In The Forest; The Alphabet; Mother's Day

I have finally sorted out my Writing folder on my laptop - everything is organized and has its place. All files have been renamed to be consistent grammatically and stylistically. Sad? Well, it beat working! 


This post is going to share some old poems of mine. They're very simple, but they're aimed at children. I was about 14 when I wrote these (according to the 'Document Created' statistic!


This first poem was written with the image of a children's picture book in mind. Simple rhymes and a repetitive, simple rhythm:

In the forest, something stirred,

Was it an animal or was it a bird?

Was it a lizard or was it a snake?

Was it a hippo, strayed from the lake?

Was it a zebra, with stripes black and white?

Or was it a bird preparing for flight?

Was it a gorilla?

Or was it a zorilla?

Was it a monkey climbing the trees?

Or a hyena, scratching his fleas?

Was it a crocodile, sleeping in a bush?

Was it a cheetah, in a terrible rush?

Was it a leopard or a lioness?

What’s in the foliage? Can you guess?

The next poem is called 'The Alphabet'. Not quite sure why I chose the names I did. They just seemed to fit... Enjoy:

Moses challenged Noah to a challenge, rather easy,

But Noah couldn’t really help but feel rather queasy.

To recite the alphabet,

They both put a handsome bet.

Noah started with great ease,

To recite his ABC’s.

But when reached the letter u,

He thought, ‘What comes before w?”

He really struggled with that letter,

Yet Moses felt a whole lot better.

Moses, so happy, giggled in glee,

Whilst Noah remembered the letter was v!

A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

H, I, J, K, LMNOP,

Q, R, S, T,

U and V

W, X and Y and Z.

Moses stood there horrified,

Noah stood there glorified.

Noah had recited the alphabet,

Moses had just lost the bet.

This last poem is in honour of Mothering Sunday. I wrote it for my own Mum a few years ago, and now I'm sharing it on the 'Net! Cue over-emotion induced vomit!!

On your very special day,

I have some things I want to say.

First things first, I really love you.

Second: Thanks for all you do.

Thanks for always being there,

Thanks for always giving me care,

 Thanks for loving me and giving me life,

Thanks for helping me get through my strife.

I could go on and on and on,

But then the time would have gone.

So today on Mothering Sunday,

Just relax! It should be a Fun Day!

Hidden Treasure

Hello Followers! I lived in Kenya from when I was 13 to when I was 14, and so completed my IGCSEs [International General Certificate of Secondary Education] whilst out there. This is a piece from a practice question we were given in English Language - the stimulus being 'Hidden Treasure'. I got 20/25 for it.


Lord Jack Stevenson was an elderly man. He was rich and powerful with four children - 3 charmingly handsome boys and a beautifully clever girl - and a wonderfully big mansion. He had servants and gardeners, all providing heavily for him. He had everything he could have dreamt for. Well, not quite everything.
He was losing his memory. Slowly, but surely, poor Jack Stevenson, with two villas in Italy and a yacht in France, was forgetting his life.

Jack had lived a very comfortable life. Born into a rich family and a student of Eton, the finest boys' school in England, he had everything he wanted in ample supply. He had never been frightened. He was always able to buy off kidnappers and bullies, but now. Now, for the first time in his life, Lord Jack Stevenson, with a species of lily and a star named after him, was afraid.

It increased dramatically at the funeral of his third wife, Rebecca. He had sat solitarily on a bench and tried to remember his wedding to her. He couldn't. He remembered his tuxedo and the Rolls Royce they had started their honeymoon in, but he could not recall the service, the dress, the bride. The morning after the funeral, as he awoke in his goose-feathered-duvet and king-size four-poster bed, he looked at a photo of Rebecca and was astonished not to recognise her at first sight. Lord Jack Stevenson was forgetting.

Now, he sat on his luxurious white leather settee in his extravagant lounge, straining his memory. He had voluntarily paid for operations on his heart, his knees. In fact, most of his body could be linked to a handsomely-paid doctor. But his brain... his memory... that was something he could never get back. No operation could ever help him remember.

It had been four years since the funeral and gradually more and more of Lord Jack Stevenson's life had slipped from his mind. He was now remembering the same memory over and over again.

Peter Stevenson was the youngest son and child of Jack and Rebecca. He was used to seeing his much older siblings marry and have children, but after a few years it began to bother him. Four days after his eighteenth birthday he approached his parents. "Mum, Dad. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, but I want to get married." There was a stunned silence.
     "Wow. That's great, darling," Rebecca started, "but don't you think you're a bit young?"
     "Michael was only twenty when he got married to Sarah."
     "And he got divorced four months later," Jack finished. "You are only eighteen. You don't know what love is."
     "I'll learn from experience then. You had plenty of divorces until you met Mum."
     "I don't want you to make the same mistakes."
     "No! It's becase you don't want me to be happy!"
     "Darling, you know that we both want the best for you. We just want you to think before you rush in."
     "Give me a break!"
     "Don't talk to your mother like that!"
     "Look, if you don't want me to get married, that is your problem. But I can legally wed someone now without your permission."
     "You won't do this Peter. I forbid you to!"
     "You can't. You have no power over me anymore. I'll see you around."


Jack could remember calling his son's name over and over again. He could vaguely hear the door slam. And that was it. That was the last Jack had seen of his son. Fourteen years ago his son had vanished from his life. Fourteen years ago, his memory had begun to disappear.

Lord Jack Stevenson wept. He wept tears for his son. Tears for his wife. Tears for his memory. His long-lost memory. Was there any hope for him? Jack doubted it greatly.

He called his house-keeper, Marie, to make him a cup of coffee. De-caf, of course. He didn't want to be up all night! He grabbed a cushion and held it close to him, as though he were a child clutching a blanket. The doorbell rang. "Strauss?" Jack croaked for his doorman. No reply. Of course, it was his day off. Damn Saturdays.

Jack got up and slowly paced down the hallway. He opened the door and looked at his visitor. He fell to his knees and sobbed. Peter Stevenson bent down, picked up his father and embraced him. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry. Daphne left me. You were right. Please forgive me." He pulled Jack in close to him, and Jack remembered.

Rebecca had looked like an angel as she glided down the aisle. Her fair skin was as dainty as the flowers that decorated the church. She was a daisy, a rose, a lily. She was beautiful and pure.

Peter, unknowingly, had helped his father, Jack Stevenson, a man just like any other, to recover his memory - the only thing left in his life to treasure, save for his four wonderful children.

The Garden

This is the beginning of a story that I started to write after a visit to Fountain's Abbey in North Yorkshire, England. The style is quite Carrollian, I think. Or at least I hope it to be! Maybe I have failed, but this is very early on in the writing process. It will almost certainly be re-written!

I woke up late in the morning, as we teenagers tend to do. My bed was unusually comfortable that morning. I snuggled up, folding the duvet over me several times. I was reluctant to open my eyes. Opening my eyes meant that I had committed myself to eventually getting up, something that I had absolutely no intention of doing that morning. It was pleasant to just lie there and let time wash over me. 

Then, inevitably, I opened my eyes as the smell of sausages, beans and fried potatoes enticed me. Then I realised that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t my room. But the furniture and all the nik-naks was mine. The room was dark so I got up and opened the curtains. I stepped back in horror as I saw there was nothing behind the curtains. The room did not light up with early sunlight because there was no window to let it in! Shocked and disturbed, I was now wide awake and I backed away from the unnatural empty wall. 

I escaped from the room and went down the unfamiliar stairs. The house was not one I knew. It was small and pokey; I was reminded of a cottage. I seemed to know where I was going and I ended up in the kitchen. 

It was a lovely kitchen, very bright. Pale yellow walls and wooden furniture. It had a very farmhouse kitchen feel to it. The whole room smelt of herbs and the cooking of breakfast. I looked over to where a rustic, iron oven was stood. Sitting in front of it was a tall, three-legged wooden stool. “Take a seat. Breakfast’s nearly ready.” Standing on the stool with a fish slice in hand was a teddy bear. Not only that, but it was my teddy bear. 

“Wilfred?” I said, further confused.

“The sausages are just how you like them,” Wilfred said, poking something with the kitchen utensil. “Slightly burnt.” He turned around and smiled. I felt like a cartoon as my mouth opened. “Are you alright, mate?”

“Yes,” I replied. 

“Sit down.”

I sat down on a stool at the island in the middle of the kitchen, watching my teddy bear making my breakfast. Wilfred carefully placed the sausages, potato and beans on the plate. Balancing the plate on his head he leapt onto the island, ran over and placed the plate in front of me. “Eat up,” he said smilingly. 

“Thank you,” I said politely. “What’s going on?”

“Breakfast,” he replied simply, heading towards the sink to start washing up.

“Yeah, but how come you’re…talking and moving?”

“Don’t ask questions. It’ll only confuse you. Now get that down you and we’ll get to work in the garden.”

I obeyed Wilfred. Something inside me told me that it was not a good thing to argue with this authoritative soft toy. I started to eat. It was a great breakfast. The flavours tasted so alive. I wolfed it down and took my plate over to the sink. Wilfred took it from me and started to clean it. “Go upstairs and get dressed. I left some clothes on your bed.”

“But you’ve not left the kitchen since I came down.”

Wilfred turned to me. “I left some clothes on your bed. Don’t ask questions. Just go and get dressed.” There was something in Wilfred’s glass eyes that was angry with me. I hurried out of the kitchen and back upstairs. 

As I entered the bedroom I had woken up in I found it filled with light. I looked up and saw a skylight pouring light into the room. The curtains were still there, framing a blank wall. I discovered that my bed had been made. I hadn’t done that – I hardly ever made my bed. But Wilfred couldn’t have done it either. Did we have servants to do it for us? I hadn’t seen or heard anyone. The clothes were there in front of me sitting in a perfect pile in the middle of my bed. But they weren’t my clothes. They were someone else’s. I decided not to go and say this to Wilfred; I didn’t want him to scowl at me with those empty eyes again. Out of fear I put the clothes on.

I had never considered wearing these clothes before. I didn’t suit this style, so I thought. Sure I’d worn long denim shorts before, but I’d never worn a sleeveless hoody before. And the hat! I’d never been able to pull off any kind of hat, let alone this thing. It was a white beanie. I’d never imagined it would suit me. But strangely, today I suited it all. I felt strangely confident and went downstairs. I couldn’t see Wilfred in the kitchen but the doors to the garden were open so out I went.

The garden was fantastic. It was on a gentle slope. There was a patio by the house where I was standing and mostly lawn, but round the edge were the most beautiful flowerbeds thriving in colour and smell. The garden was quite short, it seemed, with a hedge at the bottom, though the slope continued. I could see beyond the hedge. There were lots more trees, much more greenery. Over the trees I could see a spire of what was likely to be a church. I couldn’t see anything else further than that. The trees were too tall. 

“Over here,” I heard Wilfred call to me. He was kneeling down in a vegetable patch. I crossed over to him and knelt beside him. “I’m sorry if I was grouchy earlier,” he apologised. “It’s just me in the morning.”

“It’s alright. I’m just a bit lost.”

“Fair enough. It is your first time here. This is your garden.”

“It’s nice. You’ve done a great job maintaining it.”

“Thank you, I do alright in my section. I don’t know what the rest is like. Anyway, let’s get back to planting these strawberries. You know how much you like my strawberries!” Wilfred took a strawberry plant out of a tub and placed in the hole he had dug. 

“Your section?”

“Yes. I look after the cottage and the upper-most part of the garden. From the cottage to that hedge. That’s my section. Come on, we’ll pick some rhubarb after this and make crumble for pudding tonight.”

“Where are the other sections?”

“Beyond. I’ve not been there in years. It’s all very strange though. Some weird characters live down there. You’re best off staying up here with me, keeping this little haven glorious.” I stood up and wandered down to the hedge and looked over. 

“How far does it go?”

“I don’t know. No more questions now. Come on. Let’s plant some strawberries.”

I asked no more questions. I planted some strawberries. But my curiosity over the rest of my garden swamped my mind. What was down there? Who was down there? I listened out for anything that might be happening down there, but all I could hear was the soft wind in the trees and Wilfred’s increasingly irritating voice. 

Beautiful as this garden was, it didn’t satisfy me. I spent days there listening to Wilfred who served me all of my meals and provided me with all that I needed, and I helped him out whenever he needed me. And I was given time to myself, to do as I wanted. But I was never happy. I always had to work to Wilfred’s schedule. I had to help him with the gardening and with the cooking if he needed me. I would be sent out into the garden to pick berries and vegetables. I would be required to water the plants if he so desired me to. 

I was frustrated and felt as though Wilfred was using me for his own gain. “Could you pick some runner beans for me? We’ll have them for dinner tonight.”

“No,” said I, rebelliously.

“I beg your pardon,” Wilfred exclaimed.

“I won’t do it. Stop controlling me and telling me what to do.”

“I’m asking you nicely.”

“I asked you nicely about the rest of my garden. You told me not to ask questions.”

“That was for your own benefit. I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection.” I wanted to hurt Wilfred. A dragon had risen up inside me and I wanted to tear that ridiculous bear to shreds. “I’m going to explore my garden. I’m going to see what is out there.” I strode out of the kitchen where we had just quarrelled and I walked down the garden to the wooden gate in the hedge.

“Stop! Don’t go! Please stay! You won’t find anything down there! Just more things to confuse your strained mind!”

“I’ll be fine.” I slammed the gate behind me.

I found myself in a forest. It was very tranquil with great trees and green foliage. Snowdrops margined the path I stood on. I followed the path until it collides with another path, larger and more firmly trodden. There were people walking down it. A staggered line. Each one walked alone with no communication to the other. I looked up the pathway these solitary beings are coming from. It twisted and winded until it just disappeared into a dark void. “You can’t go that way,” said a voice. The voice was high-pitched, though sounded as though a man with a low voice were putting it on. I looked around for the owner of the strange voice. “They come from there to here and then beyond.” I looked down to see a melancholic looking rabbit.

“What’s down there?” I asked, non-plussed at standing in the presence of a talking rabbit.

The rabbit shrugged. “I don’t know. No one goes that way, so why should I? It would only lead to marginalisation and embarrassment on my part.” The rabbit seemed a very pathetic, little creature.

“What’s down the hill?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to follow the crowd. If I do go down, what if I end up somewhere that doesn’t suit me. I’d only humiliate myself. It’s best not to go somewhere that isn’t made for me.” I thought that the rabbit was a very silly animal at the moment.

“So you’re just going to stay here? All your life?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you get bored? Staying in the same place day in, day out?”

“Rather that than going somewhere new and not fitting in. I’d hate to look foolish in front of people.” I felt that the rabbit looked pretty foolish just standing there. “Besides, I may not be moving forward, but I’m not moving backwards either.”

“That’s optimistic of you,” I said, trying not to show my annoyance with the silly rabbit. 

“I’m not always optimistic. I’m often quite morbid, really. A bit of a preoccupation with how sad my life is. I’m a bit pathetic.”

Suddenly, the rabbit didn’t seem so silly. It pitied itself for the way it acted, for the way it was. No one should ever pity themselves, I thought. “I’m going down the hill,” I said. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Go with you? Down the hill? No. Much as I am grateful for the offer, I must stay here.” And I understood. It was difficult for him to move away when there was so much in his mind and personality that kept him back. “Good luck though,” he wished smiling up at me. I smiled back, wondering whether it would be patronising to pat him on the head. Dismissing the idea, I walked on down the steep hill.

Humble Donkey, Humble Prince

It's been ages since I posted something here. Whoops. I apologise! Here is a poem I wrote ages ago. Can't really remember when, but probably when I lived in Kenya... I came across it and thought that it would be apt for this time of year. Enjoy:

Head sadly hung

Slowly stepping forward

Punished for a crime he didn’t commit.

Whipped on his back

Carries heavy load

A strong, yet humble, creature he must be.

Eyes calling out

For small, happy times

Hungry and thirsty, he continues.

Modest, yet suffering.

A cross on his back.

Steps like a journey to crucifixion.

This underwent a little bit of editing, so here is the original. Much less subtle.

Heads sadly hung

Slowly stepping forward

Punished for a crime they didn't commit.

Whipped on their backs

Must carry heavy loads.

Strong, yet fragile creatures they must be.

Eyes calling out

For small, happy times.

Tail swishing in anything but glee.

Humble yet suffers.

A cross on its back.

Steps like it'll soon be crucified.

Biblical and holy,

Jesus rode to Jerusalem

Upon a creature so similar to Himself.

I basically tried to change the statements so that each sentence could refer to either the donkey or Jesus. I think it is aptly fixed! 

A Solitary Lunchtime

This piece was written when I was in Year 13 at Northallerton College. In perfect honesty, I did not have a fantastic time there. It was very stifled time for me, and I found myself wandering around alone most lunchtimes. Partly because I couldn't find anyone I wanted to hang out with and partly because I quite enjoyed being on my own. And one lunchtime I bought my lunch and then settled down under a tree with a lovely aspect over the field. And this is what I saw, this is what I wrote. Enjoy.

Small clusters of friends lounging in the sun, couples entwined together - close, affectinate, the odd kiss, staring into each other's eyes, holding hands. Laughs from the groups fill the field like a coloured gas entering a bottle - contagious and beautiful. The latest songs pulse along the streams of wind from a car stereo. Summer at college is a heart - a beating sensation of thrill and friendship. How could someone not look at this sight and not smile? Not enjoy themselves? Not wonder at the power that goes hand in hand with the union of friends and summer?
     Two boys, well, two young men, kick a ball, a girl puts on an over-sized pair of sunglasses. A larger group of students, male of course, kick a ball about. The intention of the activity is difficult to make out. Does it need a purpose? Of course not. It's there to bond them whilst girls chat and listen to a musical student strum the intros to songs on a guitar. A frisbee game starts between two girls - the yellow disc soaring on the wind and the falling to the floor or into the hands of the addressee, mostly the former, but again, that doesn't matter. Why should it when a strengthened friendship is the result? Usually, more people would have joined in by now. It's not the in-thing this lunchtime. The game resembling football has, however, grown, with more competitive males.
     Sparkling teeth, heavenly giggles and eyes with the fond creases of a good time. It's beautiful and perfectly life-affirming. Life is an amazement at times like this. There is good in the world.
     A-ha! New additions to the game of frisbee. The guitar becomes a subject of conversation between the original player and another musically-talented student. Cameras click, capturing a single moment in the summer haven forever. Comments on the photographs are expressed: groans and denials, and laughter and expression of splendor.
     But whatever, the field, in short, permeates with love, life and laughter. Games, giggles and gossip take place here. The field in summer is a symbol, standing for fun, friendship and family.

Underneath a tree sits a lonely observer. Armed with paper and a pen, he scribbles down all he sees, all he hears, all he senses. His friends are around somewhere, but he's happy writing of the happiness of others in the shade of the towering tree. Sure he's not interacting with his peers, he's not enjoying the pleasures of relations, but he's happy. Who is the solitary spectator? He is a writer, practicing his work on description, but he's forgotten to describe smells. Oh well. It doesn't matter. It's still a good piece of work, considering his description work has been weak. But it's good. He is pleased. Who is he? Why, he's me.

I've had to just type that out from a piece of paper I found, and as I did so I realised how rubbish it is. I don't like it.

Bridget Jones: The Horror Version (Yes, that's right!)

This was another English Language exercise; we had to translate a passage from Bridget Jones' Diary from its romantic genre into another. So I chose horror! This was really good fun, but pretty much the only creative writing we did on the two-year course! I was somewhat disappointed.

As you will discover, I have shifted the narrator from Bridget to Daniel [I had to look that up!] and, well, yeah, you should be able to see what I have done language-wise. Enjoy.

She was sitting at her desk. Just sitting there. She terrified me. And yet the sorceress intrigued me. Her commitment was… unnatural. Something wasn’t right. I panicked! What should I do? She showed no interest in me. I could feel a cold sweat on my forehead. This was critical. I knew I couldn’t talk with her. That would only bring about my destruction. But I had to talk to her! I couldn’t explain why; I just had to.

I eventually decided that the safest way to communicate with her was via email. I quickly typed a message and sent it to her. No response. No reaction whatsoever. Not even a flicker of her gorgeous eyelashes. I sent another email. Still no reaction. My heart was racing, drumming against my ribs.

The sorceress’ apprentice left. She was alone now. Her seductive power was at its strongest. I had to resist. I had to be strong! The smooth contours of her body tantalised me. The temptation was incredible. I couldn’t just sit there whilst she sat there on her perfectly formed behind. I stood up, my legs quaking beneath me like those of an elderly man. What was I doing? I felt a fool, but my body was divided. My mind told me to stay behind and resist the enchantress. But my body wanted her. The siren’s fairness sang to me with its soft song of seduction. My legs started moving. I approached her. She still refused to give me the attention that I sought. I collapsed before her, hopelessly. There was no going back now. “My love,” I cried to her, unable to control my tongue. “Why do you ignore me?”

Driving In Nairobi - It's A Jungle!

This is from an activity that we had to do in English for my A-levels. I drew on my life experience from the three years I spent living in Nairobi, Kenya. There was a 100 word word-limit.

I just found it lurking in a folder and I am proper getting into this posting thing, so here it is! October 2009 is going to be disproportionately large next to the months yet to come.

Weathered cars who have seen better days chug their way around burrows in the wild, unruly tarmac. Displeased engines growl savagely as rude, painted matatus squawk like fluorescent, obnoxious parrots as they cut impatient queues. “Keep death off the roads. Drive on the pavements.” People leap for their lives as they’re parted by arrogant rhinos of metal charging through the city as if they’re the next big thing.

Outside the caging gates of the shopping centre, hawkers prowl. Cheap and tacky merchandise are thrust against the glass of cars. Staring faces of the natives watch the pale-faced invaders.

Benny Hill, God of Gods - Prologue: "Renaissance of Trylan"

I had a stint when I was about 10/11, which continued through my teenage years, when I was fascinated with mythology. I put this largely down to the game 'Age of Mythology' [which I have recently bought for my Mac. That's what student loans are for, right?!]. I quite fancied the idea that there are Gods from some ancient civilization that still exist, watching us all, interfering in our lives, blessing and cursing us. This is where Benny Hill came from.

I must apologise for the names of the Gods. I struggle to create iconic, memorable and, well, decent fictional names! So take the names with a pinch of salt, for they will be changed! Enjoy:

The great oak doors flew open. An equally great figure marched through. He was sturdily built and his stride across the empty hall he had entered commanded great power. His eyes, piercingly blue like the waters of the Arctic, were transfixed with anger on no place in particular. A spot he had created in his mind that represented all that caused the fury. And yet, his eyes also showed forlornness.

A smaller and nimbler fellow, who hastily shut the oak doors behind him, followed him. He had electric blue hair, coolly swept back. He trotted to keep up with the great, striding being but hopelessly failed. He resorted to jumping into the air and fluttering alongside what could only be his master by utilising a pair of winged sandals

The master came to a throne; golden, magnificent and standing alone in the empty room. With a great sigh, he collapsed into it. He closed his eyes, his head buzzing with information and circumstance. The fluttering fellow landed and stood before his master, waiting. All time and space seemed to be irrelevant in the single pause. “It is over, Spike,” he finally announced, not opening his eyes. “I have lost.”

“It can’t be, Trylan! It can’t be! Not after everything!”

“So many gods are now against me. They’ve joined sides with my enemy.”

“Yes, out of fear of Blazon, not disrespect for you!”

Trylan chose not to hear. “My reign over the Universe has ended. Blazon will sit in this throne after he has killed me.”

“There are still deities faithful to you!”

“Too few with too little power. Cease your attempt to make me feel better…nothing can help me.”

“You’re going to give in? Just like that?”

“Five years I’ve been fighting him, Spike!” bellowed Trylan, standing up with such noise it made the floor tremble. “I’ve had enough of fighting!” There was a pause, and Trylan sat down again. “I’m too old and tired to fight anymore.”

“Fighting is not the only strategy.”

“What else can I do? There is no choice in the matter.”

Spike seemed to become smaller as he exhaled, in desperation for the state of mind of his master. He turned his back on Trylan. “There is no point in trying to convince you otherwise, is there?” Trylan did not respond. “You’re steadfast on what you believe, aren’t you?” Still no response. “You are not the god of war. You’re the god of gods, with so much power at your fingertips.” Spike walked away back towards the doors. “Why don’t you use it?” he concluded as he closed the door behind him.

Trylan was left alone with his pessimistic thoughts, only conjuring thoughts of even more pessimism. He turned in his throne and swept his arm before him, looking at the marble floor. The floor seemed to melt away. He looked down and saw the world. The world he had created with his brothers and sisters. He had so much power back then, all of those years ago. And now it was under threat by a cocky offspring.

He continued to look down. It looked good, from this height. Peaceful, happy and serene. The humans, a fine creation, had progressed so much. Such buildings, such technology. It was a fascinating world. Trylan wished he could have experienced more of it than he had.

An idea struck him. “Of course,” he muttered. With a wave of his arm, the marble floor returned. Trylan was up, off the throne, calculating. “I escape. I run away. I’ll become a mortal and encounter the world first-hand, all the while staying out of reach of Blazon.” Trylan clapped his hands in success, only to find a drawback. “I can’t successfully end my immortality and not forget about who I truly am. I wouldn’t know anything about gods or deities or my true identity. And Blazon would win, and take the throne. And I would lose, and die a mortal. Ugh, how depressing.”

Then Trylan began to work things out. Calculating years and chances and probabilities and various occurrences. It could work. There was the slight possibility that it would actually work.

Suddenly, there was a great knock at the door. “Trylan! It’s me, Blazon! I’ve come to kill you!” Blazon cackled through the door. “I’ll give you ten seconds to come out and surrender, then I’ll come and blast your head off! Ten.”

Trylan’s mind had never run faster. He darted to the back of the throne, placing his hands on the top of it.

“Nine…”

He closed his eyes.

“Eight…”

He opened his eyes.

“Seven.”

He ran round the throne so that he was standing directly in front of it.

“Six.”

He began writing in the air with lightning with his index finger.

“Five. Four.”

Trylan looked round the hall one last time. His eyes rested on an alcove in the wall – it seemed to be empty. Trylan smiled and repeated, “How depressing.”

“Three. Two. One.”

Trylan disappeared from the hall. The doors burst open with a burst of fire. Blazon, a young god with long dark hair and heavy eyebrows, swaggered into the room. His eyes were black as black could get, yet seemed to be burning with a dark fire. The smirk on his face vanished as he read the message Trylan had left him:

COME AND FIND ME, IF YOU CAN.

YOU HAVE 20 YEARS.

THEN I’LL BE BACK FOR YOU.

Blazon couldn’t believe his eyes. He began quaking in his black, leather war boots. Then the message changed. “20 years” changed to “19 yrs: 363 days: 23 hrs: 59 min: 59: 59”. Then “19 yrs: 363 days: 23 hrs: 59 min: 59:58”. It was a clock, counting down. Blazon roared with fury, fire blazing around him as his anger increased. The other gods and goddesses who cowered behind him, looked at the clock, relieved. There was still hope for them and the life they knew and loved best.

On Earth, Mariah Hill was lying on a bed in a hospital ward in Central London screaming. Her legs were astride and a host of nurses surrounded her. They were all egging her on. “Come on, dear. Push him out! You can do it!” Mariah did not care what the nurses were saying. She felt like she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t the child just stay inside? Surely children can grow within the womb? She mustered her strength and gave it all she had. She screamed her loudest – the pain was extraordinary! And it was over. She’d given birth. She had a baby.

The cord was cut and the baby was wrapped up in blankets. A nurse passed him over. Mariah smiled and looked down at her son, with deep brown eyes. And then, his eyes shut. He stopped breathing. “What’s happened?” Mariah asked, fear rising in her voice. “What’s wrong with him?” A nurse took the child from her and they hurried him out of the ward. “What’s going on?” Mariah cried, hysterically. A nurse did her best to console her, but failed. Mariah was frantic with agony and anguish.

And then, the child was brought back in. “He’s alright,” a nurse announced. “He’s back.” The child was delivered back to his mother. It was definitely him. But something was different from before. He had the same tuft of blond hair. The same chubby cheeks. But now, his eyes were piercingly blue like the waters of the Arctic. “What’s this little guy’s name then?” the nurse asked.

“Ben,” Mariah said. “My little Benny Hill.” She smiled down at her newborn son and kissed him on the forehead.

High above in the heavens, Blazon roared at each and every God. “Where is he?” he snarled, his black eyes blazing. “Any God or Goddess that knows where Trylan is will tell me now!” he commanded. There was no response. No one new anything. “Spike! You were the last to see him! What’s he done?”

Spike, a major witness and suspect, was being held by Gruntley, the God of War. “I don’t know. I left him before he said or did anything.” He spoke in such a way that was regretful and melancholic. “Even if I did know, I would not tell you. I would never betray his trust.”

Blazon sidled up to him and stared him in the eyes. Black into blue. “You will be loyal to me now.”

Spike spat in his face. “Never!”

Blazon wiped the saliva from his face and smirked. “Take his precious shoes,” he ordered. “And burn them!”

Spike gasped. “Not my sandals! You can’t do that! They were made specially! You can’t just destroy them!”

“I think you’ll find that I can.” The sandals were passed to Blazon, who, without so much as a hesitation, ignited the sandals with his very touch.

A tear crept from Spike’s eyes at the loss of his most valued possession. “I won’t. I’ll never be loyal to you. I will never betray the trust of Trylan, our true master.”

Blazon snarled. “Lock him away. Lock him up so that he will never escape!”

Later on, a platinum-blond Goddess came into Blazon’s private quarters. She was a very beautiful woman with straight hair. Her eyes were very pale and soft. She approached her brother who was sitting in an armchair with a cigarette between his lips. “Brother,” she greeted.

“Good evening, Lyla,” Blazon formally replied.

“Are you alright?”

“Five years I’ve been fighting. Five years, and now, as soon as I am on the verge of winning, he pulls a fast one and disappears.”

“It’s really not fair on your part,” Lyla said, carefully. She knew how easy it was to disrupt her brother’s temperament.

“Why are you here, Lyla?”

“I wanted to make sure that you were ok. I know how much this has meant to you. Today hasn’t been easy for you.”

“You’re lying, sister. Why are you here?”

“Please, Blazon. Don’t be angry with me.”

“Tell me now, and I will be less angry with you.”

Lyla hesitated. She braced herself for what might happen. “Was it really necessary? Destroying Spike’s sandals, throwing him into the depths of the Underworld? Did you really need to do all of that? It seemed very harsh.”

Suddenly, Lyla found herself up against the wall, Blazon’s hand around her neck. “Necessary? Of course it was necessary!” Lyla found her neck burning from the angry heat from her brother’s palm. “I need to make it known that I am in control or they will walk all over me!” Lyla tried to nod in agreement but her bother’s grip was too strong. “I have had this position of power coming to me since the beginning of time since we were born! I will not lose it now! Do you hear me, Lyla! I will NOT lose it now!” He released Lyla, who feel to the floor clutching her blistered neck. She gasped for air.

“Forgive my questioning, brother. It was out of place for me.”

“You are forgiven, my sister. When I have that throne, we will rule together. Fire and Light with complete power.”

Lyla did not like the idea of ruling. She was far too shy to be given the limelight, but she daren’t argue with her brother. That was far too dangerous. “What will you do about Trylan?”

“I will find him and he will perish in fires of ever-lasting burns and sores.”

Down below, the baby Benny Hill slept peacefully with the power and knowledge of the God of Gods’ locked away to be released twenty years later.

Wandering Through York [Poem]

I do not often do poetry. This will become evident! So in my life so far, there have, inevitably, been some low points. And when I am low, I write about it. It helps me to work through it and try to make some sort of sense out of the whole thing.

So this poem came after a very depressing piece. I wrote in whilst sitting in Little Bettys in York. By reading this piece, I am sure you will realise that poetry is not for me!!!

Dedicated to All I Know, and All I Care, and All Who Know and Care in Return.

I wander through the streets of York

My mind a great kerfuddle

Of shopping lists, of tasks and things

To do and all flailing round in a muddle.

Alone I walk. Alone I stroll

Down the streets of York.

My mind a-running, the sun a-shining

And to myself I talk.

I am not sad, despite my solitude.

On the contrary I am quite content

With my situation in life

And the blessings God has sent.

I smile, I’m warm,

I’m giddy with glee.

Alright, maybe an exaggeration

But here, right now, no one can ever sadden me.

I’ve done the bitter moodiness,

The depression, the melancholy.

But now I’m awake, seen the Light of day

And see those times as folly.

I have no need to get depressed.

There’s so much in my life.

Family, friends, God and love.

They woke me, showed the Light.

So thank you, friends, all of you.

Both close and far away.

Both that I know, and sort of know, and barely know at all.

I couldn’t ask for better friends, corny but that’s what I wanted to say.