We all suffer



The 26 bells

So sorry for not posting this story in so long. It seems that all my posts will have to suffer a delay due to schoolwork.

Sticks and rough leaves tore at Vora. The whispers and cracks of the bush around her made it hard to hear Roe urging her forward. Vora felt volatile and vulnerable crouched in this thicket, and shuddered at every sudden noise or movement. “Not much longer.” Assured Roe “soon we will come to the Edge, and then it will be up to the Grae as to how we are treated.”
“The Grae?” Inquired Vora. “Yes, yes a troop of fae that lives by the edge.” Answered Roe. Where Vora and Roe were now the light seemed brighter, more plentiful. They were nearer to the Edge and whatever lay beyond.

The Golden Compass book review


I have read the Golden Compass, the Subtle Knife, and am almost done with the Amber Spyglass, so I decided to tell you about them.

Philip Pullman has a timeless and magical way of writing that enchanted me and delighted me with every chapter. His string of characters are charming and witty, making me wonder what my dæmon would be like and hoping that someone like Lyra would come along and make friends with me. The story line created emotions, and twisted me to loving and hating certain characters, which is a quality that I absolutely adore about books. There is just one thing I’d like to change about this series, but that’s just how short it is!

My recent obsession with Mary Oliver


“The first fish / I ever caught / would not lie down / quiet in the pail / but flailed and sucked / at the burning / amazement of the air / and died / in the slow pouring off / of rainbows.” – The Fish by Mary Oliver

“- pathless, seamless, / peerless mud. My bones / knock together at the pale / joints, trying / for foothold, fingerhold, / mindhold over / such slick crossings, deep / hip holds, hummocks / that sink silently / in the black, slack / earthsoup. I feel / not wet so much as / painted and glittered / with the fat grassy / mires, the rich and succulent marrows of earth.” – Crossing the swamp by Mary Oliver

That is just a taste of the brilliance of Mary Oliver. As you can see, I have acquired two of her books recently, American Primitive and A Poetry Handbook. I simply love it and suggest that you try some of her works yourself.


They taunt me
They hold me back
It’s dark inside
They fight me
There’s nowhere I can hide
Help me
Look into my eyes
They hide there
They whisper of the graves
The graves in the past
They wail of broken dreams
Help me
They are my demons


A stain on the wall.
A dirty window.
Listless smoke rises.
An empty kiosk.
A battered clock chimes.
A soulful silence – a different kind of quiet.
Skimming breezes.
A box of knick knacks.
Drip-drop of a pipe.
A pile of pebbles.
Snap of a flag.
Empty, isn’t it?

A shallow world

A shallow world; full of want.
The only glee caused by revenge.
An animal instinct, sharpened by hatred,
sits in mankind’s breast.
The mind is held betwixt a hunger
and a fear, both overpowering.
The sweat beads upon our brow;
we’ve done it again.
It happens all the time.
Where is the kindness?
The so-called humanity?
Such a shallow world.


I recently started using the WordPress app on my device rather than using the site on my computer, and have been facing some technical difficulties. If you see an error, please excuse me, for I am still testing out this app.

I have a penny – a short story

I have a penny. The dirty road beneath does not have a penny. The old bricks around do not have a penny. But I have a penny. And I am going to town to spend it.
Bad breath and soot is in the town. Ramblers and haste-makers are in the town. Wild flowers and sweet apples are in the field. But hot sausages and honey cakes are in the town. And I’m going to spend my penny in town.
Come all! Come all! Bellows a trader.
Got y’er meat! Calls the butcher.
Goat cheese and milk, cheap! The herder.
But ’tis a quiet old woman drawing my eye. Her counter is laden with curious wares. A key, a small bottle, a velvet pouch. A rusted spyglass sits in the corner. I nudge it with the tip of my finger, and the light catches in the glass.
Ah, the old spyglass. The woman croons.
That’ll be two pence
But I only have one penny! I exclaim.
Could I launder your clothes, tidy your house maybe-
Ah, ah, ah, little one. Such an eager girl you are. This spyglass once was elegant and lovely, but I can sense your diligent ways, and suspect you’ll treat it as if it still is. I suppose I’ll just be having one penny from you now. She says calmly.
I gasp. A golden spyglass, all mine! For one penny only! Far better than any sweetmeats or buttery bread. I shall skip home and pick a flower or two, wander through the field and munch on a crisp apple as I take the spyglass. The rusted spyglass. For only a penny.