing around outside. It is possible you can see the bats that also float around there. Hopefully I will add more when a good sunset comes,

Best wishes,



We are all the same


We are all connected, you, I, him and her,
even the irritating bloke on the train who eats noisily
or the person who let’s their dog shit on the pathway by your flat.
No matter what you may think there are little roots of humanity connecting us.
Even those who stray too far from humanity cling on,
like parasites, a memory of who not to be.
Even those who pass on, do not pass on
they leave something to inspire
the neighbouring roots
That entwined with their lives.

Our seeds were sown in the same fields,
you, I, him and her, not just your parents, brothers and sisters.
We grew and blossomed flower like
We opened our petals to the sun,
following the light like lost children
until we grow old, too slow to follow the beams
and then our colours begin to fade.

We are all the same.
You. Me. Her. Him. Them
Same starts, same ends.
It’s the middle part that makes it worth our time.



I know I have been particularly inactive here. I also know that most people couldn’t really care less, but then again that hasn’t stopped me before and it won’t stop me now. So here goes.

I finally did it. Or I am doing it, slowly. I let my secret out. I’ve known for a long time, and it isn’t really a big deal, but for me it is. I am pansexual. No. I do not like pans.  I mean I don’t have anything against them, they are handy kitchen utensils, but not like that. Anyway, where I go to school, it isn’t really normal, and as I share rooms with others at the school (an abstract way, I guess, of saying boarding school) it makes any form of LGBTQIA+ slightly more stigmatised than elsewhere as people may think you creepy or pervy, or whatever else.

However, despite everything, including about five years of keeping it a secret from everyone, I realise now, I don’t care. I am I. The main people I feared hating me still love me and that is all I need to know.  I realise now that strangers opinions mean nothing, if they dislike me, judge me, think I am a fool or a sinner or whatever. Think me a they, or a she or a he, I am whatever they think I am on face value and I, finally am comfortable in my skin. They can think that, but I know who I am.

Why do people feel the need to label others? Why does race or gender or sexuality or ethnicity or size the labels that come to mind to base judgement off? Why can’t peoples personalities be the shape of their bodies, their behaviour the colour of their skin, their dreams of the future be their culture? They, are they. He, is he. She, is she. It doesn’t really matter I know and self labelled tags make it easier to not offend someone if they prefer certain personal pronouns or so forth. I don’t even know where I was going with this just nod and pretend to understand.

The truth is, I want to make a difference. I fear failing, but I have this fear because it leads to my true fear: of being forgotten. I don’t want to just be a small tombstone somewhere, not that I want the pyramids of Giza or anything, but I want my life to have meant something.

I know I need to start small if I want to make a difference. I know that, and where else better to start than at my own school? I have already talked to several of my friends who after I came out to them, realised their own sexuality and even if still ‘closeted’ (god how I hate that term), they know themselves and that is a difference, I know. But honestly the amount, although not great masses, that I hear from students who thought I was heterosexual, is too much I think, even if they are just quoting views from their family. We are supposed to live in a place where it should be ideal and if I want to make a difference where it really matters where people are really targeted and victimised for being who they are, I have to learn to start somewhere.

I know that my friends will help me in this, and I have some ideas, but if anyone else out there on the wide web has any ideas on how to assist my hope of making a difference at my school for Sexual And Gender Acceptance (not my idea of name BTW, it is a post of tumblr, I just agree it is easier than announcing all letters after the + in LGBT+ or leaving one out as that isn’t particularly equal)

I understand nobody really listens to my voice. I haven’t even taken important exams yet, but I want to try.

If anyone reads this far, well done, not even I could be bothered to read my own trail of thoughts,


Whatever next? An immortal aphid?

Whatever next? An immortal aphid?

Yes, know that you mention it, an immortal aphid it is.

(the message of that rather short story, is not to test what I can put into writing).

Well, I’ve decided to test humour and wackiness in my writing, please inform me if it was, or not (most likely the latter, I am not exactly renown for comedic values, but maybe a bit more in the wacky).


Nobody really took much thought as to what powered the fountain of youth, they only cared about its effects: beauty and youth. So when it was destroyed, nobody thought much about where the power went, just the material object that held it was shattered. But life is never about material things. It’s about a lot of things, but not that.

So after it shattered, nobody thought of the small little splash of power that danced away, before people could take as much as they could. Now, this little splash, where did it land? To whom did this power now belong?

The answer is not, exactly a whom, but closer to a what that became more of a whom with the new founded power. His home, a humble rose, which he frequently granted more beauty and youth at his will. Now the one of whom I speak, is not exactly like you or I (by which I do not mean narrator and reader, I mean human) but a green fly.

Yes, you heard me right, a green fly holds the key to immortal youth and all beauty the fountain once held, as well. But, this being still held a few grudges, he never particularly like lady birds. Many a friend of our green fly had been eaten over the course of their shortened lives. Now, these red spotted creatures eat around 5,000 little aphids in a period of five months, which the green fly did not look fondly upon. As a matter of fact, several aphids to which he cared about had lost their lives to the beasts.

When I said nobody took much thought to where the power of the fountain of youth ended up, I lied. Obviously people wanted to know, but not many sane people would guess a grudge holding green fly would posses it. However, as always, you get that one insane person who notices different things to the others. Now, where most look at the ruined stone and shattered carvings and runes of the fountains, this other looked to the green leafy walls of the garden. Where some would sigh with disappointment at the ruin, this individual looked at the flowers around it.

Now, already I expect you get the impression that this person is some kind of wacky botany expert and in many ways you are probably right, but their past is of no concern of yours and I am not at any form of liberty to tell you.

Then again, when is the main character a botanist, quite an infrequent occurrence that one?  But this is me going on a tangent, I’ll return back to our bitter aphid and curious botanist.

While those like the others turned away, our botanist remained longer to admire this single rose. A large, beautiful rose at that, and strangely out of season which perked the interest of the botanist even more. Now, the botanist was surprised to see such a thriving flower hosting such a large greenfly. Little did they know that this particular greenfly was immortal and required no food to survive other than his infinite powers.

Now the botanist, even more curious, as this was the largest greenfly he had ever beheld, removed it from its slumber in the rose on his finger. Our aphid thought this was particularly impolite, and already in a half asleep fuelled consciousness started to eject lines of profanities about the botanists rudeness.

As expected, the botanist couldn’t hear the greenfly nor, unsurprisingly, was he able to understand the language to which the green fly was screaming in. So, it was hardly surprising when he flicked it off his finger onto the grass. Now the green fly was rather irritated now. How rude! He flew back up to the rose and proceeded to sit on the inside of the petal, while the botanist pottered about the flower. The greenfly muttered and pouted and occasional stuck up a particular finger with a flourish.

Now, the botanist bent down and took a deep sniff of the rose. The green fly, rather offended by the nose that stuck into his home approached it, to be sucked into a large, hairy, left nostril.

The botanist, in a fit of disgust, snorted out the aphid and squashed it between his fingers. Now, life as a fully intact youthful aphid is good, but the moment you are paralysed with your head behind your feet is certainly rather upsetting. Furthermore, the botanist now had a rather youthful looking single nostril. This certainly perplexed the botanists wife when he returned home that day, when she helped shave his growing beard and looked at the pubescent spots and the hairless inside upon his left nose.

The green fly stayed on the floor and was washed away in pieces, as the rain washed over him. As his body parts left him, the power of the fountain of youth washed away.