Confessions of a Gypsy GirlThe Seine sings tonight. Octobers leaves fall along the water banks, caught in the wind that carries that pure and melancholy song to the silent alleyways, cobbled back streets and the promenades of Paris. It is as though the city waits with bated breath for something it does not quite believe will happen; the air itself quivers and the eyes of the Notre Dame see all for not even the shadows and the whispers could hide you tonight, no, not even the whispers. She is but a fragment of memory now, the slight little ghost girl curled up at the base of the willow tree. She is lost and there is a bConfessions of a Gypsy Girl
long for you to hold mewhen i was little,long for you to hold me
when i was… (if I ever was) we had a picture above the sofa in our upstairs lounge. I would hide away there in my thoughts and play aladdin’s cave with sugar mice, wondering if one would fit in my liquorice tin and become a pocket dream in my raincoat.
my world was all extremes for the simple reason i carried half a jigsaw piece and had frizzy hair. but silence carried more honest words than theirs did and it taught me the value of being alone (because being alone and loneliness, like three and four leaf clovers, are oh so very different…becaus
only just existingEven as I pick up my pen I know I know that this is so pointless Because what I can I learn from this Writing without meaning Without substance What can I take from this? Words that appear on a page That could just as easily Never have been there at all So why are they here? Why do I feel compelled to sit Write And bit by bit Fight For the shards of these nonsensical sentences Irrational and illogicalonly just existing
And piece them together
Into phrases that perhaps No one understands These words cultivated
By my mind, heart and hands &n
the new poverty lineYou belong to a different part of my life The good life, the world that was mine for Such a short while. A year in fact, maybe even Less, but right from childhood you knew howthe new poverty line
To jump clouds, catch raindrops, walk that bright
Coloured arc in the sky….what’s that called?
I’ve forgotten. It belongs to the good life.
You learnt to walk at two years old, you could run At three, while I crawled along on my hands and Knees and prayed upon a star to take me away from Existence, and deliver me into life. You were the
Butterfly
birdsong -innocence revisited-you and i, we perched bright-winged-in-love on the windowsill, leant out the open window and counted the birds on the branches. sparrows, crows, bluebirdsbirdsong -innocence revisited-
with feathers like forget-me-nots.
if i ever see a bird in a cage i start to cry, i told you; even the biggest of cages seem to close in on them, seem to wilt their rainbow wings. you touched your lips to the curve of my throat and whisper, hummingbird
you kissed the ivory ache of my collarbone, breathed hello my patch of sunlight to the green flash of my solar plexus, and etched into the skin between my legs a
Lolita Over Cornbread He had read Lolita once—just once—about a year before it happened, and found it terribly boring. He had an awkward, tender affection for the genteel old man whose aching hands had copied out in longhand those well-meaning words in the spring of 1954, but that affection was not so deep as to make him rethink his opinion of the novel. He had found it poetic and warm—the result of an obsessive desire to spill fixation onto notepaper—eloquent and old-world and dreadfully, dreadfully dull. His younger brother, named Paul but fondly nicknamed “PinkLolita Over Cornbread
knowing michelangelowhen verity finished her time machine (she built it out of shoe boxes and fruit bowls and poster paint), the first place she went was vatican city, 1508. she went there to meet michelangelo.knowing michelangelo
verity's father took her to see the sistine chapel when she was four years old. he lifted her onto his shoulders and she remembered feeling close enough to reach out and touch the hairline-shattered paint on the ceiling. she craned her neck right back so she could see it all because it was the most spectacular and beautiful thing she had ever seen and would ever see. she couldn't bear to miss any of it.
it was like seeing the un
four boys and Ifour boys and I
There were four boys and I, back in London, and we'd run the streets after dark like the largest of owls, a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and someone's shirtsleeve in the other. We'd tear down posters from the lampposts on the corners and smash in headlights with our bare knuckles. We never stopped moving, my four boys and I; not back in those days, we didn't. We didn't have much cash, hot or otherwise, and what we stole we spent on cigarettes and a bit of the stronger stuff. Our clothes were tattered and sewn back up a couple times along every hem, but we didn't mind. We were night creatures, back in London, and n
I may just check that contest out sometime, once exam stresses are over!!
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a thousand ancient bees began to sting our knees.
avatar by ~VivaLaValo
same here, it was absolutely lovely
hooray for lit exams haha, especially the work of art that is lord of the flies! yep, will see you then
thankyou very, very much
i haven't written any more short stories like that, like in chapters and all, and there aren't anymore stories that relate to skf, but there are various other stories and prose pieces scattered throughout my gallery
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