The Castle in the Clouds

Yet another visit to my childhood, my readers. I stumbled across a beautiful story that I owe credit to my year ten R.E lesson. The strange thing is, I do not know if it is a well written piece. I am probably biased by thinking that of course it is not good, I wrote it three years ago. Conversely, I could say that it was so good. Lets see what you think, shall we?


I’m Leslie. As I am a ghost, being able to write this journal is beyond me but let’s just go with it.

This situation is serious but, in a sense, it’s completely ridiculous. To be honest, I despise of it here. The atmosphere, it’s polluted. I can hardly see my breath in the brisk, winter air. It’s cold, I’m cold. If it were possible for me to have shivers now, they would be infinite. The ghosts are thousands of years old, alike to me. I miss being human. With the feel of warm skin even in the coldest nights, I just remember being born into a world like no other. I’m homesick. Home is where my heart was set in stone, and I was never alone.

What is the “real world”? I remember my parents talking about it, with their warm houses with real beds to sleep in. Me? I used to sleep under a palm leaf with a rock for a pillow. This is why I remember shivering so vividly, my arms always went numb out in the open. In a way, I miss living there with humans. Ghosts are spookily unkind and heartless and they look through me as if I weren’t there in the first place. I know, my hair is white and all in disarray and yes, it must look uncanny floating around without a body; they are exactly the same, so why are they complaining? Also, I have no idea why these creatures got left with the rare spiritual qualities. I thought they were supposed to be for the ones who obeyed God in all his forms, they are ungrateful for their immortal soul as a ghost. I know it’s not how the afterlife was planned, I know that ghosts are imaginary, and I am truly convinced this is a nightmare and I will wake up back with my only friend – the palm leaf.

This castle is unnerving. For some reason, even though I hear no talking, I hear my name echo around. “Leslie…Leslie…” I hear, it’s as if I’m famous and paparazzi are looking for me. As well as being everything I dislike, I am an elder. It just tips me over the edge with fury, if I were human, my face wouldn’t be visibly accessible to anyone due to the millions of wrinkles covering it. I don’t know why but I helped build this castle. I think the colour scheme was made to represent what we ghosts are like – grey walls, grey stairs, grey everything. Even my palm leaf throw is grey, I made it to remind me of being human but no, it’s like I am colour blind. My world is now black and white; when I go and tread carefully upon the clouds outside, I see that the sea down below is black. My vision must be impaired, the sea is blue and my pen also says it’s blue on the side of it, as well, but it is writing in black.

We rarely have visitors up here. Well, I do understand. I know that finding shoes that make you jump high enough to get up here is infrequent, poor humans, not being able to venture out to see us. But, I would be amazed that they even knew we were up here, they have no such beliefs of ghosts – which is something I have in common with them. They will just have to wait for the great gift of death to lift them up here, I hope they aren’t as unlucky as I was to come up here.

Earlier on today the rest of the elders and I had a long, draining discussion. They’re so ridiculous. One of them had a rant about being “unloved” by the humans. I mean, the humans don’t even know we’re here so how are they supposed to love us or long to be like/with us? I kind of zoned out for a while whilst the rest of them deliberated something, it was the most genuinely boring conversation to be a part of. Well, it was until I heard my name be brought up:

“Leslie should go. He has courage, integrity, and…” said a floating blonde head of hair amongst the group. I saw her eyelashes gesture towards me fiddling with my thumbs. I looked up. “You’re happy to become human again aren’t you, Leslie?” I jumped out of my skin – excuse the irony. It’s indescribable the shock I was under, it was terrifying. I mean, I’d much prefer to be a human to a ghost, but I’d rather commit suicide than become human again.

“Where’d you get that idea from?” I queried. I heard a thousand mumbles, is it really that scandalous that I even asked? I waited a little while to get a civilised answer; before I only got a “jeez” a couple of times and I heard a “seriously?!” once as well – I felt very much exiled from the discussion immediately. But when I finally got a response it was:

“You are the only one of us who nobody likes…I mean, who can interact with humans”. She got nudged by her partner after the “nobody likes you” part, which made her pause. I felt incredibly loved, I mean, everybody loves being told that nobody likes you. But, I don’t understand. When I was a human, I was treated as a prince. It was as if, my soul was a divine representation of Jesus – I swear I even walked on water like he did, although that may have been a dream.

I may consider going down in human form. I miss being able to wake up seeing my reflection in the sea, with pure, oceanic eyes and skin that actually shaped my skeleton. To look like my old self would be a miracle in itself. I would like to be able to retain my fully evolved spirit though, being more powerful than everybody else sounds like a task I’d enjoy. The blonde who seemed to dislike me the most started jogging down the stairs with her partner, and I heard something from her lips that completely threw me.

“I think they’d appreciate a woman figure the most. I should know, I got all the male attention whilst down on earth, they couldn’t keep their hands off. That’s what’ll work this time. Leslie?” she shouted across to me, “you’ll need to transform into woman form.” My anger grew. Even though I love the other gender, that doesn’t mean I want to become a crazy psychopath like herself just to be respected by humans. I resulted in just giving her a look as if she was dirt. I did this by fluttering my unbearably short eyelashes in her direction rapidly so she got the message that her plan was nothing but an attempt to get everybody to praise her.

“You’re out of your mind.” I replied to her absurd remark. “You can’t seriously want me to be bizarrely alike to the she-devil that is you?” She looked at me like she wanted to turn me to stone, but I just smirked. She replied to me by saying “just think about it. Are you for women’s rights?” I just looked at her as if she was talking another language “just act like you’re a heroine! I mean, we all think of you as being a heroic…somebody, just show off that spark!” I laughed at her attempt to make me feel better about nobody liking me, I literally shook that insult off my shoulder in a half hour. “Now, you can take back you’re comment about me being like the devil. I have never worn red – other than lipstick – in any of my lives. I’m the opposite of the devil, I’m like…an angel!” I laughed again. I never saw her halo spring from her floating wig for hair.


To be continued. Look out for Part II.


The Temporary Garden Door

I glanced at the date today, and then gazed at the date of my last blog post and I became overwhelmed with shock. I know this blog must have been missed terribly, so I apologise. (I feel like I have apologised a lot on here…)

This post is a secret. A disaster including a minor detour in the world that I encounter is described. The only hint I will deliver is this: I am so physically close to quitting education altogether due to the multiple errors that have been made in my, and many others, education home.


A world behind a door is either secret or not. It can be revealed, or it cannot. It will be revealed, or it will not. The circumference gets longer and longer around the campus; the string of teachers add up like a child who will never stop growing.

The door was just an accessory for the building. You were not allowed in, but it was there. It was as if a direct route into the building would be unacceptable, but you could go a longer way round to get to your destination. What could have been behind that door?

The growing population of temporary teachers was like an allotment continuing to grow vegetables, despite none being planted. Why was this? The victims of the dramatic development of vegetables were blamed, as if it was their fault for existing. They grew without being told to, but a plant cannot stop it’s production; that is an unreasonable demand.

Behind that door used to be a staircase up to a normal place. Normal chairs, normal tables. Normal people, normal everything. But now all you think is that it was a pretence. After you left, every day, it was turned into a place where all the unwanted mess was stored. And when the trash had so much mass the stitching of the walls started to unravel, the mess flowed down the stairs like a river of destruction, therefore preventing you to make your way up to the place of your normality.

You do not need the mess, but you get given it anyway. After one impression, the mess realises that they are in fact a mess, and resign their post of being Mess of the Year. Little did you know, before the deception was revealed for all the world to view, that there was more than one Mess of the Year, every year. It was a weekly ritual were that weeks’ bag of dirt was the trophy for the quitter dumped on the staircase with the rest of the mess. They all had a trophy, once. Until it disintegrated into nothingness and all that was left was the remembrance of that one hour of trying to be tidy.

Even after the big reveal, you were still not allowed through the door. There was no reason for the door to be shut still, unless the disintegration was so terrible that the staircase had disintegrated too, which would mean that if you went inside you would float down into the piles of quick sand decorating the floor with the skin cells of each and every Mess of the Year winner.

But after some time, the door was replaced. A garden door. A door that you could not see through, like a window to a bathroom. When you stepped inside the room for the first time in months, it looked uncannily the same as it was when you left it. No dirt, no quick sand, no skin cells creeping up your legs trying to turn you into new messes. Nothing. And the staircase was still intact. Nothing was different. And this puzzled you.

It looked temporary. It did not lock, so it could get easily broken in to. It was a useless piece of decor, much like each plant that grew accidentally. These accidental plants are in such a delicate way, that humans tried to allow them to teach, then crash and fail.

Was it really worth it? Recruiting the useless to leave you feeling more unworthy than ever?


I will allow you to absorb this, and figure out if you understand it. I won’t be offended if you do not; the feelings are very much an inside joke that needs to be externalised.

Thanks for reading!


A Few Paragraphs of… *space for your description*

As I speak, I am wrapped in blanket in the chilly city of Cardiff, in a hotel room watching Danny Mac dance beautifully on my tv screen.

I know, you are probably getting bored of my consistent posts about the various places that I have been visiting for universities, however it is pretty much the only interesting thing I have going on in my life at the moment, except the worst cold of my life intertwined with laryngitis. No pity necessary, I am giving myself enough.

Today, I am not going to post about my travels, or anything about Cardiff and the multiple welch names I have been seeing everywhere I look, including a sweet little cafe called ‘Hoffi-Coffi’ which I already knew meant coffee. I know you are doubting me; but trust me, it’s the truth.

I have written a few paragraphs this weekend about, well, I’m not all that sure what they are about BUT I would like to know it makes sense. If you have the heart to tell me that my writing is sensical or non-sensical, it would be appreciated.


Lines circle peripheral vision. Different colours for each different route, being inoperable for the colour blind. With colour for colour to colour spasm. Which colour is which; which colour to follow. With green as red and red as green…constantly thinking that the north route was south and the south route was north. A useless person, really? Useless to be around. Useless to use.

The thoughts about where he was, the feelings that clambered into his brain with a colourful blur of monochrome. Where he was, was hidden from the world, built for him and him alone. Him for his emotions that arose calligraphically. Prettily. He was so far from normal masculine stereotypes it scared him, so. At the end of a red line, (that was green to him) he thought the line was positive because of the connotations, but there was really a red sign above him screaming WARNING shooting him several times in the back with a tranquiliser to get him to become emotionless and the stereotypical man.

His house was a giant, a big, unfriendly giant. Full of ghosts jumping out at him when he pranced through the front door using a fork as a weapon. Four spikes, one victim, easy to defeat. The weaponry in his house ranged from forks to machine guns that of course were only used to fool the commoners when they came round for an innocent cup of tea. He couldn’t remember the last time he went into his kitchen, or his lounge for that matter. He was in desolation. Stairs, step up step up to his room. Antiques glistened from the walls. Fragile. Fear of them tumbling down to smithereens. He was totally alone. His parents wouldn’t speak to him anymore, due to that incident. His wife was on a safari journey through Africa and hadn’t had a mobile service since she got there. His children went with her. That incident was accidental, but his parents thought it was deliberate. WHY? he thought, while he unpacked his brand new antique teapot and placed it on his wooden shelf in his bedroom.



Free Cider and the New Cornish Generation

Yet a further wait for my readers, and the apologies are endless. I have certainly been flouncing around the country (Devonshire + Cornwall… not exactly the country) to try and find my perfect location for my further studies. I am still on the verge of a mental breakdown trying to find somewhere that I can settle down in less than a year’s time.

Currently, I am lying horizontally on a super-king size bed in a beautiful b&b in Falmouth Town called Highcliffe – which, I would certainly recommend if you are ever going to come to the gorgeous coast-side village; it is run by amazingly lovely people, and the rooms are as pretty as the sun beaming down on the Castle Beach sea, which is in my vision from the view of my room here.

Five 1/3 pints of cider placed in front of our noses on our very first night here in a restaurant called The Stable, and each one tasted better than the last (except the last one, which was a bit too odd for my taste). But it was free, and I was not about to pass on a tray of alcohol for principles. 


The air just feels different here. The soft touch on your skin is like being showered with kindness in every step. The first time you traverse through the cities and concrete of what felt like another world, it is like wondering in to the wilderness of the outback for the first time: astounded. The amazement of the air. The stunning beauty of the sea. The waves crashing into your peripheral but barely touching you, and feeling at one with the glory that was created for us to gawk at.

You sit. Sit and stare. Sit and stare at the waves, crashing. You hardly want to do anything else. It is strange but, the atmosphere for you just feels the most peaceful the Earth has ever been. Unlike the bitterness of everywhere else in comparison, the Cornish coast consists continuously of friendliness and optimism.

Dogs racing around in front of your eyes that you barely even see. The waves are crashing down while little boys and little girls splash their feet in between the currents, trying to soak each other just for the fun of the sun and the sand in their hands. Throw at each other, the yellow dust handfuls, just ready jump out of the way of the sand-balls. You watch and stare at the children you fear, the fear of never having grown up in this place. in this year.

The sun was brighter than ever before, as you slipped off your tights so the sun doesn’t burn you much more. Inconspicuous, incomplete, you sit in the sand, with your feet on the rocks and your head in your hands. Subtle but smiling, you lift up your head, and take a picture of the children, having fun like you never did.

The optimism of the town felt resentful to you. You resented the fact that this is them and not you. You desired to travel back in time to this place by the sea, to be as brave as these children to run and be free. In the sea, by the shore, you would dance and prance and twirl, and nothing would be better for a small, little girl. Now you are grown, forty-four, forty-five? Who knows how old you are still envying this life; the one you could’ve had, if you had explored a little more, but instead you left your home maybe once a year, maybe more.

The new Cornish generation, how much fun do they have? You whisper, you wonder to yourself, trying to have, the same fun they do in that sandy, colour beige. The world just kept spinning in this new Cornish age.


Impromptu rhyming librettos just inched into this blog; I’m sorry I didn’t mention it, before I jogged on in a frenzy of typing and typing and typing some more. But at least what you get will be worth it, I’m sure.

(If it wasn’t worth it I’m sorry. If it was then yay.)



How I Was

Hello and welcome back into the insane life inside my mind. Your presence is making me glow, despite not knowing exactly who is in there. Comment below if you like being inside my brain, (that is by far the strangest sentence I have said / typed in my life).

I found a bizarre piece of writing that I wrote over a year ago not too long ago,  which came across my radar as being unique enough to post for you to read and absorb. Congratulations for being able to read the weirdness that I created.


Some people say that I have a ‘creative mind’, which may indeed be true. But, I don’t know whether to take this as a compliment or a desirable insult? I continue to tell myself that, how I write is who I am. I like to think that my writing is creative, so therefore I prove everyone right. But I never voice to myself why I write to signify myself. Maybe I don’t signify myself. Or do I?

If you were to go on a journey into my mind, that all exclusive ‘creative mind’ of mine, you would presumably get utterly lost in the pure fascination I have for the minutest of things. To express why I write, you will have to picture a little toy tour bus that enters my brain, so come on. Hop on. If you’re not too afraid…

“Welcome to the Aimee Wright Brain tour. You will see on your right the dramatic dominance of imagination while the left hemisphere barely exists at all.” The conductor will shout out to each of you passengers on board. Isn’t this experience thrilling?

“Let’s enter the logical side of the brain first, due to it taking up a positive amount of zero percent to get through. She never was a mathematician or a scientist…

“Now, entering the right side, or what you may as well call the entire brain, is full of imaginative things. If you watch closely, you can see her thoughts generate, through pictures, not words. The left hemisphere doesn’t give her enough lucidity to submit any interesting words into the world. She also submits no writing pieces she’s completed. Which, due to her lack of realism, she doesn’t actually have many completed pieces.”

This of course, I am desperate to change.

I think hat anyone can answer the question of how and why I write. It’s simply because, as the conductor put it beautifully, the left side of my brain is non-existent. There is no room for logic in my writing, I write because (explain the ‘why’) I am nothing but a ‘creative mind’.


And there we have the wonderful world of my brain, please feel free to tell me how strange I was a year ago. What a wonderful world.


Is That an Eye?

So, second week of college down and yet again, I missed another day. Don’t shoot me, I was busy being patronised in the paediatric department of Queen Alexandra Hospital in Portsmouth, having them search through my eyes to find the great conclusion of nothing. Well, not nothing. They won’t let me go until they find something, so basically I have a life sentence to the paediatric eye clinic in QA. Oh, please let me leave. I have a court date soon to get out of there, please help me get out! I wish I had a court date to get out of the paediatrics.

Anyhow, my experience there – which by the way, is my millionth experience there as I have been going for two years, plus about a year when I was eleven – inspired my creative bubbles in my brain, and you will have to decide whether I am telling the truth about my experience, or if it is fictitious.


About twenty-thousand hand sanitisers surround me as I was into the hospital. STOP! it shouts at me as I walk past, with my mum holding my hand as I walk into the paediatrics. You have to look like you are a child there, so holding her hand was compulsory, not an option. I was made to look as if I was a five-year-old stamping their feet screaming, Mummy, I don’t want to go in! You can’t make me! No! I won’t go in! No! NO! as she dragged my hand past the secretary who buzzed us into the walls with starfish staring at us and octopuses strangling our throats.

All the doors for the eye clinic were made of glass; you could see the weeping children just exhausted and wanting to escape. Me, a seventeen-year-old infant walked through the rows of tears to find my seat to wait for the nurse. Who, challenged my age more than once with her tools; it was as if she opened my brain and dug some of my cells up to see whether I was telling the truth. I don’t want to be with all the small, crying children, but I am, I was thrown in as if I was a barbie doll who could not speak, couldn’t protest! I wish I could escape the horror of the tears, but no. You just won’t let me out.

When I was invited into the nurse’s room, she asked me, Are you sexually active? I asked her, Is that something you would ask a child? She replied, Well, no, but…

I snapped and said, So, I am treated like a child until you want to know about my sex life. What difference does it make if I have slept with someone in the last three weeks, and how on earth does that affect my eyesight? She frowned and said, anyway…and moved on.

So on and so on, she asked me to read the letters on the board ahead of me, and I couldn’t read the bottom line every time. Oh, how strange, she said. Oh, its not strange, I thought, as it has been the same every single time I have been here. It was the same six years ago, and it is the same now. I just cannot read the bottom line of the rows of letters and numbers than make my mind blurred and confuse my eyes to be crossed and no one can remember that this is how my eyes are. Just, deal with it.

The brutality of the assessment lead me astray, as I collapsed into the chair of a field-testing room. Stare at the green light, do not move. Put your chin on the chin rest, keep your eye behind the lens. Now, it is starting. 

The noise of the machine made my eardrums spasm. The sound was going down in pitch so I knew when the light was coming closer to the green dot of electricity in the middle of the bowl, but I just could not see it with my eyepatch on one eye until it got very close to the middle. Ouch, my neck was aching horrendously so I stretched my neck to the left and the right and…I SAID DON’T MOVE! said the grouchy nurse, who I must have annoyed after metaphorically punching her in both of her eyes. She certainly was treating me like a child now, who ‘supposedly’ cannot move their neck and watch lights and listen to deafening noises all at the same time.

Out of that, twenty minutes down the line, I sulked with my mum who was sat in the waiting room reading. I was dizzy; my head felt like a hurricane about to kill planet Earth. Little did I know, at that point, that I was going to go blind any minute, and probably would end up killing planet Earth through not being able to see where I was going.

I was called into a small, claustrophobic room with a different nurse with white, opaque gloves on. She called me her flower when I didn’t shut the door. Shut the door, my flower, otherwise everyone will see. See what? I wondered, and I got a sensation of bugs crawling around in my stomach as if they were going to feed on me when I die. She said to me, this might hurt, no, it will hurt. Here is a tissue, ok three, two, one. Done, and done. 

I physically could not open my eyes. The pain was euphorically agonising. From moment to moment sat in the chair of the tiny, enclosed room, I vanished into blindness. Where did I go? That cliché of, who turned out all the lights? was relevant here, as the blackness created a zone of terror, and I had no energy, mental or physical or otherwise, to defend myself. I didn’t know where the nurse was, but I could hear her speaking, and I felt lost within my own body.

When I opened my eyes, a blurry darkness shone in my vision. I could just about to see where to step,  what to step on, what not to step on, when to step, why I needed to step, how to step. But that was it. I couldn’t see my hands, I could see my book, I couldn’t see the chair that I had as if I could not look. My mum was practically invisible, and so was my mind. Why did they do this to me, what did they need to find?

The darkness with my eyes open was so irritating I just shut my eyes. Nothing would work to make me feel less tortured. Do they do this to children of four, five, six, seven? Do they disable their eyesight for their enjoyment? It was not a fun affair for the victims of their mindless games.

My eyes went black, according to the doctor. I went in and his voice was patronising, I could not see his face, so my judgment of him was that he was not my kind of person. However, he inconclusively told me that they had not found anything wrong with my eyes…yet. So, my eyes were a clear black night for what?  So that I can stumble around like a creature out of Doctor Who? Or is it a scheme to get me to keep returning into the arms of the lethal warriors at Queen Alexandra Hospital, who serve for the dead Queen and live for the devil.

I felt like my eyes were going to fall out of my skull. They should’ve done, it would’ve been simpler. Then, I just had to wait.

Wait for the night to turn back in to the day, impatiently, like the slutty child they think I am.



The Vampire – short story

One week of college has flown by (well, in my case four days as I missed Friday, whoops). I am already shattered, like a piece of glass that is very difficult to piece back together. Exhaustion is being pumped into my body, uncontrollably.

Here is a story that I have written, small and sugary of course, I don’t want you to be as tired as I am, with your eyes drooping over hundreds of thousands of words that I have written. So don’t worry, this is far from hundreds of thousands.


Was she was wrong about you when she said it? She doesn’t retract it; but she doesn’t think it. When she said it, she was lonely and craving attention. A small part of her heartache slipped out of her mouth while being a shallow and disgusting little girl. Her lip was so red with blood she could be a vampire, and as a vampire, she was wrong about you, yet she thought she was right about you, and will go out and bite another victim to seek the attention she cannot live without.

She said that you had a dog collar around your neck. A collar with spikes sticking out six-hundred feet to stab anyone within close proximity of you. She said you were a lethal weapon, as if you were dangerous, and she was afraid of getting close to you. Then, oh, the pure contradiction of her tongue, YOU were too close to HER. How? She would not let you closer than six-hundred feet, as if you were able to trace her blood footsteps from hundreds of feet away, she must have been living in her coffin for the last few centuries as she was mentally unstable when she poured this venom onto the feet of her little puppies; you were not part of that clan, you heard it second hand, from the venom stink from their toes.

Your glasses steamed up from the poison of her words, as you heard the disgust that they told you. She barely even knew you, did she? Why would she say such vile words about a stranger? Her hair, blonde and murky, like a fog injected with disease, has whipped your face as you walk past her, but that is the only contact you have had with her. Did some of your DNA get onto those gorgeously repellent locks, and for that she thought she would need payback? Never have you spoke, but the words hurt more than if your friend had spoken bitterly about you.

Stop. The words of the vampire would not stop. Stop. No they would not stop. Stop. Stop. Stop telling the vampire to stop, she will never stop. Her next victim is waiting for the bite of death, and if you are not careful it will be you again. Stop. 


Is this far from reality? Or is it spot on? You thought, as you drank the water to try and clear out the infection planted into your skin. But little do you know, that vampires never die. She will never stop being a bitter being. No matter how much you ask, she will spit on your feet one day to confront you yourself, but until that day, she will be the coward that you expect her to be, and make you like her. Run. Run. Run.


This came from nowhere.


The Haystack – short story

It has been a while. I was so good posting twice in a week and now I haven’t posted twice in two weeks. Oh, my brain has been focused on other oddities.

The beautiful weather has been utterly inspiring; ironically as I speak the sky is pure white with marshmallow clouds, unblinding me and the rest of my town. However, the story that I will post after this bizarre intro is based on an unknown happening (that you will have to guess) a few days ago…I cannot remember specifically. But, it was truly lovely.


Sat in the house on a deliciously beautiful day. Being stuck between the walls of a two storey house is usually a dream. The darkened rooms, the curtains closed, the rustic life of pre-electricity days. However, the sun shone too bright through the curtains to be dark in her bedroom, and the light inadvertently scraped into lamp light, pumped by electricity ignored the authenticity she desired.

Alone in the home, with the drone of the tumble dryer rumbling the towels until they are as dry as hands washed hundreds of times. Just watching, waiting, for the towels to stop turning. The impatience increased incredibly through her soft mind.

Stop, they stopped, after sixty minutes of waiting. She tugged the air tube back  through the door and locked up and left. With the sun shining into her shaded eyes; her sunglasses sweetly framing her face so that she looked and felt comfortable. Her shorts were pleasantly resting on her hips as she strolled down the road adjacent to her house. Her black top absorbed the heat that strangely didn’t heat her up, as it wasn’t too hot, just gloriously sunny.

The road was running no rats as she walked in the centre, up to a field that twinkled with rays of light. She was missing the darkness, and she knew that she could not survive without the shades on her face. But it was not as bad as expected. She felt like a contradiction. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her duvet and memory foam, but conversely not wanting to be there. It just was not the same with the sun so sunny. She wished it was nighttime, for all time.

Fields and fields of long grass surrounded her free-spirited body. She felt like a free spirit, anyway, as she had not entered the light not at night. And it was never light at night. Her feet were treading in sandals through the pathways, alone and independent. She didn’t stop. It was as if, fatigue was not a word in the dictionary. Usually it’s the only word in the dictionary. Now there are thousands of other, irrelevant words, that she does not know the meaning to, but applies to her in this moment.

Delicately, she pranced through the mud tracks of the countryside, hiking along a flat incline towards some haystacks and grass taller than herself at five-foot-two. She stared at them for moments at a time. After one moment ended she would blink to kill the gaze, to moisturise her eyes so she does not go blind. But she could not stop picturing the enjoyment she would get from climbing, higher than she had ever been before, up the haystacks so that she could view the fields as a superior figure, seeing huge dogs being walked as little ants on the path. Seeing their owners just like shouting jellyfish swimming after their pets as they run off.

She heaved herself through leaves upon leaves to reach the haystacks. Trying not to get scratched in the face by the beautiful environment that looked down on her like a child. And when she arrived at the hay, she said hey for the pure pun, and sturdied herself on the step that looked made for her on the first bail of hay. She wobbled firmly as she made her way up the stack of ten bails. This, was unheard of to her; she had never known anyone to do this before. Then again, she had not been out of the house in a few months so the haystack climbers world record may have been broken at the time she secluded herself to her bedroom.

Sat on top, the stack wobbled as she cried with ecstasy. The feeling she had made her never want to leave. She could see a dog walker running along the path with sportswear decorating his body, and his dog is being dragged by his lead. They don’t look exactly how she’d imagined, but it still felt incredible to see them, without them seeing her.

Before she knew it, she felt herself bending backwards, as if the back of a chair had just broken off while leaning on it. Like three-quarters of a circle, she descended down ten floors of hay, feeling like she was flying without support, but this was the best way to fly. Slow motion fascinated her as it happened, she felt riveted in the air, stuck in the oxygen of the earth. Stopping her slow movement, she blew away the chord keeping her in the air by accident, and she dropped quickly to the ground as if she were about the boomerang back up. However, she didn’t. She lay firm in a pile of grass that cushioned her minutely, and she was incredibly stiff for several moments.

Once her bruised back rose from lying in nature, she wobbled home in a state of irritation. Should she return to the darkness? She thought yes, as her first escape in months was shattered from the first inspiration she had from the outside. But, she decided, in her mystified mind to, in future, ignore her inspirations. Walk past them. Resist temptation to climb a haystack or wrestle a polar bear walking the streets of London.


The haystack does not exist. She does not exist. This was a dream that I had. I wonder if anyone reading this understood that. Please comment below your thoughts, or just tell me that my sub-conscience is fragmented.

Thanks for reading!


The Diamond

I know what you’re thinking, two posts in a couple of days in unheard of; insanity, if you are an extremist. However, there is an occasion for this one, which I think is something to celebrate.

My grandparents have their 60th Wedding Anniversary Today – the Diamond, which is the most exquisite jewel of them all – and they are still right in the midst of happiness which I think is inspiring. This just happens to be the same day as my AS results day, which was terrifying, still is terrifying, but the fact that it has fallen on the same day as my grandparents’ diamond anniversary seems like destiny to me, or its just an utter coincidence.

I have written a story which highlights the happiness that has been diffused around the world from their relationship, which is something that we should all aspire to be like.


With love, comes war. A war of happiness. A fight to be happier than anyone else on the planet. With youth brings love, but statistically speaking, it only lasts for a few years and then a bomb explodes and, that’s it. So it’s not really love. It is rare to see a love that overcomes spillages of bitterness and eruptions of fury to be committed for sixty years. It is almost unheard of in this century, the twenty-first century where divorce is almost compulsory, unlike a few centuries back, when it was forbidden.

A couple with youth bursting inside of them join together with the hope and optimism that forever was a possibility. This was sixty years ago, however, and in comparison to this day and age, most young people throw the words love and forever around as if it were a boomerang, that would always come back. It doesn’t, for most high school relationships, just caught up in the moments of dates upon dates and love upon lust.

Sixty years ago, the year 1956, the 18th of August, a day that two people at the prime of their love dedicated themselves to each other for eternity. It is such a rarity for this to last; 1956 feels like a lifetime ago. Nearly four years after Queen Elizabeth II was crowned. That must show adoration for another person. Queen Elizabeth? It shows her adoration for the country, the world; and the fact that she has impeccable health to live until she’s ninety. The couple are in their early eighties, so they are running parallel to the Queen, but just as glorified.

Finding this love; the desperation to be with that one person thrills the world. Infatuation turns into affection, which turns into passion, which concludes with soul worship of another person. The concept seems completely unheard-of, unknown, until couples like this one adjoin and become a diamond in the sky. Like a star shooting down into the soil of the earth. A delicate star, nonetheless, creeping their way into heaven so secretly, yet being extrovert.

The life that we all aspire to live, is happening to people everywhere in the world. To find that lovely person to commit to forever. Some people find it now, at the ages of seventeen and eighteen, but most people do not. But the rarity is here, today, another shining diamond decorating the world’s atmosphere with its beauty of marriage.


Sixty years ago a couple of twenty-three-year-olds engaged in a ceremony which is still being celebrated to this day, and I am in awe of the fact that they are my DNA.

Hopefully, sixty years from now we will all be as happy as they are today. Congratulations Gran & Grandad on being those shining diamonds in the sky. Lots of love.



The Parisian

Paris. A place I’ve been before. Full of tourists who do or don’t know the French vernacular. Me? I don’t. I went with my sister, who got A* at both GCSE and A-Level in French, and it would shock me if she didn’t speak French, as she only completed her A-level a year ago. I don’t know how she did it. I don’t think anyone does.

In the attempt to escape the haphazard weather of the UK, we bundled ourselves onto the Eurostar, and went at over 300 km/h to the capital city of France. It took nearly two-and-a-half hours, but the sun shone stunningly as we pulled into Paris.

Here is a short story about my favourite places in Paris; they are  recommendations to visit, and definitely the best places in the city.


It’s different; self-assured. A city of delight and mischief all in one. There is so much to find, yet so much that’s already been found.

Tour Eiffel; Notre Dame; Sacre Coeur; the list is endless. They have already been found, some of the busiest tourist attractions in the city. However, they are old news, now, in the year two-thousand-and-sixteen, and there are prettier places to visit more prettily. Passing by the Notre Dame, seeing the Sacre Coeur from a view, and the Tour Eiffel on the market stalls in small statues.

Le Marais. The district with perfection built into the pave stones. Every square-metre is a glitter bomb of lusciousness. She, the wannabe Parisian, visited the city in hope of escaping being the typical tourist from Britain. And, she succeeded, as she waltzed into the beautiful shop Merci, full of beautiful clothes, and beautiful stationary, beauty intertwined into the walls of the block.

She could spend hours combing through the clothes, spending euros and euros on the entire shop floor. And, buying the notebooks that scream at her for her writing, the work she does over the summer just begging to be written in the most notable notebook in Paris. She goes up to the till in a hurry with the basket of fifteen objects that warm her spirit into being the delight that is a Parisian, and then holding a Merci bag after she pays as she flounces out of the doors.

Oh, to quench her thirst would be lovely, she thought as she saw the small cafe just to the side of the shop she had just exited. The Merci cafe. Could this get any more wonderful? She perches herself into a comfortable armchair inside of the walls, stacked high with purchasable books, and glanced at the menu staring back at her on the petite table. Mint-green tea, she orders, speaking in French so they understand her as a Français woman, not an Anglais girl.

A teapot, a teacup, and a bottle of water with a mint leaf inside of it comes to her on a tray. Bonjour, says the different waiter, théOui! she speaks back and says merci, and giggled after this, as she just said the name of the cafe. It wasn’t funny, but she had to keep herself mentally entertained.

She scrolled through her bag of gifts that she had just bought herself, and reached out a notebook that had a particular glow about it, and started journalling her time in Paris so far. Utterly praising Le Marais as she slurped down her mint-green tea and water almost simultaneously. She was more than happy to be surrounded by the joy she was in.

A twenty-minute walk and she reached Centre Pompidou. It was like a factory. The modern art gallery was modern art in itself. The magnificent piece of architecture shone as she stared from the outside just begging to be on the inside looking out. She walked with a bounce on the heels of her feet into the modern art piece, and showed her ID and scrambled onto an escalator. up, Up, UP, she climbed, three flights of escalators taking her to the beautiful view of Paris. There, she could see the Sacre Coeur, gawking back at her as gawked across to it. She felt as if she was right next to it, touching the spire, smelling the antique scent it has, seeing the tourists look like insects down below.

Gazing through the art at the likes of Henri Matisse, Pablo Picasso and Vassily Kandinsky. Their art was inspired, as different people looked at the paintings as if they understood the story behind each and every artwork, when in fact it was unclear. Love surrounded her in the Pompidou, as she traipsed down a floor to the contemporary art, as she saw glorious artwork by contemporary artists, and she gazed, amazed at their ability to shine through the Pompidou and out into the view of Paris; sitting in the most exquisite architecture she had ever seen.

Metro time, as she stepped down several flights of stairs into the undergrowth of Paris. People on their phones, playing games or texting without sending due to the lack of signal underground, as she leapt onto the metro train, which proved a lot more reliable than Southern rail in England. In a few moments she was back out in the fresh air, only a few steps from the Notre Dame. Not that she was there for the Notre Dame; she had seen it before. Oh, no. As she walked from the metro along the river, there was a beautiful market that took her feet off of the ground as if she could fly. Sifting through the artefacts as if they were ancient pieces of history. A lot of it was just small statues of the Tour Eiffel, or paintings of sights from afar. A sight from the Pompidou, for example; the everlasting memory of sitting on the Sacre Coeur as she delicately wrote what she was feeling down into her beautiful notebook from Merci.

The reason she strolled past the Notre Dame was to get to a place only known by bookworms, like her. Shakespeare & Company. Selling British books as if they were baguettes. Stacks and stacks of books piled high to beyond anyone’s reach; there were ladders that customers were accustomed to climb if there was a book out of their stretch but in their interest. A whole section dedicated to Hemingway, the fiction extending longer than a million arms combined. She spent hours in there, searching through which books caught her glance as she struggled to hold the basketful of books she wanted to buy, without a basket. It felt natural to be there, alongside many other customers who spoke the English language; not many who were French, which was ironic since she was in France.

Hemingway, Plath, McEwan, and more, she bought as if she had unlimited money and she was the world’s quickest reader, as if she had read them all before. Passionately, she spoke to the woman behind the counter about some of the books she was purchasing, exclaiming that she had a magnificent variety of books that were going to be a delightful read. I will undoubtedly be very antisocial for the next few months as I read these books, she said to the shop assistant in English, as they were English, and she chuckled and gave her a canvas bag that was perfect for the bundle of books she endeavoured in buying.

She stepped out of the shop and had an epiphany. Paris is the most beautiful place in the world; well, it has the most beautiful places in the world, which should be visited by everyone who adores the world of beauty.


I hope you enjoyed, and please visit the websites that have been hyperlinked as I think it will be wonderful for everyone to see these places.