The Woman Who Never Married (First Written 18 January 2012)

She walked to the Pretty In Pink dress shop every morning. She never went through the door, but stopped short on the pavement outside. Eyes wide, she'd stand and gasp at the dress in the window. A placard at the foot of the white dress informed in fancy lettering; 'Wedding Dress of the Year'. The woman wouldn't care if it was the worst selling dress of the century; she had fallen in love with it months ago.

The staff watched the woman stand at the window every morning, lingering for ten minutes, before she bustled off. They never asked her if she wanted help, or whether she was interested in buying the dress, and only speculated she was planning a wedding. One day the woman walked into the shop, bursting with excitement. “I would love to purchase the Wedding Dress of the Year.” She spoke with her hands and didn't wait to try the dress on; she said she knew her perfect size.

The woman took her prized dress home, the dress every woman would wish to wear on her wedding day. She hung the dress up on her wardrobe door, and stroked the silk lovingly. She slid open a drawer and opened a tiny box, putting it beside the dress. She opened a shoe box from under her bed and carefully placed the white shoes beneath the dress. She took out the shimmering ring from the tiny box and slid it onto her finger. On the dresser was a framed photograph of a man, cheerful and relaxed, laid on a bright towel on a beach. A tear came to her eye as she smiled at the picture of her dead fiance and whispered; “We never made it to the wedding in life, but you will always be my husband.”

The woman wrapped the dress up in a plastic cover and kept it hidden away. She wrapped the shoes in tissue paper and kept them hidden away under her bed. But she kept the ring on her finger, on show forever, and she always called herself 'Mrs' if she was ever asked.

The Wart (First Written 12 January 2012)

I can see it when I look down my nose. It's getting bigger. It's trying to take over. My sparkling piercing, the piercing I longed to have for years, is disappearing from view. My wart has a voice now. It tells me it won't leave. Bulbous and ugly, it waddles as I walk. It sniggers as I stare in the mirror. Where did it start to go wrong? I thought I'd have this piercing forever. I'd been looking at rings. And then this happened. This wart came and ruined everything. I went to the doctors today. They gave me some cream and a threat to the wart: freezing. That's stopped its sneers.yes, wart, you can be stopped. And, with the wart, my piercing must leave me. I'll give it a good burial. I'll put it in a box, hidden safely away, and I'll remember what it looked like before the wart ruined everything. And it'll sparkle in its box, just like it always sparkled in my nose. RIP.

Circles: A Poem (First Written 11 January 2012)

Everybody wants to belong,
In a family, in life.
People are caught up in circles,
The circles of life and death,
The circles, constantly turning.

Everybody breaks off, becomes one,
Once entwined with another,
Now walking alone in the road.
Photographs cut, discarded,
Memories cut, never discarded.

Then one meets another,
And the Two-Headed Beast,
Again, walks as one.
The circles of love and heartbreak,
The circles of life and death.

The circles, constantly turning.

The Cowardly Me (First Written 11 January 2012)

"Go away." I told the darkness. "Leave me alone tonight."

Her sad eyes stared at me from the corner of the room. "But I'm scared to be on my own." She whined.

"You're not following me around. I'm meeting Lauren's friends and you'll only put them off. You're staying away tonight."

I could see the tears begin to form in her eyes. I shook my head. "Don't start crying."

"Why doesn't anyone like me?" She sobbed. "Why is everyone so mean to me? I always get left out."

I rolled my eyes. "Because you stand in the corner and don't talk to anyone. You're a coward and you won't change. I don't want you with me tonight."

She had her head in her hands and I could see her shoulders shaking. She was pathetic. She stopped me getting the friends I wanted and if she hung around any longer, she would stop me doing what I wanted to do in life. Sometimes I thought I had gotten rid of her and then she'd creep her way back up to my side, lurking by my shoulder. She doesn't like it when I'm drunk but she always comes back in the morning, bright and early. I thought bullying would make her leave, but it only makes her whimper.

She's been with me all my life. When I was asked out by a guy, she cried in the corner because she didn't think she was good-looking enough for him. When his friend sat next to me in the pub, she sat in silence, playing with a beer mat.

I tried to accept that she was just a part of me and wanted others to accept her too, but I only lost friends because of her. I may have lost that guy because of her. I think I even lost myself at a time.

Maybe she'll never leave me. Maybe she'll sit with me on my deathbed. I don't know, but I can force her to stay at home when she needs to, and perhaps that's enough.

The Woman Who Turned To Dust (First Written 10 January 2012)

There was a woman who fell in love. She fell in love with a gentleman who was rich in pocket but not in compassion.

On their wedding day, she was as beautiful as a swan. Her heart pounded with adoration when she proclaimed to her love “I do!” On their wedding night, as she entered the chamber to see her husband, she found it to be empty. She searched for miles under the haunting twilight, but never found him. It was whispered that he had fled with another lady, taking his wife's dowry and her heart.

The woman in white returned to the house alone. Once handsome and grand, it now stood wild and unwanted. The woman, imprisoned within the bare walls, pined for the man she loved. She cried and cried for seven years. She cried so many tears she dried out. Her skin shed and fluttered to the faded carpet, her hair fell in wisps, and her blood had become nothing more than ash. Her bones crumbled and fell, like delicate snowflakes, to the floor and the woman was no more.

Her (First Written 1st December 2011)

I remember his smile. I remember his clear blue eyes and the tiny white scar above his eyebrow. I remember his sweet aftershave I gave him for Christmas. I guess he wears it for her now.

I don't remember why he hit me. I don't remember why I called him those names. I'm sure she never insults him, and I'm sure he never hits her. He loves her.

I know he loved me once. He told me he'd marry me. We had plans, him and I. We were going to take on the world. She was never in these plans. She was just his friend. He didn't share his secrets with her. She didn't know he liked Worcester Sauce in his pie. She didn't know he liked to walk in the fields when the sun was going down. She didn't know these things, but I knew these things. I loved him. And he loved me once.

But now she has him. She knows these things and I have to forget. I try to forget but I remember. Does he remember me?

Coffee (First Written 30 November 2011)

The woman sipped the hot drink and purred like a cat. "What would I do without you?" She whispered gratefully.

"Molly!" The man barked as he thundered down the stairs, his shirt untucked and shoes untied. "Why didn't you wake me?"

She rolled her eyes. "I forgot."

His face was bright red as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen. "I have a meeting in ten minutes. What am I going to tell my boss?"

"You can tell him your wife is not your alarm clock." She sauntered to the counter and flicked on the kettle.

"No! Don't you make another one. You drink too much of that sludge -"

His sentence was cut short by an object hitting his face. He looked down and saw his box of Earl Greys at his feet. He looked up at her and saw tears in her eyes. "My coffee is smooth, rich and without it I am nothing." He stared at her in shock. "If you don't approve of our relationship, then I don't want you in my life anymore." Unable to react to this outburst, he simply turned around and walked out of the house in silence, his shirt still untucked and his shoes still untied.

She kicked the box of teabags out of the room and opened the cupboard to her left. On the second shelf, stood on a jam jar, above every other item like a winner stood on a podium, was a giant jar of Nescafe Gold.

Her eyes lit up at the sight of it and she picked it up tenderly with both hands and kissed it. "Don't worry, he's gone now. It's just you and me."

'Tis Only The Wind (First Written 6th December 2011)

It was upon a misty midnight, on the eve of Christmas, that I sat weak and weary before the flames leaping in the grand hearth. Although the fire roared and raged, it could not warm my cold bones or cease my spluttering cough. Out on the barren fields, the black trees drowned in a white sea and their branches beat against the glass panes for mercy. Rapping their fingers on the windows of the manor, rapping their fingers on the surface of my mind.

I shut my eyes and ears to these terrible sounds and my thoughts were of my dear wife, now nameless to this world. Barely half a year since I left our home for this unwanted place. My first Christmas without my beloved Martha. My joyful wife turned blue by consumption. I opened my eyes to see the house I now resided; lonely and dark on this windy hill. Isolated.

The walls shook with the wind and the door banged on its hinges. I clutched the arms of my chair, shrinking back into its velvet cushion. 'Tis only the wind, I comforted my racing heart. The banging ceased. I could only hear the howling of the wind and the rapping of bare branches on the windowpane. My fingers relaxed and I briefly touched my waistcoat, at the silver chain that glittered from the pocket. I lifted the silver locket out tenderly, and clicked it open. A curl of raven black hair, once a lovely midnight waterfall down her back, forever at my chest, at my broken heart. With a flash, I shut the locket and slid it back in place. The banging returned, as if a great bull were charging at the door. I twisted in my seat, eyes wide on the fragile wood.

The door burst open. It crashed against the wall and the wind extinguished the fire.

I sat in darkness, in fear, before I rushed to shut and lock the door. The wind was strong and thick snow had paired with it. It numbed my face as I struggled with the door. I finally shut out the weather. I pressed my back on the wood, and it rattled against my spine. I coughed thickly into my handkerchief. I stuffed it back into my coat, my fingers briefly touching the embroidery. Shadows stretched across the room, a sliver of moonlight striped the rug. In a fleeting, panicked second I saw a human figure by the black hearth, but it was only a trick of the eye. In that fleeting second I almost thought... almost hoped it was her...

When I was sure I was still alone, I rubbed my hands together and walked towards the hearth, seeking the warmth and light I had grieved beside so many nights. I knelt down and felt a breeze on my neck. This wasn't cold air; it was warm, like the breath of a living being. My own breath caught in my chest and I was silent, unable to turn in fear of who, or what, I may face in the dark. I chose to continue with my task, to ignore this abnormal breeze and the horrors that played in my mind.

My numb fingers were clumsy and the darkness seemed to thicken around my huddled figure. Fear overwhelmed me and I gasped, standing and facing the room. I could not help the feeling that I wasn't alone. I knew it was only the cold and the wind and the darkness feeding my mind with creeping paranoia but it would not leave me.

There was nobody in the room.

As I turned to the fire, an aroma, as thick as mist, filled the room. Like a summer breeze, it brought fresh flowers and lavender with it. I knew this smell very well. It was her perfume.

I breathed it in deeply, and wept for her. “Martha..” I gasped. My fingers clutched the silver chain. There was a whisper towards the door and I turned to see my wife. She was there. I could not see her face but I recognised the shape of her dress, frayed but still as beautiful as the day she received it. “Please, Martha, let me see your precious face.”

She did not move from the door. Only a whisper, a tangle of hushed words I could not decipher. Then only the wind. “Please, Martha, my love, are you at peace?” My wife did not answer. “I beg you, Martha, is your spirit at peace?” I cried these words out, for if her soul was not peaceful, neither was mine.

My beloved whispered again, but I could not make out the words. Her figure edged forward towards the strip of moonlight so that I could see her dress. Crimson, the colour of old roses, and flecked with dried dirt. Her hands and face were still concealed in darkness. I stepped forward also, and the smell of perfume flooded from her body. “My mind will not rest. For you are always in my thoughts when I am awake, and you are always in my dreams when I sleep.” She remained silent. “I long to see your face again, and hear your sweet voice again. Why does my wife keep these from me?”

I could not contain my grief, as I realised that perhaps she did not want me to see her decayed face and wheezing voice. Did death not relieve a person's sickness in life? I prayed that this was not true. I prayed that she was not suffering. “I wish I had suffered and you had not, Martha. I wish I had left this world and you had lived. Do you still suffer? Is this why you will not reveal your face to me?”

Her spirit lingered for a moment more, then stepped into the light. My heart was lifted at the sight of her young face silver under the moon. Her hands, delicate as petals, folded over the other, her ring shining. Her glossy hair falling over one shoulder. She smiled tenderly, and my cold bones were warmed. I fell to my knees and stared at my wife in awe of her beauty. The breath was knocked from my lungs as I knelt before her. She did not speak. For a long moment we were both silent, our eyes on each other.

The spluttering returned and I coughed into my handkerchief. I quickly looked up, in fear that she may leave. She was still stood before me, the smile kind on her face. Her eyes held a little sadness in them. I wondered how long her spirit would stay with me. I wanted to be with her always, but spirits do not belong on this earth. As if she knew what troubled my thoughts, her smile faltered and she shook her head slowly. “Must you leave me?” I could barely utter the words, for my heart was breaking again. She held out a white hand. I could feel the dreaded cough but simply choked into my hand. The other reached out and held hers. Her skin was soft and silky smooth. Cold as glass; as cold as my own. My spluttering ceased and I stood close to her. Her spirit was at peace and, finally, now was mine. My body was alone, but my spirit was with her. Always.

Cire (First Written 19th November 2011)

I knocked on her door again. “Sarah!” I yelled, louder this time. I pressed my ear against the door, expecting to hear a scuffle of chair legs across the plastic tiles, a chink of china on the draining board. I didn't hear anything. I knew she was in there, she'd not left her flat in weeks. Is that how long it had been? Just a couple of weeks? I thought about the last time I'd been here, only last Friday, and panic set in. “Sarah!” I screamed. I punched at the door and turned the handle blindly, throwing my weight against the door. It wasn't locked.

As soon as I burst through the door, I smelled something cruel. Decaying. And I prayed to God it was only mouldy food that had been left untouched. It wasn't mouldy food.

I don't know how long I stood there in the kitchen, the sheets of paper with that word scribbled across still hung on every wall. My neck ached, keeping my eyes up at the body behind the kitchen table. She'd used a neck scarf to do it. She must have stood on the kitchen table and.. She must have done it last night, she didn't look like Sarah anymore. Hours must have passed before somebody noticed the door open. The smell.

The funeral was nice. Her parents were devastated; they couldn't understand why she'd done it. Nor could I; but I knew what started it.

We'd gone to Esquires Cafe on a Wednesday afternoon, only a month ago, after she finished her shift at Dragon's Toyshop round the corner. A latte for her and a black coffee for me. It had been quiet so we'd sat upstairs. They had a balcony but it was raining so we stayed inside. With the heating on and the dim lighting, it had been cosy. She complained about work being stressful with Christmas coming up and I'd complained about how being unemployed was stressful with Christmas coming up. Then we sipped our drinks gratefully, the rain patting on the windows reminding us of what was to come when we walked outside. It wasn't the weather we'd have to worry about.

It was during this break in conversation as we sipped on our coffees, that Sarah saw the book. Lying on the table next to us. The set up of the cafe meant that there was space in between tables for people to talk and not be heard. In the middle of the room was a book shelf housing many different books: some were intellectual such as facts about space, how to learn Italian, then there were several odd magazines and old fiction that people had donated for the lonely sipper. The book on the table, however, stood out from the others. Firstly, it was open to the first page, as if the reader had suddenly left before starting the tale, or perhaps had left it there on purpose to entice an innocent wanderer looking for an empty table. The latter is my belief. A book so powerful could not have been innocently left there.

Curiosity killed the cat. More precisely, Sarah's curiosity killed her. She stood and reached over, placing it carefully on our table. She flipped over the cover and that's where it should have ended. It looked to be made of leather, a pale colour. The colour of human skin. The thought had given me chills but she had only grinned. “Look at the symbols on this thing,” she almost cried out in excitement. I guess if you loved your horror and Gothic films, as Sarah did, the cover would have given you chills of pleasure. It gave me chills of a different kind. A naked woman had been sketched in the arms of a man. At least from the neck down. His face was grotesque: pointed ears that depicted horns, a pig's snout, his eyes were slits, and his tongue was that of a serpent's, touching the woman's face. I think the woman was dead. Around the border were archaic symbols I'd never seen in my life, but at the top of the cover was the word 'Cire'. Sarah's eyes were hungry for more when she turned to the first page. I knew something wasn't right with that book. I knew it; I could feel it. I should have stopped her reading it. I definitely should have stopped her stuffing it into her bag before we left.

It was the next day when I noticed something had changed in her. At first I forgot about the book. We were meant to go to the cafe again but when half an hour had passed and she didn't turn up, I went to her work to find out where she was. Her manager said she'd called in sick. She hadn't called me. So I went to her apartment, knocked on her door and she'd answered. If I'd have barged in and seen what she'd done then I could have stopped it. I'm sure I could have stopped it then. She told me she was sick and I believed her, she looked it. She said no more and I left.

A week later I went back to her work and asked for her. The manager told me she'd quit. I went to her apartment and barged in that time after she refused to open the door to me. Nearly every inch of every wall had been covered in white paper. On every sheet of paper was one word, black ink and scratched so deep her pen had almost ripped through the pages: 'Cire'. The same word on the front of that book. That's when I remembered. “What is this?” I demanded. The look on her face was one a lunatic would give a doctor from his padded cell, in his straitjacket. I don't think she'd slept since that afternoon we went to the cafe. Her eyes were red, teary, and bloodshot with great swipes of black under the sockets. I don't think she'd eaten either; her cheekbones stuck out and body looked close to emaciated. Even though she looked terrible, she was grinning. “Sarah.. What the hell?” I didn't know what to say. This was crazy. Sarah was 22, she liked hanging out with friends, she had a well-paid secure job. She was normal and happy. Why would she just do this?

She answered me in sentences I could not understand. “He will save me.” She whispered. I shook my head. “He will purify my soul.” I was scared of Sarah in that moment. I asked her if this had to do with the book. She gasped; “It is the gateway to a better world.” I told her she was crazy and she laughed. I told her to get a grip. I grasped a sheet of paper closest to me and tore it from the wall. She screamed out but I grabbed another sheet and another, throwing ripped paper over my shoulder. A force to the back of my head forced me to hit the wall and fall to the floor. I looked up to my friend and froze. She held a knife in her hand and I thought in a panic that she had stabbed me in the back of my head, but the pain was dull and there was no blood. When I looked into her eyes, I saw they were blacker than night. Her eyes were normally sky blue, but there was no colour in them. They were inhuman; they were terrible and I ran from the apartment, not daring to look back until I was out of the building.

It took me three days to return. She seemed calmer, and let me in. She made me a drink and I saw that the pages had gone from the walls of the kitchen. I scanned the room for a glimpse of the book, knowing that would stop this. Whatever this was. I couldn't see the book and I didn't dare ask about it. It seemed she had gotten rid of it, and she was more like Sarah. I couldn't get the image of her eyes out of my head, but her eyes were their normal sky blue that day. She said she'd meet me at the cafe on Monday afternoon. She said she was feeling much better. I wanted to believe her, but there was something eerie about her. Something that gave me goosebumps.

That had been Friday. The last time I saw her alive. The police never found the book bound in leather, the same colour as human skin. They've asked me over and over: “What does the word mean?” I don't know. I don't know why she killed herself. She told me she was feeling better.

I go to the cafe everyday. I check every book shelf and every table. The staff think I'm crazy but I'm not crazy. I'm trying to protect people from that book. Where is the book now? Will it turn up again, lying open on an empty table? For an innocent customer with a steaming cup wandering around, looking for the right table. Will it turn up on my table? If it does, will I read it?

A Mutual Split (First Written 6th November 2011)

“I think we should break up.”

The words still rung in her head as she smoothed the top of the earthy mound. Looking up, Cassie could see grey clouds forming overhead. She remembered the day Danny had made them leave a concert early because he was tired.

“A free concert! It's a free concert and you want to leave? We haven't done anything in weeks,” she had yelled at him over the sound of heavy drumming on the stage.

“I just want to go home, I'm tired.” He had woken up at 12. Sulking, she followed him home. And what had they done? Watched re-runs of his favourite show. Or rather she had watched him laugh at the painfully awful sitcom. They didn't speak for the rest of the day.

She leant the shovel against the side of the house and wiped her gloved hands on the boiler suit she was wearing. The mound looked good. Looked as if a hole had never been dug up there. She took out a packet of sunflower seeds from her pocket. “Don't touch my garden.” His voice shouted in her head. “That's mine, don't touch it. I'll get round to doing it when I get round to doing it.” Always barking orders at her. She liked how quiet it was without him. “God, I hate it when people do that. I hate it when people touch my stuff, it really annoys me.” Everything annoyed you, Danny.

She ripped the packet and bent down to plant them in the dirt. His new girlfriend was a gardener. He'd let her grow all sorts in his garden: sunflowers, an apple tree and they were starting a strawberry patch. He'd taken pictures of the two of them kissing and smiling next to each planted patch. He'd taken her out to a big garden centre, let her choose what she liked best. When Cassie asked him to go out he'd always say 'no'. “Why don't we go to a bar? We can have some cocktails, listen to some music.” He'd replied; “No, I don't like bars or cocktails.” A week later his friend had asked him the same thing and he'd gone straight away. “Let's go to the seaside. We'll get a train there, spend the day, buy some rock.” He'd replied; “I don't like the seaside. I don't like rock.” Two weeks later he'd gone down to Mablethorpe with a group of friends.

Patting the dirt, she threw the empty packet into her black bin and stood back to admire her work. “I think that looks quite nice.” She said aloud with pride. It felt good to do something on her own; to spend time on her own and not be punished for it. Danny had ignored her with a face of thunder when she'd come back home after a weekend with a new friend she'd made. “She's gay,” Cassie had remarked. “So we went to some normal pubs, danced to some music then she took me to a gay bar where some of her friends were and a girl bought me a drink!” Only she laughed at this. “I told her I was straight but she still bought me a drink. She thought I was gay as well!” Again, only she laughed. He turned the TV up. “Am I having a one-way conversation here or what?”

He'd replied sourly without even turning: “I can't be bothered to talk to you.”

She shook her head; “You never want to go anywhere with me so I go out with a friend and you're mad at me?”

He scowled; “I planned a whole weekend for you.”

She laughed dryly; “Yes, that's why you spent it out with your mates. Sure, Danny.”

The arguments didn't stop after they'd split up. In fact, they had seemed to get worse as time went on. “I can't believe you. Haven't you missed me at all? Did I mean nothing to you?” She had tried to be quiet as their friends had been laughing on the opposite side of the wall.

“Shut up Cassie, why can't you just get over it? You were never happy, you never wanted me and you weren't the same girl I fell in love with-”

“I can't believe you're going back to your ex. We hung out with her, were you looking at her then?” Cassie could feel tears creep back.

“We've always liked each other. It's none of your business. Just leave us alone.” Danny had snarled, slamming the door after him.

She let the rain fall on her. She put the shovel back in the shed and peeled off the gloves. She picked up a bulging plastic bag that had been in her conservatory and threw that into the black bin. There was something heavy wrapped in brown paper that she held in her hands for a moment and smiled. He hadn't seen it coming.

Luckily there had only been him in his house. He always slept late into the afternoon and his girlfriend hadn't spent the night. She had paused in his garden to admire the sunflowers. She was a good gardener, Cassie couldn't deny that, and they did bring some colour to the house. She'd crept through the back door, always left unlocked, and took note of the dirty dishes (she hasn't been here for a few days, Cassie had thought with a sneer) piled in the sink. Custard, mushy peas, noodles stuck to the bowls and a pan of whatever the hell that had been, left an odour that made her stomach turn. More dirty plates and a mug on the table in the living room. She was certain if she tried picking them up they would be stuck to the glass surface. The third step always creaked so she stepped over that and noticed a new odour floated at the top of the stairs. This was a smell of dirty underwear; sweat that had dried, clothes shoved under the great double bed that his lazy arse was spread across. She tried her best not to step on any of it but clothes were scattered all over. Another crusty bowl and a couple of squashed cans were by the bed, not helping the smell. As she leant over him, she held her breath to stop herself sucking in his sickly sweet unbrushed breath.

A pillow had been pushed to the side in the night and she snatched it up in her gloved hands. Lightly, gently, almost tenderly, she placed it on his face and brought the heavy object out of the pocket of her boiler suit. Aiming it to his temple she pulled and a sharp sound burst in the room for a short second. She calmly placed the weapon back in her pocket and folded the pillow up as the red seeped through its material. Lucky there was no one around as she shoved the body into the boot of her car. Lucky there was no one around when she pulled the body from the boot of her car and chucked it into the hole she'd spent two days digging up.

The sunflowers looked lovely when they grew.

The Little Pie Shop (First Written 31st October 2011)

This is the strange little tale of the tiny pie shop in the middle of town. Renown for its perfect pastry and meaty pies, this little shop was a favourite among the locals, who always stopped in for a beefy bite while they were shopping. People wandering the street could not resist standing at the window, eyes wide with hunger as they stared in at the mouth-watering treats.

The shop baked the fattest pies in the whole of the city: great chunks of chicken and smooth cream, or slabs of beef melting in hot thick gravy, encased in crumbly sweet pastry. Every mouthful was an eruption of deep flavour, dropping pastry flakes and drips of gravy down the front of their coats. People could not get enough of their succulent pies, and the shop was always busy.

The girls behind the counters loved their jobs; they loved watching the pastry rise golden brown in the oven, loved chatting to the customers about the weather and their pies. However, there was one woman who was not so happy. Their manager complained about the girls' pies and the shop. She shouted at them in her thick accent for making their pies too crumbly or too soft. She moaned at them for mopping too slowly, for talking too much, for leaving the sweeping brush out. Every little thing, the fat woman would yell and moan and shake her head in disappointment, and the girls had had enough. They no longer wanted to hear the woman, they no longer wanted her around.

“Your new pies are beautiful,” an old woman chimes one day. “No wonder so many people keep coming back for them.”

The girl grins in reply. “It's a popular new recipe. Made with meat from Scotland,” she raises her eyebrow.

The girls revel in the happy chatter, no longer listening to the yells and screams of their manager. They have a new manager now, one who is kind and fair, who doesn't shout or moan at them. This girl knows if she raises her voice, they may have a new recipe for their pies. Made with Yorkshire meat...

Eleanora's Faerytale (First Written 19th October 2011)

Once upon a time there lived a little girl. She had long brown hair and eyes the colour of sweet honey. She lived in the forest, but nobody knew where her house was, or who her family was. She wore clothes of white silk and a braid of blue flowers, the flowers of the forest, like a crown atop her head. Folks from the village rarely saw the little girl, but when they did catch a glimpse of her silk dress fluttering between the trees in a brief moment, they felt a sense of trepidation. They started to shake. They ran from the trees, back to the village, terrified. The little girl became a bad omen.

The villagers would stay away from the unfortunate glimpser, as if they thought by touch bad fortune would be passed onto them.

However, there was one villager who didn't believe that the little girl of the forest was a bad omen. Her name was Eleanora, a sprightly spirit who wondered about the way trees grow old and twisted, and the birds sing cheerfully every day until the sun goes down. She was curious of the little girl. She dreamed of a hut, its bricks were hard-boiled sweets, the colour of the rainbow and its roof was made of strawberry laces. The little girl's mother kept sweets in tall glass jars and gave them as gifts to any child who befriended them. Eleanora had to know who the girl was and where the house of sweets was.

The morning after the dream, she tied her hair up with a silk red ribbon, as the day was windy. She wore her best dress and shiny shoes and followed the daily route with other children to the school, an ancient church in the centre of the village. She didn't like the stone monsters that hung from the corners of the grand building, sneering down at the people walking below, so she was relieved to not see them for a day. She broke off from the group of children in front of her and crept towards the trees.

The forest was bordered with Aspen Trees. Narrow trunks stretched up towards the clouds. She peered up and the birds up there squawked and shot from the branches in a thunderous clap of wings, as if they were sentries watching for the enemy. Now rushing to alert their army. She imagined a great black mass of feathers, an army of birds staining the blue sky like blotted ink on paper. She hugged her arms tightly.

No army of birds came. Eleanora pushed forward through the leafy towers, scanning the trees eagerly for a glimpse of white silk or flowing brown hair. She had never been this far into the forest and her dream of a house made of sweets was becoming just that; a silly, fading dream. She was about to give up when she saw it. A ripple in the wind. A flow of glossy locks. The little girl.

As if in slow motion, muted, the little girl was like a butterfly. She was laughing without making a sound, her golden eyes on the visitor, who stood gazing in a shock. Eleanora quickly bolted after the image. She was not far behind the little girl, following deeper into the forest, but she didn't notice this. She only kept her eyes on the silk dress. The girl still seemed to run in slow motion, like she was not part of this earth, yet Eleanora could not catch up to her in her natural speedy sprint. Although she knew the little girl was different and strange, she was not afraid.

The tree trunks were thicker as she descended into wilder terrain. The little girl glanced back and laughed soundlessly at her, a playful laugh. Eleanora continued to give chase, not noticing the faint sound of music.

After a while of following the girl in white silk, she stopped. Eleanora froze, a few yards behind her, for they had reached a clearing. There were many more girls in the clearing: some had yellow hair and some had black hair. Some wore dresses of thin cloth, the colour of the tree trunks, and some also wore dresses of coloured silk. All of the girls were dancing and skipping, circling a being in the centre of the clearing. At first it looked like a man, half naked with a hairy chest and a long beard, but through gaps between the girls, she could see his legs were too furry for any man, and he stood on horse's hooves instead of the five-toed foot of a man. He was not a creature from the earth, Eleanora thought. Then she noticed he also wore a braid of blue flowers, as did the dancing girls. In his mouth he held a painted pipe, into which he blew a merry tune. She felt like dancing herself. The girl in the silk dress beckoned her to follow.

Eleanora felt no fear as she skipped to the circle with the girl, the girl with no home and no family. But as her follower danced, she realised that the whole forest was her home and the girls were her family, and now she was a part of her family. They danced to the jolly tune of the pipes, around the jumping piper, with the sunlight high on their backs.

At school, the teachers spoke of the young girl who plays and laughs without making any sound in the depths of the forest. They warn the children not to go looking for the girl in the silk dress, or the girl with the silk ribbon. For if they go too far into the forest, they will get lost, and they will never find their way back to their home. “The girls of the forest are bad omens,” they say. “They will lead you deep into the forest, where nobody goes, where nobody can find you. They will never take you back home. You will never be seen again.”

The little girl, who once had a name, is sometimes seen by the children of the village. She beckons them to play and follow her. Sometimes they watch her run in slow motion to the heart of the trees, and sometimes they may only glimpse her between the thin trunks of the Aspen Trees. Just a sparkle of black shoes, or a ripple of red silk.

My Little Angel (First Written 21 March 2011)

I feel numb. I feel dead.

As I sit on this broken bench, as old as I feel, watching the darkness creep over the screaming waves beyond this giant cliff. That darkness creeps over me too, but instead of leaving me in my own gripping madness, it seeps into my skin, into my bones, into the bloody tears of my heart. It wanders silently, a stealthy thief, to steal my thoughts; my soul; my whole being.

I don't fight back. The darkness settles inside there, makes itself at home, for I no longer reside inside. Everything gets darker, the sea gets louder, roaring and crashing onto the rocks below, out of sight to me sat lifeless on the lonely bench.

I am not far from the edge of the cliff. My silent mind speaks up; a memory. A distant memory, beautiful, torturing. He's with me, for a brief moment. We're on the beach, ice cream in cones dripping down our hands. He points at the white birds above with a tiny finger, and squeaks with delight. Life interests him, excites him. He had so much life.

A wind picks up around me and my silent bench. I don't feel it. The sky gets darker around me, comforting me, like his tiny blanket. He's crying so I wrap him up to warm him. He's only a baby, he's tiny. Too tiny. He stops crying when I hold him close, my baby.

The wind tugs at the flaps of my black jacket, at the hem of my black dress. It doesn't tug at the soft object in my hand. It lets me keep that. My eyes begin to water from the cool whispers in the approaching night, but I don't blink them away. I want to pretend I am crying, but that would be a lie. A lie to myself. I cannot cry, I desperately want to, to let him know, but I cannot do it. I cannot lie, either.

My memory digs against my will. It tears at locked doors, and claws at the walls. It wants me to remember, but I don't want to see. I don't want to see what I saw. No mother wants to see these things.

My fingers stroke the soft toy in my hands. I move my head stiffly, dare to look down at the teddy grinning up at me. Its smile is taunting. It laughs at me and I throw it onto the ground. I want the wind to take it away, but then I scramble desperately towards it. I hug it tightly. I can hear him crying. It's okay, sweetheart

  still. It's cold. I feel cold. I know that he will feel cold.

It is darkness in his room. My little sweetheart. I say as I kiss his smooth forehead, and I put my hand to his chest, slowly rising up and down. I smile. We are going to the beach again tomorrow. He loves the beach. I sit back on the hard bench. I realise it's too late to forget. I realise a lock has been wrenched from its door, and I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe as I see him. I know something is wrong, but I don't want to believe it. I can't know for sure. I leave him to sleep a while longer. Then I'll hear him. I'll hear him crying for his breakfast. I'll hear him, he'll cry. Only a little while longer. He was tired last night, all the time on the beach, he was very tired. He will wake up later today because he was tired last night. His room is silent. He lay unmoving in his tiny box, his tiny cot. I don't dare creep closer. That cot suddenly scares me. He scares me. I feel sickened by my own thoughts. The fear of my own child. It becomes afternoon. The room is silent

,EI coo. I start to sing quietly, and he grows silent and settled. I can smell him. He smells sweet, my little sweetheart. I kiss his head and the tears come. The tears come because I know it is not him. I know he is no longer in my arms. I know I let him go. I laid him down in that tiny box.