Wednesday, 19 October 2011


She’d ‘forgotten’ her P.E. kit again. What a shame. After all, there was nothing like running aimlessly out in the freezing cold whilst being shouted at by a ‘teacher’ in a parka. Or being glared at by your classmates because you let a goal in due to the fact you were daydreaming about whatever world had taken your fancy… 

Art wouldn’t take her at this time. No point, she hadn’t her book. She hadn’t any book aside from her physics textbook. Which was why she’d forgotten the others – so focused on remembering that one, the others had slipped her mind. So, quickly, trying so hard not to run, she went to the only place of solitude and joy she knew. The library.
Well, library was her name for it. The schools real library was bright and modern and soulless. She’d been rather depressed when she’d started that year and found the vile metal shelves and the sheer noise of the place. So, she had gone looking. Always, in any older school, there was a place to hide and read. So she looked. Every lunchtime, every breaktime, she’d looked. She had gotten told off more than her fair share. It didn’t deter her; nothing could, so she kept looking. Until, eventually, she found it. And it was beautiful. She had hoped for a small forgotten cloakroom, at best. Instead she’d found heaven in a schoolhouse. Wooden shelves reached the dark ceiling, and covered all but one window. That one window spilled light all over, making the air glitter and hover. Time was solid and still here. As she traced the spines, she noticed something odd. While some were as dusty as she expected, others were brushed clean, and seemed to be recently read. This explained the leather armchair in the corner, just out of the light, and close enough to the single radiator to keep warm in the upcoming winter months. She walked over to the chair, and knelt to read the spine of the book propping it up. poetry of some form or another. It was a good enough place to start as any. 

                     WEEKS LATER

She walked up the stairs to their library, hands in pockets and smiling guiltily. She was skipping maths for this, and she couldn’t wait. She knew what book she planned to read next, and had brought one from home to lend to the boy. She couldn’t wait to see him either.


She stopped, frozen. When did this happen? When did a boy mean as much to her as books? She didn’t even know his name, and yet here she was, about to allow him to touch one of her most beloved items. What madness was this? Still, she walked faster, skipping up the steps. The door, ancient and wooden, stood slightly ajar. She walked as fast as she could towards it, even now unwilling to run. Her fingers closed on the doorknob, and she stopped and closed her eyes, savouring the moment. This, she realised, was the first time she was looking forward to a new term. She swore to herself that she’d know his name by the end of the day, and his favourite book, and song, and lesson and everything she wanted to know. She was looking forward to meeting that boy as much as she was looking forwards to sinking into the cracked leather.
Nodding to herself, she opened the door and her eyes, smiling warmly.
And her heart broke.
“No.” she whispered, hearing the sound of feet behind her. “No…”

okay... bad day at school when I wrote this... 

Wednesday, 12 October 2011


*sighs* the things we do for love...

I, Venice Rain, say that Gepard Valk may have Flo, so that he will return Niall back to me.

Monday, 10 October 2011

Purple (frozen) Roses

A young woman watched the tourists walk by from inside the café where she sat, overlooking the Seine and with the Louvre nearby. It was early spring, so they were few and far between, but she could spot them. Looking sneakily at maps and squinting at signs, pretending that they knew where they were going. Most were French or English, attracted by the late snow. According to some sources, this was only going to get more and more common – late winters, rainy summers, scorching autumns. Still, Paris was Paris, whatever the weather. Children cried and played, women flirted, men sat hunched over their lap-tops and newspapers, and teenagers held hands and kissed guiltily in the diminishing light. She sighed. She was hardly older than the two holding hands walking down the slush filled street, the brittle winter winds tousling their hair.
She missed London. She missed the way the people rushed to place to place, never giving her a second glance. Winter felt so right there, especially when it snowed. No one worked, everyone smiled together, no matter whom. They stayed inside with their families, and only the brave or lonely ventured out. She missed the snow; she’d spent so much time in it, after all…
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she hadn’t noticed how white her knuckles had gone from gripping the now cold mug of hot chocolate in front of her. She sipped it while scanning the other patrons of the café’s along the road. Outside the café two shops down, a man about her age was sitting and watching a laptop with a bored expression on the little of his face she could see peeking out from his hat and scarf combo. In the café opposite, she saw a woman wiping the condensation off the window with a black sleeve, revealing another two girls with her, younger, but not in school uniform. She nodded to herself, and got up to leave, reaching for her wallet. A waiter wandered slowly over, and she took him in. He was cute enough, she supposed, just not her type. Not that she had a type… but still, something was off about him. He had an ink splodge or two on his hands, and more than one pen in his pockets. And purple socks. As he walked over, another one of the patrons looked up, a boy of 14 with brown hair and a devilishly cheeky look in his eyes. None the less, she paid and calmly walked up the street, anxious to get away. She passed the man on the laptop, who was clearing his glasses that had fogged in the cold. Now, he was her type. He looked up and smiled at her, and she smiled back without a second thought. She saw him grin guiltily and blush beneath his hat. Smiling to herself, she carried on down the road towards the Champ de Mars.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

this is titled as 'people running'. How original....

People running, people screaming, thousands of faces, but none I want to see. Want? Need. I never had a choice.
Red dyes the streets, falling from those harmed by their beliefs.
“RUN” someone shouts. Not…her but a good voice none the less. So I run. I follow the voice, still shouting above the crowds and I herd the panicked along with me. I feel no fear, it left me when she went. But no time for this, for time is forever against us all. The chaos around me swirls and swells and the screams of thousands fills up my ears.
But then I hear. I hear Her voice and I don’t know how or why or even what she is saying but I push against the crowds towards the place where even the brave are running from. Because that is where she is. And I still don’t care I just run faster. And as my saviours scream my name I run towards the sound pushing against the current. And I’m no longer racing through bodies but over them, over the brave and the slow, the strong and the weak, those who dared to believe and died for it. And now there is nothing before me but a wall of death. And I search; I search for her eyes and her voice. But all I hear is an order. And everything is swirling and black and so quiet.