There was once a little boy
His parents were king and queen
His brother was a prince
But he was anything but
The little boy was small
And not just in stature
He stayed small
As his brother grew greater
Preparing to one day
Be crowned king
Then one fateful night
Screams echoed dimly
From the floor below
The little boy recognized
The screams of his family
He was hastily hidden
In a wooden crate
Shut tight in the wine cellar
With the lingering scent
Of aged grapes
And there he stayed
For the rest of the night
Sobbing into the eventual silence
Until he woke in the morning
Eyes puffy and red
When he emerged
There was no one in sight
The hallways upstairs
Were stained with blood
The little boy ran
As fast as he could
A few weeks later
The boy returned
Along with a crowd
Of cheering subjects
He looked around, nervous
But the walls were all clean
As if that nightmare
Had never happened
The boy was named king
The wide crown placed
Upon his too-small head
Lopsided,
One side of the crown
Grazing the tip
of his sticky-out ear
He smiled for his subjects
Waved for the nobles
But his green eyes stayed sad
And they did till the end.
Wednesday, 8 January 2014
Monday, 2 September 2013
All By Herself
Just as suddenly as it had started, the explosions and yells ceased. The bombers had left. Sarah crawled out from under the big, sturdy table and looked around. The house was a mess. Parts of the roof had collapsed, furniture had been knocked over, glass items smashed.
Tiptoeing gingerly with her bare feet, Sarah made her way to the front door and opened it. Outside and all around were piles of rubble, some lit on fire. There was no one in sight.
"Hello?" Sarah called out tentatively. "Is--is anyone here?"
There was no reply.
Tears filled her eyes and leaked out of them. "Hello? Mommy? Daddy?"
There was no sound but the wind rustling through the leaves of fallen trees and blowing strands of hair across her face. She stood alone, all by herself, in the middle of the debris.
There was no one left.
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Tiptoeing gingerly with her bare feet, Sarah made her way to the front door and opened it. Outside and all around were piles of rubble, some lit on fire. There was no one in sight.
"Hello?" Sarah called out tentatively. "Is--is anyone here?"
There was no reply.
Tears filled her eyes and leaked out of them. "Hello? Mommy? Daddy?"
There was no sound but the wind rustling through the leaves of fallen trees and blowing strands of hair across her face. She stood alone, all by herself, in the middle of the debris.
There was no one left.
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Wednesday, 24 July 2013
The Tree in the Field
Here we are, I thought, opening the car door.
It was a lovely summer day, the sky blue and cloudless, the birds atwitter, a cool breeze ruffling the flyaway hairs I hadn't quite managed to scrape into my tight ponytail. I'd figured that maybe if I visited on such a cheerful day, the sight of this place wouldn't reduce me to a sobbing wreck. It had been five years since the Incident, but this was the first time I'd come here after we moved out.
With a gulp, I slammed the car door and set off toward the abandoned stable, boots crunching on the rocky road and then sinking into springy green grass as I stepped off the road.
Once I reached the stable, though, I curved around it, for my destination was not it but the green field that lay behind it. A short, gentle slope led downward from the farm into a wide, open field. Years of no tending had left it looking wild with tall, sunbaked grass, waving to me in the wind as if welcoming me home.
Home. The word formed a lump in my throat. I swallowed it and jogged down the slope into the field.
In the middle of the huge meadow was a single cloven tree, with two or three fallen branches lying around it. It was the size and shape of a willow tree, but it didn't have the long, hanging leaves. I'd never figured out what kind of tree it was, but it had never mattered much to me. What had mattered to me was the tree itself. Ever since I was six, clad in a gingham dress and frilly socks, hair in pigtails, that tree had been my little nook, my sanctuary, my hiding place. I went down there to enjoy the weather, to make daisy chains, to do anything I pleased.
As I grew older, I grew more attached to my little tree in the field. I loved spending long summer days picnicking, reading, and maybe sketching underneath the tree, which protected me with its staunch and sturdy trunk and low branches like arms that warded off intruders for me.
I never let anybody else come with me to my hiding place. Not until I was fifteen. That year, I met a boy. A beautiful boy, with hair that fell just across his forehead and into his right eye, making you want to push it back for him. He had the most stunning blue-green eyes you could stare into all day long and a gentle, inviting smile that turned up only one corner of his mouth. But his appearance wasn't the best thing about him. The best thing about him was that he wanted me. He held my hand and told me I was beautiful. He let me catch him gazing at me with the most tender look in his eyes. He was wasn't flawless, but his flaws were what made him even more perfect.
That summer, I spent most of my time curled up with him under my tree in the field, kissing, cuddling, laughing, talking. I thought my life was perfect. Too good to be true. And it was.
A couple weeks after he graduated high school--I was a year younger than him--he told me he was going to England for college. I felt a wave of mixed emotions hit me like a brick to the face. Shock. Sorrow. Anger. At first, I'd insisted that I would go with him, but he'd gently told me it wasn't possible. In the end, I'd put on a brave face and agreed. But that night, something inside me just broke--the something that had been holding my tears back during the day. I cried and cried and wished I could go with him, but I knew my parents wouldn't even consider it. They didn't even approve of us, which was why our relationship had been kept secret for the past year or so.
So that we could have some quality time together without anybody knowing, we decided to meet at my tree in the middle of the night. I guess we thought it'd be romantic, or something. That night, the night we were supposed to meet, there was a huge storm with pouring rain and thunder and lightning. But he came anyway. I looked out of my bedroom window to see him, soaked through as if he had jumped into a pool fully clothed, waiting for me with his hands in his pockets under the tree.
My heart fluttered a little at the sight, but I just sighed and shook my head at his stupidity, wondering why he'd even think of standing near that tree in the storm, then grabbed my jacket and hurried downstairs to reprimand him. On my way down, I heard a loud clap of thunder which sounded way too close for comfort. I picked up my pace and burst outside, running toward the tree.
A horrible feeling came over me when I saw the tree, which was still a small distance from me. It was burnt and charred and split down the middle, the two halves held together only by roughly two feet of unbroken trunk at the bottom of the tree. One or two branches had snapped and were hanging at awkward angles. My boyfriend was nowhere in sight. I didn't have to get closer to know what had happened.
In the following six months after the Incident, I'd become so depressed that my parents decided to move us out. And although I had mixed feelings about that, I'd ultimately agreed that it was the best thing to do.
I hadn't realized it, but I had kneeled down in front of the tree, my hand on the cloven tree trunk, tears flooding my eyes and trickling down my cheeks.
"I miss you," I whispered, closing my eyes, imagining that he was here sitting cross-legged in the grass on this bright summer day. "I still see you every night, in my dreams. I'm sorry we never got to say goodbye. I'm sorry it was my fault you died. I'm sorry for everything. You deserved more than this."
For a moment, I thought I could feel his warm, loving hand on top of mine. But only for a moment. And then the warmth was gone, snatched away by a sudden gust of strong wind, a mere shadow of a memory of the good times long gone.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
It was a lovely summer day, the sky blue and cloudless, the birds atwitter, a cool breeze ruffling the flyaway hairs I hadn't quite managed to scrape into my tight ponytail. I'd figured that maybe if I visited on such a cheerful day, the sight of this place wouldn't reduce me to a sobbing wreck. It had been five years since the Incident, but this was the first time I'd come here after we moved out.
With a gulp, I slammed the car door and set off toward the abandoned stable, boots crunching on the rocky road and then sinking into springy green grass as I stepped off the road.
Once I reached the stable, though, I curved around it, for my destination was not it but the green field that lay behind it. A short, gentle slope led downward from the farm into a wide, open field. Years of no tending had left it looking wild with tall, sunbaked grass, waving to me in the wind as if welcoming me home.
Home. The word formed a lump in my throat. I swallowed it and jogged down the slope into the field.
In the middle of the huge meadow was a single cloven tree, with two or three fallen branches lying around it. It was the size and shape of a willow tree, but it didn't have the long, hanging leaves. I'd never figured out what kind of tree it was, but it had never mattered much to me. What had mattered to me was the tree itself. Ever since I was six, clad in a gingham dress and frilly socks, hair in pigtails, that tree had been my little nook, my sanctuary, my hiding place. I went down there to enjoy the weather, to make daisy chains, to do anything I pleased.
As I grew older, I grew more attached to my little tree in the field. I loved spending long summer days picnicking, reading, and maybe sketching underneath the tree, which protected me with its staunch and sturdy trunk and low branches like arms that warded off intruders for me.
I never let anybody else come with me to my hiding place. Not until I was fifteen. That year, I met a boy. A beautiful boy, with hair that fell just across his forehead and into his right eye, making you want to push it back for him. He had the most stunning blue-green eyes you could stare into all day long and a gentle, inviting smile that turned up only one corner of his mouth. But his appearance wasn't the best thing about him. The best thing about him was that he wanted me. He held my hand and told me I was beautiful. He let me catch him gazing at me with the most tender look in his eyes. He was wasn't flawless, but his flaws were what made him even more perfect.
That summer, I spent most of my time curled up with him under my tree in the field, kissing, cuddling, laughing, talking. I thought my life was perfect. Too good to be true. And it was.
A couple weeks after he graduated high school--I was a year younger than him--he told me he was going to England for college. I felt a wave of mixed emotions hit me like a brick to the face. Shock. Sorrow. Anger. At first, I'd insisted that I would go with him, but he'd gently told me it wasn't possible. In the end, I'd put on a brave face and agreed. But that night, something inside me just broke--the something that had been holding my tears back during the day. I cried and cried and wished I could go with him, but I knew my parents wouldn't even consider it. They didn't even approve of us, which was why our relationship had been kept secret for the past year or so.
So that we could have some quality time together without anybody knowing, we decided to meet at my tree in the middle of the night. I guess we thought it'd be romantic, or something. That night, the night we were supposed to meet, there was a huge storm with pouring rain and thunder and lightning. But he came anyway. I looked out of my bedroom window to see him, soaked through as if he had jumped into a pool fully clothed, waiting for me with his hands in his pockets under the tree.
My heart fluttered a little at the sight, but I just sighed and shook my head at his stupidity, wondering why he'd even think of standing near that tree in the storm, then grabbed my jacket and hurried downstairs to reprimand him. On my way down, I heard a loud clap of thunder which sounded way too close for comfort. I picked up my pace and burst outside, running toward the tree.
A horrible feeling came over me when I saw the tree, which was still a small distance from me. It was burnt and charred and split down the middle, the two halves held together only by roughly two feet of unbroken trunk at the bottom of the tree. One or two branches had snapped and were hanging at awkward angles. My boyfriend was nowhere in sight. I didn't have to get closer to know what had happened.
In the following six months after the Incident, I'd become so depressed that my parents decided to move us out. And although I had mixed feelings about that, I'd ultimately agreed that it was the best thing to do.
I hadn't realized it, but I had kneeled down in front of the tree, my hand on the cloven tree trunk, tears flooding my eyes and trickling down my cheeks.
"I miss you," I whispered, closing my eyes, imagining that he was here sitting cross-legged in the grass on this bright summer day. "I still see you every night, in my dreams. I'm sorry we never got to say goodbye. I'm sorry it was my fault you died. I'm sorry for everything. You deserved more than this."
For a moment, I thought I could feel his warm, loving hand on top of mine. But only for a moment. And then the warmth was gone, snatched away by a sudden gust of strong wind, a mere shadow of a memory of the good times long gone.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
A Better Place
He strode, purposefully and steadily, but not speedily, towards the flaring sunlight that seemed to emit from the middle of the wood. As always, there was no change in the seemingly serene forest from the last time he'd been here. The tall, skinny trees, all identical, stood in symmetrical rows, stretching on endlessly around him, making it too easy for him to lose himself in there.
But this man didn't seem afraid. A bead of sweat soaked his brow, but he made no move to wipe it off, keeping up his energetic pace.
As he neared the source of the light, it became evident that it really wasn't from the sun at all. The blinding brightness emanated from the very heart of the wood, the only spot in the almost eerily still forest that seemed alive.
The man halted several meters away from the dazzling light and took in his surroundings. Here, in the centre of the wood, you could hear the noises that you should hear in a wood that he hadn't heard on the way here, like birds chittering and leaves rustling and wind combing through the tree branches. You could also hear things you didn't often hear in other woods--the still and quiet, almost imperceptible, growth of the young trees, the communication between animals and even plants. It was as if somebody had put not a forest, but the sounds of a forest, under a magnifying glass.
If you stayed there long enough, which was what the man did, you could even hear things you frankly aren't supposed to hear in woods or anywhere else, such as the sound of the warm golden light, comforting and peaceful, and the whispered melody of life, which radiated from the very roots of the trees and the fluttering heartbeat of the small critters. The very air was alive. You would feel as if you could walk in here blindfolded, never having seen the place before, and still be able to describe every detail of it. After basking in the pleasant light and enjoying the beauty of nature for a while, one never wanted to leave this place.
Maybe that was why the man proceeded to take five long strides straight into the light, plunging himself into the very source of this rich life.
Surprisingly, in the couple seconds before the light completely swallowed him up, he did not show any sign of pain or discomfort from the heat that should have been there, considering the brilliance of the light.
If you were there with him, you could have waited all you wanted and he would never return. Nobody ever saw this man again, alive or dead. All I can tell you is that he indubitably left for a better place--a place you yourself might even see someday.
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But this man didn't seem afraid. A bead of sweat soaked his brow, but he made no move to wipe it off, keeping up his energetic pace.
As he neared the source of the light, it became evident that it really wasn't from the sun at all. The blinding brightness emanated from the very heart of the wood, the only spot in the almost eerily still forest that seemed alive.
The man halted several meters away from the dazzling light and took in his surroundings. Here, in the centre of the wood, you could hear the noises that you should hear in a wood that he hadn't heard on the way here, like birds chittering and leaves rustling and wind combing through the tree branches. You could also hear things you didn't often hear in other woods--the still and quiet, almost imperceptible, growth of the young trees, the communication between animals and even plants. It was as if somebody had put not a forest, but the sounds of a forest, under a magnifying glass.
If you stayed there long enough, which was what the man did, you could even hear things you frankly aren't supposed to hear in woods or anywhere else, such as the sound of the warm golden light, comforting and peaceful, and the whispered melody of life, which radiated from the very roots of the trees and the fluttering heartbeat of the small critters. The very air was alive. You would feel as if you could walk in here blindfolded, never having seen the place before, and still be able to describe every detail of it. After basking in the pleasant light and enjoying the beauty of nature for a while, one never wanted to leave this place.
Maybe that was why the man proceeded to take five long strides straight into the light, plunging himself into the very source of this rich life.
Surprisingly, in the couple seconds before the light completely swallowed him up, he did not show any sign of pain or discomfort from the heat that should have been there, considering the brilliance of the light.
If you were there with him, you could have waited all you wanted and he would never return. Nobody ever saw this man again, alive or dead. All I can tell you is that he indubitably left for a better place--a place you yourself might even see someday.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
Thursday, 4 July 2013
A Romantic Evening
It was in that period of time that occurs after noon and after dusk, but before midnight - but that's not really important- that he finally looked up into her Picasso-esque asymmetrical eyes that were skewed to either side, and took her skeletal, liver-spotted hand, the setting sun bathing her aged and wrinkled body in a muted red light that highlighted her pear-shaped, handmade-cardigan-clad figure, making him think twice about proposing to this hoary old widow. But then he reminded himself of the inheritance and all qualms he had were banished from his mind once more.
Friday, 28 June 2013
A Regular Tuesday Evening
Nobody was home. Salty droplets of tears carrying flakes of mascara in them trickled steadily down her already slick cheeks. Her bedraggled bun loosened itself further with every bang of her head against the wall.
Hiccoughing, she pulled a little razor blade from under her mattress and fumbled with it as she pushed up her sleeve, exposing an underarm slashed with ugly scars. Some were faded and greyish purple. Some were fresh, swollen, and pink. A couple were still bleeding--tiny pinprick-sized drops of ruby-red liquid. There were so many that altogether, only about a square centimetre of pale, unmarred skin showed through.
With a small, shivering sob, she slowly drew the blade across her skin, almost reopening a healing scar in the process. She watched without emotion as blood oozed up from the wound, chest rising sharply in tremors as an aftereffect of crying.
After a minute or two, she got up and stowed the razor blade away under her mattress, seating herself at her desk in front of the pile of overdue homework. A few hours later, her parents returned home to find their daughter tucked in bed and sleeping dreamlessly as usual.
It was just a regular Tuesday evening.
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Hiccoughing, she pulled a little razor blade from under her mattress and fumbled with it as she pushed up her sleeve, exposing an underarm slashed with ugly scars. Some were faded and greyish purple. Some were fresh, swollen, and pink. A couple were still bleeding--tiny pinprick-sized drops of ruby-red liquid. There were so many that altogether, only about a square centimetre of pale, unmarred skin showed through.
With a small, shivering sob, she slowly drew the blade across her skin, almost reopening a healing scar in the process. She watched without emotion as blood oozed up from the wound, chest rising sharply in tremors as an aftereffect of crying.
After a minute or two, she got up and stowed the razor blade away under her mattress, seating herself at her desk in front of the pile of overdue homework. A few hours later, her parents returned home to find their daughter tucked in bed and sleeping dreamlessly as usual.
It was just a regular Tuesday evening.
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Saturday, 22 June 2013
Stretched
"Here you go, Miss," the young lady said with a gentle smile as she set a steaming chipped ceramic bowl down on the small wooden table beside me.
Not having the energy to thank her with words, I smiled weakly back instead as I gratefully took the spoon and dipped it into the hot soup.
How had I ended up here, clean and wrapped in a worn blanket on a ratty sofa, clad with nothing but a woolly jumper and thick, hand-knitted socks by the fireplace, with a girl serving me hot soup with bread?
My mind flashed back to the sewers, lying still as a stone against the unpleasantly slimy brickwork while dirty rats and God knows what else scampered with their sharp-clawed feet over me, sometimes pausing to nip at my already ragged clothes, waiting for my pursuers to pass over my hiding place. To almost being buried alive. I could still feel traces of the horrible panic that had clouded my mind and nearly prevented me from escaping with my life. To having to turn my back on the dead body of my best friend, most loyal ally, and childhood love, sprawled in a tangle of limbs all lying in the wrong angle over the bloodstained dirt.
I choked back a pained sob. The girl glanced at me with a look of concern on her face before at last turning and leaving the room. I closed my eyes and nuzzled my face into the fuzzy material of the blanket, which absorbed what tears leaked out of my tired eyes. No, I didn't want to remember those things. I wasn't ready to face them, the memories I was locking away into a part of my mind I wouldn't touch for a long, long time.
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
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Not having the energy to thank her with words, I smiled weakly back instead as I gratefully took the spoon and dipped it into the hot soup.
How had I ended up here, clean and wrapped in a worn blanket on a ratty sofa, clad with nothing but a woolly jumper and thick, hand-knitted socks by the fireplace, with a girl serving me hot soup with bread?
My mind flashed back to the sewers, lying still as a stone against the unpleasantly slimy brickwork while dirty rats and God knows what else scampered with their sharp-clawed feet over me, sometimes pausing to nip at my already ragged clothes, waiting for my pursuers to pass over my hiding place. To almost being buried alive. I could still feel traces of the horrible panic that had clouded my mind and nearly prevented me from escaping with my life. To having to turn my back on the dead body of my best friend, most loyal ally, and childhood love, sprawled in a tangle of limbs all lying in the wrong angle over the bloodstained dirt.
I choked back a pained sob. The girl glanced at me with a look of concern on her face before at last turning and leaving the room. I closed my eyes and nuzzled my face into the fuzzy material of the blanket, which absorbed what tears leaked out of my tired eyes. No, I didn't want to remember those things. I wasn't ready to face them, the memories I was locking away into a part of my mind I wouldn't touch for a long, long time.
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/
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