Two Hearts

She opens the doors to the hundreds of hungry eyes. Once they have ran a calculating gaze over the ruffle of short blonde waves down to the thick black boots, they snap their heads back to their own packs of friends. She smacks her lips together, her nervous habit, scanning the faces. A few smiles. Her friends chattering away. One of them beckons her, and she trudges over. Her eyes still scan the remaining faces. Smoothing down her coat as she slumps into a chair, absent minded greetings slip from her lips. Her eyes aren’t on her friend, but they have stopped searching. Midst a sea of bodies, limbs motioning as they cram food into their mouths or cram knowledge into their brains; the great gesticulations of gossip and colliding snippets of conversation, he sits. His eyes lock on to her gaze across the room through the wisps of his dark fringe. The tiny quiver of her lips ushers a thousand words only he can read.

An exchange of flickering glances and telling smiles-a language only known to them- between their dips into conversation with surrounding friends. Buzzing in her mind, the thoughts rise and rise until she cannot hear the meaningless chattering around her. All she wants is to be with him, away from all these bodies-motioning limbs, colliding conversations…

Fingers interlaced, they stand in the cold air. Two warm hearts beating wildly; two bodies slipped out of the crowd. But now, as she stares into the crystal blue eyes, she smiles because she no longer has anything to say.

Today I was watching my friend looking across the room at her boyfriend (who is also my friend). The way they could have their own conversation through a crowd of people, made up of tiny mouth movements and gesture, was fascinating. I think I was the only one that had noticed, and I almost felt like I’d invaded their private moment. Luckily neither of them noticed me.



Caged behind brick and glass, I stare out into the darkness. Stretching beyond my imagination, beyond the pictures is more than a world, but a future waiting to be unveiled. City lights flash miles and miles away, but I can feel their bright hope. My skin itches to feel the rush of cool air from an open window while driving through through the night. The comfort inside these closed walls is not enough for me. I ache for adrenaline, for the thrill of blood pumping through my veins, for a racing heart. I long to hear the buzz of a million conversations and the hum of a city that never sleeps.

The beauty of foreign land calls to me. Sights, sounds, smells just waiting for me to taste. The moon, the stars, the sun so beautifully unique from the different perspectives, yet the same thing that fixes the eyes of millions in one place. The excitement of life so different from the monotony of mine.

On my journey I would trail along, in awe of everyone and everything. No longer a young, naive girl, but a knowledgeable woman of the world. Hungry-eyed dreams slowly becoming real-life experiences. I’d never stop.

Frogs Wear Dungarees-according to eleven year old me

A little frog smiles through the shine of fired clay.It’s blotchy patches of green from my eleven year old, inexperienced hands. My frog friend is a girl- I can tell from her black eyelashes-and she sits in floral dungarees,each flower a cluster of blobbed purple dots.For five years she has been sitting, smiling at me, resting on my desk. Though her big black eyes might seem vacant to some, she has seen plenty.She has watched me through the moves, the drama, the hours of work. My body growing from a lanky little girl to the beginning of a young woman.  She has seen my every emotion as I sit in my chair. Even all of my amazing performances as I belt out a bit of of Beyonce. And through all these years she has stuck by me with just books and paper and the odd misplaced hair pin as her friends.

Dust has collected. In each groove of her little hollow body, pockets of it lodge. As I stare into the seemingly empty eyes, I wonder why I chose a frog. I hate frogs-real frogs. They’re all slimy and gross and jumpy. But this little hollow creature looks so happy and cute, innocent.

A Tiny Little Ring, A Tiny Little Part of Me

Writing 101: The Things We Treasure 

What is my most prized possession?

Since most of my challenge responses are related to childhood, my first thought was my teddy bear. I’ve had him since I was two or three and despite my growth and realization that he isn’t actually that big, he goes by the name of Big Bear. But if I’m honest, I would  be able to sleep without him. I have, a few times. His awkward size meant there wasn’t room in suitcase or rucksacks on trips. That doesn’t mean I don’t want him anymore. I hope to one day pass him on to my son or daughter, however tatty and old.

So, after thinking more deeply, I think that my most prized possession in terms of what it means to me is my ring. Apart from this one ring, I only have a couple of rings, which I don’t wear very often. This ring is a tiny little gold plated one with a heart shaped aquamarine stone, for my astrological sign-Aries. My mum bought it for me when I was thirteen, I think. Ever since she gave it to me, I have always worn it. When I can’t find it after I took it off to get a shower or bath, I have a sudden sense of panic. It seems to have thinned slightly and when I’m not wearing it, it could be mistaken for one of those kiddie’s toy rings.

But the reason this ring means so much to me, is that it reminds me that I am different, and that it’s a good thing. I feel like, even though I don’t really believe in horoscopes (but sometimes it’s fun to see what they say!) embracing a part of me, however tiny, and wearing it everyday makes me feel unique and special.

This ring will always remind my of my mum. And I know that in the future when I’m miles and miles away, studying at university, travelling, living with a partner, building a new family and whatever else I will be reminded of her and how much I love her every time I see the ring.

I have problems with marriage. Having divorced parents and watching the effects of so many failed marriages, I am wary of it. And thinking of rings, symbolizing a commitment, kind of scares me. I have a lot to say about marriage, so I’ll come back to that another time. But what I like about my ring is that it doesn’t have so much meaning and worth at risk. I’ll never have to give back this ring. I’ll never have to take it off to deceive someone (not that I would ever cheat) It can mean a lot to me, or it could seem pretty to me. Its up to me.

Another great thing about this ring is that it’s more likely to stay with me. People grow out of clothes, lose old toys, things get stolen. My hands might get a little wrinkly-or a lot-but they will still wear the ring. I hope that one day my little boy or girl, or one of my grandchildren will point at my ring and ask ‘where did you get that’? And I will tell them how I got it and how I’ve carried it through my life. It’s been through all of the things I have faced. It’s only tiny, and only represents a tiny part of me, but it means the world to me. Thanks, mum, for reminding me that I’m different.


After-school Sherbet

Go to a public location and make a detailed report of what you see. The twist of the day? Write the post without adverbs.

Clusters of schoolchildren swamped in the greens, blues, blacks and whites of their uniform huddle around the string of shops. The buzz of chatter is like the low-pitched rumble of a swarm of bees. Sherbet-coated smiles reveal blue-tinged tongues and the children delve into their edible treasures. Bikes lie at awkward angles, looking almost broken, awaiting their owners’ return. But as the crescendo of chatter arrives, bikes are forgotten amid the gossip. A few slumped shoulders enter the shop alone. Probably looking for something to perk up their senses. Tired, or sad, lonely or just alone, the contrast between their solitary silence and the buzz of buddies slices the groups apart.

Lips are licked, blue faded from tongues, and an abrupt urgency arises. Fluttering, the crowds disperse. Bikes regain their pose as noble steeds to the green-shirted gentlemen. Thoughts of tea and homework and football practice emerge in the young minds, quickening their pace. And within minutes the clusters are gone. The shops look bare with just a sparse collection of passers-by. Weary signs flop from age and posters on the windows tremble in the breeze.

Stop reading if you don’t like cheesecake!

You’re about to enter a room full of strangers, where you will have exactly four minutes to tell a story that would convey who you really are. What’s your story?

Who am I really?

I am a teenager trying to grip hold of the little girl inside me that is gradually drifting away; and cowering away from womanhood that looms ahead. Here is my story.

I was born in Chester and it wasn’t long until my parents divorced, when I was age four. It’s not the divorce that I remember, or that hurt me-it was what came after it, and what still goes on now. Yes, my dad cheated. And in short, I am still not fully okay with this.

But young four year old me was protected for some time by naivety. As I grew up, moving house to places across England, I developed into a shy girl. I went through a series of best friends, who left me, or were left by me, who turned out to be bullies or just drifted from. While the bullying and the anxiety gnawed away at me, I was too lost in my shell to realize that one day those things would make me stronger. And over the years, I have developed, as they say, a thicker skin.

More recently I have been through more, and being aware and unprotected by the cocoon of innocence and naivety, it has affected me more deeply. I have lost people I loved. I have met new people I hated. I have spent months trying to work out how to deal with the effects of these things. One of the best ways was through writing. Even now, speaking daunts me, so writing has always been my strong point because it such a liberating way to express your thoughts and emotions.

I think I am allowed to call myself a dark horse, because I always seem to surprise some people when I succeed. Either because I was working hard, but so quietly they forgot about me, or they just never saw me as competition. But my GCSE results are an example of something I have worked very hard to be proud of.

A select group of friends know what I am like when I am being myself, and not the quiet me. Then, I am crazy, silly sometimes, but still as caring-I hope-as usual. If you want to get on my good side, I love oreos, cheesecake and chocolate. I am mildly offended when people say they don’t like any of these divine creations.

Hobby-wise, I like to read, write poetry, walk or jog, listen to music, watch action films, make cards and sometimes draw, watch youtubers, go to concerts/festivals, sing in a choir, hide at the back in the school production, hold my rabbits, have gorgeous lie-ins and be an idiot with my friends.

I am trying very hard not to take life too seriously. (That sounds a bit like an oxymoron…) There’s not much left to know about me! I like honest people; honesty is the most important quality  to me. Oh and I’m sixteen years old, studying A-levels and hoping to go to uni and then become a writer of some sort. And, despite the English rain and other disappointments in my life, I have to say it’s a pretty good life.

Let’s call her Carly

Today, you’ll write about the most interesting person you’ve met in 2014. In your twist, develop and shape your portrait further in a character study.

While I was away on a residential trip for a week in the Peak District, and then a week in a local university halls of residence, I met a lot of new people. At first it was scary and daunting having so many unfamiliar faces around. But as I got to know everyone more and more, we became almost like a family.

All of the young people were my age or a year older, and most of the leaders were fairly young. So, they were easy to get on with, and brought me out of my shell more than I expected.

The person that interested and inspired me the most was one of the younger leaders, let’s call her Carly.

Her thick accent the first noticeable feature, would cause most people to immediately judge her as ‘common’. And yet here fairly tanned skin, free of makeup, shone with the beauty no expensive highlighter could ever recreate. Small in stature, she at first, seems unassuming. But when you notice the slight bend in her knees and her almost manly posture, the football side of Carly is revealed.

When she speaks, her voice is full of energy, just like her muscles, itching to be active. Competitive is not a strong enough word for Carly. As a leader she is supposed to encourage young people to take part in activities, not winning. But the streak melts away her leading exterior and she is one woman for herself. This fierce determination is funny to see, as her forehead crinkles in concentration, as her lip puckers with ferocity.

Whether she is au naturel with a messy bun and jogging bottoms or dolled up with straightened hair and a face of makeup she is Carly. Lively, outgoing, keen to encourage others. When you hear her laugh, you cannot resist joining in with her.

The stereotype Carly falls into may brand her as unintelligent, but she is far from it. Flying through her university course, and with her usual passion and determination, studies are another goal for her to hit. And when she has a target, she must hit it with all her might. Carly is an inspiration to anyone to go for things and laugh about them if  they go wrong.

The Lonely Swing

The flaky shards of peeling paint stab in multiple directions. Rusty metal hangs the way it has for so many years. Once proud and gleaming, now weakening under the unyielding force of gravity, tired and old. Rubber, beaten down by the relentless rain hangs limply from the chains. And then, in a matter of seconds, in the swift motion as the screaming squeak of the rust-ridden chains, it is brought to life. Laughter erupts from the child’s mouth as she is pushed higher and higher, tapping her toes on the clouds. Her little fingers curl around the cold metal, passing on her warmth and colour. Mother finds the place where so many other protecting hands have pushed. “Higher!” The rust shrieks with her voice, almost bird-like.

As she soars, more and more of the stretch of river in the distance is revealed. Patches of red, yellow, white, and green bloom all around. And pink. So much pink! Just like the dainty flush in her cheeks.

Bounding down the grass on the hill opposite, a collie catches the attention of her pale blue eyes. She smiles at all the beauty before her as the shrieking metal sends her on and on, flying through the air.

Then, coming to a startling stop with the help of mother, the rust lets out an almighty cry. All too soon they are gone, and left dangling in the delicate breeze, is the collection of metal and rubber.