Tag Archives: writing

is touching the sky holy or a whole damn shame?

the birds are flying high this season.

i say, let them, let them.

maybe they tremble at night and struggle to fly at the best of times, like the rest of us.

or maybe they lead by example.

maybe the one leading the flock almost touching the sun

is the one that feels the lowest inside

their beak overflowing with dirt, earth, leaves, suffocating

smothering them from their insides


even though they’re touching the sky.

maybe, maybe.

life can be funny sometimes.

the birds are flying high this season.

i say, let them. let them.

i saw a kid attack a flock of pigeons today.

he kicked at them, tried to squash one in his fat hands.

the bird was squirming away, screeching, feathers everywhere.

the kid straining against it, his tongue poking through his lips and teeth

like a worm wiggling through an open beak.

the kid’s mother called his name and he left those poor birds alone.

the feathers blew gently in the wind.

i don’t know what happened to the bird.

but the birds are flying high this season.

i say, let them, let them.

maybe they’ll come back.


Feel the rain brush your skin.

I can usually tell whether the day is going to be a good or a bad one. Take today for example. Despite the rain; the sky was just so beautiful, even at 7 a.m, I could tell things were going to go well. I love walking in the rain; it feels so comforting and peaceful.

A piece of free flow writing I did today:

The scent of smoke was apparent from a mile off. Even as I walked down the now deserted street it encircled me, engulfing lone cars and streetlights in a soft mist. The scent was tantalizing; gently teasing my sense and I increased my pace as the slight fragrance billowed around me in my wake. The lack of commotion unsettled me; the absence of life made me feel uneasy and I could feel my heart beating furiously as I neared the corner.

It was a humid Saturday in June and under normal circumstances I would have expected to be jostled by hurrying mothers laden down with shopping bags; knocked into by the briefcases of businessmen already late to work, and tripping over small children who were seemingly oblivious to the crowds of people around them. But not today; today was different – special in some way, and I was determined to find out why.

The heat was stifling and I could feel myself sweating profusely despite the relatively small distance I had walked. It was the kind of day that made me long for winter, where the cold easily found its way into my bones and settled in my veins; and I could swear my heart had frosted over despite its constant pumping of blood; never stopping, never slowing. I vowed to move somewhere cold, somewhere in the Arctic region, and I took comfort in this thought as I found myself at the familiar chainlink fence.

It had only felt like a few years since I was last in this spot but as I looked in dismay at the peeling paint curling round the railings and noticed how much smaller everything seemed, I realised it must have been far longer than I first thought. Memories evade time. They only happen once yet remain vivid grooves in your mind.

It was only when I looked skyward that I realised where the strange substance was arising from; but the thought didn’t comfort me – in fact it had the opposite effect. The former school; home to so many happy memories and days spent by children long gone had been abandoned swiftly. That wasn’t unusual in itself, after all it was a summery Saturday. It was the derelict building that was pumping out reams of smoke that alarmed me; as I tried to recall why it was I ended up walking here on such a day.

Contours of my heart

I have seen inside of your heart from every angle; I have turned it inside out; nestled inside it for days and stitched it up whilst you sleep. I carved your name inside mine but you didn’t take notice, you didn’t see. I wrestled with myself; but I was stitched inside your heart and I couldn’t breathe.

Not everything is what it seems.

The perfect moment; when you wake up not too early but not too late, sleeping in but not sleeping out; so you feel rested but not groggy – when the thought of a new day ahead feels promising. When the smell of morning coffee makes you feel giddy, in a good way and the sunlight streams through your window as you take your first sip; and the temperature’s perfect; and you think to yourself; this is going to be a good day.

Or you wake up on the wrong side of bed for five days in a row; last night’s dreams still haunt your waking moments and your head feels heavy; no amount of sleep seems to be enough. The sun’s rays sting your sleepy eyes and you squint as you recall what has to be done today. The coffee is too strong, or too milky, and you give up after a few gulps – throw the cup in the sink, spoon clattering, the noise making you wince.

What’s broken can be easily fixed.

Today I went to a creative writing club at my college. It was pretty good, definitely confirming what I want to do as a career in my mind. It’s great that most of my friends are writers, too.

Tomorrow I’m taking my brother to see Paranorman after college which should be fun!

Here’s some free flow writing I did in today’s class.

– From the perspective of a star.

It had been a long journey and a long time spent travelling endlessly. It had been painstakingly slow; and gave me a strange feeling, being all alone in such a blank expanse of sky. There was no sign of life for miles and nothing to do but carry on, tracing patterns in the sky. However I took pride in the fact that I may be the last shred of hope for someone on a lone planet. Their only glimmer of light in the sky to show them the way; or to be their ultimatum, the realisation of how grounded they are to this world, despite how lonely it can feel at times. I had done my job well, I thought, shining brightly, effervescently, relentlessly. However I was starting to burn out – so I figured it was time to return home; to the world that was so familiar once upon a time – but now I struggled to remember what it was like. Now conscious of the time that had passed; I paused to wonder – would everything appear the same? How much will have changed? I did not know – could not know, until my return. The universe is not constant, always expanding and changing, recreating atoms and stars out of dust.

-From the perspective of an outsider looking in.

The house was warm, and inviting. It seemed to glow even in mid winter, as if radiating warmth and positivity all year round, from its centre. Yet this house was out of the ordinary, there was something not right about the way the doors and windows were always shut and bolted across, as if withdrawing and locking its inhabitants away. It had an eerie feel, especially in the winter where the glow was unearthly. The tree situated outside looked especially sinister at night, with icicles decorating its wiry structure. The door was always heavily bolted, and told no tale of what went on within the walls. The house was usually manned by two ferocious dogs; and it was rumoured that they could smell a stranger from a mile away. What would happen should this door ever open, no one dared find out.

I feel as if an introduction is due.

So I guess this is me starting over.

I know a lot of people on here will be highly polished writers or blogging about interesting stories or events in their lives; but in the grand scheme of things I’m just a beginner, and wouldn’t describe my life as exciting in the slightest.This is primarily for me to document my writing and collect my thoughts; and hopefully receive some feedback and constructive criticism on the way.

So, hello. I am Laura, I am 18 and that’s about all you need to know. I’m in my final year of college and want to pursue a career in writing; but have no idea of the specifics at this stage. Any ideas would be appreciated!

Up until a week ago I wanted to be a Mental Health Nurse as I love helping people; but as I’ve always enjoyed writing but never really thought of it as a career, I suddenly thought why not? I hate making decisions and change my mind a lot but when I get an idea in my head I’ll stick to it.

One thing that really annoys me is when people believe writers can only write about things they have experienced; or you have to be of a certain age to write anything decent. Granted; unless you possess a certain level of maturity the voice is likely to be underdeveloped or lacking in some way, but I believe anyone can write – you either have it or you don’t.

That being said; I find writing difficult. Many people would disagree; I’m sure, the amount I write increases daily; but my writing style fluctuates so much, it makes it impossible for me to finish pieces.

I have twenty odd half finished pieces on my writing blog, due to the fact a) I have various ideas and try to get something down for each of them; then promise myself I’ll work on them later but never do and b) I am so preoccupied with making a piece perfect; it’s never as good as I imagine it to be, so I mentally mark each piece as a draft, to allow myself to stop writing. It’s draining but it’s worth it.

Anyway, I’m rambling on now; I’ll leave you my writing blog URL in case any of you care to take a look. However, I haven’t uploaded many pieces on there recently.