Category Archives: Short stories

What are you afraid of?

It’s 2am and you’re a mess.

Something is hurting you deep inside if you can’t let go of that glass of wine. You pour yourself another and pretend your scars aren’t a part of who you are. Your smile may glitter the surface but your blood shot eyes tell another story. You wince and wrinkle your nose when you look in the mirror. Every error every glitch you wish you could fix. If only you could see you have a heart of gold and a mind so intricate you could paint a picture with your dreams.

What are you afraid of? Speak to me. Let me in. Let me break down this wall you’ve built around yourself. Maybe I can tell you what is wrong or what is right. Your mind is a powerful fortress. It can and will destroy you if you deem yourself unworthy. If you believe every cruel remark that has come your way. Don’t call yourself these names. You put yourself down and throw yourself in the gutter when you should be rejoicing for all of the things you have conquered, and the things you have yet to do. Cover yourself in glitter and know that you shine brighter than a supernova.

I sit here looking at you and you don’t open your mouth. Your shoulders are hunched and you’re shivering. I can’t solve you. I can’t help you unless you help yourself. I have seen you hurting. I don’t think anyone truly knows self loathing until they have covered their mouth with a shaking hand, their body trembles and nothing comes out. Not a sound. Just tears that resonate deep within the soul. You could be crying for what could have been, or for no reason at all. It is the most haunting experience to feel everything at once. Anxiety, fear, and doubts. Everything is fine until you’re left alone in the dark surrounded by your own thoughts. I am not here to speak of nightmares. I speak of your own mind working against you. It can destroy you more than anything ever could. Maybe it is just a nightmare. You might just wake up. You might stay awake not knowing what reality is and what the truth is. To be trapped in such a prison is a lonely place indeed.

I want to rip through the exterior of small fears to get to the deep meaning. Perhaps you’re afraid of yourself. Utterly terrified. Of what you may or may not become. You aren’t weak. You just lack confidence. You once told me you were insecure, that the insecurities would soon devour you. You blame yourself for every mishap, every failure. You can’t forgive yourself. You cannot walk down the street unless you’re looking at the pavement. Sometimes you’re afraid to even go outside. If you can’t take care of yourself then how can anyone else try to? You push people away to ensure your safety and to know you have two feet firmly on the ground. I cannot fathom a life repeating the same cycle of letting a stranger know your secrets then have them disappear leaving the pages you wrote to them ripped from your core. You sang a song and no one sung back. I guess I don’t want to hear about happiness with another person. I need it for myself and myself only. Are you afraid of been alone? Keep yourself distanced and don’t let anyone touch the tip of your delicate soul. The last few years you’ve relied on the feeling of been wanted. Of knowing someone actually gave a shit. That maybe someone could love such a complex person. People should either come closer or stay away, having them inbetween is exhausting. They all gave up on you and now you’ve given up on yourself. Maybe advice we give to others is advice we wish we had given ourselves in a past life and I’ve learnt, yes I’ve learnt.  If you don’t love yourself you’ll always run around chasing people who don’t love you back. They don’t want to know your middle name or your problems. You’re better than that.

Your sanity is more important than a body filled with empty promises. Is that it, you’re afraid you aren’t normal? If anybody calls you crazy it’s because they know nothing about you and they don’t have the decency or patience to understand. We put labels on ourselves to make sense of it, to cure it, to fix it. Only those close to us know our personal battles. We should not fight it alone. If only there was more compassion in the world. We should bathe in it and lather ourselves with patience and kindness. Give everything you have in life, in friendships, in failure and defeat. Don’t let the past put a shadow over your future. Your downfalls do not define you. They build you up and make you stronger. I know you will do great things. I’m here for you if you need me. We could talk for hours or say nothing at all. Basking in the silence. Solitude is far more comforting than lonliness.

If you breakdown take all the time you need, and when you can’t bear to be around yourself just know I find your company a pleasure.

You’re not nothing.

You’re everything.

It’s 3am and I hope you feel more at peace.

A twisted love

“What on earth are you wearing?” Tonight she had made the extra effort to look nice for him, the black dress accentuated her curves. She had carefully done her hair and make-up so that maybe, just maybe, he would notice her for once. Her shoulders slumped at his response. She reached for a tissue in her handbag and said nothing as she wiped the lipstick off of her face.


A man is not hard to please, give him a beautiful woman to look at and he will be satisfied, especially if he can hold her in his arms. Of course this is how he felt when he first met his true love. He could not stop staring at her face, the way she laughed or when she dropped food on herself. He believed things were fine between them. Of course technology gave him freedom to do as he wished. Surely his partner could understand it is impossible for a man to have eyes for only one woman. 


The woman stared at the ring on her left finger as they sat at the table in the restaurant, twirling it round and around. What would happen if it fell off? Would it all be over? The man who had proposed to her was sitting across from her. His enthusiasm about life was something that had always appealed to her. Yet there she was staring at the other couples around the room. Each one had their own different story, their secrets and doubts. “Honey? Did you hear what I said?” She nodded, even though she had no interest in what he said anymore. Her hand picked at the food on her plate. Although it was her favourite dish she had lost her appetite.


Things were different a few years ago. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They were glued together like any fresh romance. Every morning he would wake up to this woman. Just the smell of her hair or her skin would get him excited. He loved this woman, every inch of her. Now it seemed like a chore waking up to her, he had enough to deal with in life without having to worry about this woman and her needs. 


The woman did not feel goosebumps when they kissed. When their bodies touched and became one there was no passion. She was trapped because she loved him yet she felt miserable at the same time. The one person who was meant to listen to her sorrows or joys never did. She was merely a ghost, drifting between the world of love and hate.


The man turned away from the womans questioning eyes. He had got what he wanted and that was good enough for now. 


“Good night, I love you.” 

“I love you too.”

Why do I write?

Like drawing from a water well, sometimes ideas need to be pulled up from a very deep place, perhaps an unconscious place before they can be realized. We must go back in time in our minds to remember the feel of something, the colour, and the taste. Only then can we allow the reader to caress our work, to see the tears, the laughter, the taste of a fresh apple.

I hold my work close to my heart just as a Mother may cradle her child. My writing is my lover and I am under it’s spell. I write for the same reasons as Joan Didion, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” My memories and thoughts are reflected in first person. How selfish that must sound. I. Me. Myself. Yet it is my opinion, it is what I believe. I am demanding you to listen, to take notice of what I am saying. This is what I do best. It is a way to release stress, to have control over something, to keep it in order. It’s a chance to shut the world out and the things that aren’t important.

Some of the greatest creators only feel alive when they are doing what they love. People seek counselling in other people, or substances. Whereas writers and artists seek solitude in their art. It is thearupetic in a way, letting anger or sadness out through their work. Without writing there would be no joy in the world, no chance to reflect and debate issues or resolve things. The flow of the human mind is both beautiful and impossible to understand, it is interesting to wonder why people write. There must be something that sparks the interest, the life long dream of becoming a writer. I have always wanted to write, I am not great at what I do, yet I hope I am not terrible at it.

There is the constant struggle between madness, nature, and man whenever I try to get creative. Perhaps I am simply trying to make sense of the world around me. I am certainly not normal. I have days where I break down and cry because it is all to much. I want love to wrap it’s arms around me and tell me it will all be ok. Because been alone can drive a person insane. I personally cannot make sense of the way I think. You would lose your mind trying to understand mine. I find it hard focusing on one thing at once. I will be writing, but thinking about the lights I may have left on in my room, or the door I may not have locked. I wonder about the world, about why humans look the way they do. There are so many unanswered questions.

I close my laptop and go outside to breathe in the nature and the night, I stare at the garden, adjusting my eyes to the darkness. The sweet innocent flowers and trees during the day have turned into monstrous looking creatures. There are forbidden secrets here. I close my eyes and try to remember the feeling of freedom, where I am not weighed down by restrictions rules, or marks. My barefeet touch the prickly grass as I take off my shoes, I smile at the sensation. I am swaying, devoured in the sweet sound of a violin, I am to lost to notice where the music is coming from. My head tilts back in pleasure at the beauty of the sound. The delicate plucking of the violin strings are my undoing. My hand dances through the air creating a masterpiece of lines. The trees surround me, they are the orchestra. These faint memories of music I grasp onto. I remember hearing lullabies and childrens stories when I was younger. I often had porridge all over my face and barely any hair on my head. Those were the best days to be alive. Where there was nothing to worry about.

I stare at the sky, wondering why I bother writing. The number of writers in the world must match the number of stars in the sky. How can I stand out? I am the one to blame for my failure, I am a harsh judge with my work, nothing is good enough. It is a stressful task, but one I could not live without. I have to at least try, As Susan Griffins says, we can spend our whole lives writing and still hardly begin.


Sleep. I cannot keep it. I cannot find it.

I long to hold on. To experience the sweet sensation of a satisfying sleep.

It is a shadow laughing, and taunting. Escaping my grasp relentlessly.

Pillow. I turn it over, goose bumps latching on to me. The coldness is refreshing and reviving. I long for it to drain my mind of its thoughts, perhaps I can then regain the peace I once knew.

I throw my pillow on the ground, agitated, frustrated. My bed creaks in response to my outburst. Overwhelmed by the hatred towards this innocent object. I sullenly pick it up expressing a genuine apology. I chuckle at how foolish I must look,if someone was to enter my room whilst I was apologizing to my pillow.

Bed. I crawl back to it, welcoming the warmth that comes with it. I become cuccooned within the blankets, drifting in and out of sleep. I mistake the sheets for a person holding me tightly, I panic and turn over, landing on the floor. I curse under my breath and roll up with whatever elegance I possess. None. I stumble around in the dark blindly, attempting to find the warm embrace that once held me.

Dream catchers. The sudden chimes of them fill me with hope. My hand brushes them lightly and I listen to the delicate tune of them as they attempt to lull me to sleep;

“Native Americans believe the night air is filled with dreams both good and bad. The dream catcher when hung over or near a bed swinging freely in the air, catches the dreams as they flow by. The good dreams know how to pass through the dream catcher, slipping through the outer holes and slide down the soft feathers so gently that many times the sleeper does not know that he/she is dreaming. The bad dreams not knowing the way get tangled in the dream catcher and perish with the first light of the new day.”

I am morphing into a dream catcher my thoughts a tangled mess. Yet the ink engraved on my skin of this beautiful intricate design, and dream catcher cannot tame or calm my thoughts.

Each second that passes is engraved on my clock.

Tick. A reminder of my failure to sleep.

Tick. Think of nothing.

Tick. 10pm

Tick. 3am.

Tick. I wonder what I shall eat for breakfast.

Tick. Whatever it will be I look forward to it.

Tick. Think of nothing.

Tick. To think of nothing requires thinking in the first place.

Tick. The tick grows louder.

TICK. I try to reach it, to stop the unbearble sound. It jumps back in suprise, falling to the ground in defeat.


Twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder what you are.

I look at the stars on my ceiling, and the beauty of such simplicity. My mind wanders imagining what it would be like to be gifted a star with my own name on it. How can something so extravagant be captured in someones hand onto a piece of paper. As if it is something insignificant like a vegetable that can be so easily named. It is like trying to hold the moon in ones hand.

When you wish upon a star your dreams come true.

I want to sleep. I am wishing upon this star. Yet this dream does not become true. I slam my eyes shut with sheer determination. Flashes of colours begin to dance before me. Memorizing. Captivating.

What a strange sensation. To the world I am asleep. To myself I am wide awake. The more I focus on keeping my eyes shut the more strange patterns and colours there are. The borderline between reality and hallucination.

I scrunch up my eyes. Headache. Heavy eyes.

We lovingly say “Good night” to one another. I can utter it, but it is far from what my nights are. I resort to a form of meditation.

Relax. Your whole body.

Breath. In. Out.

Listen. I am engulfed in a comforting familiar embrace. Haunting melodies. Music. My only remedy.

Calm. We morph into one my breathing falls into time with the song that gently plays.

I’ve been wondering just how long I can stay awake,
Before my eyes start to bleed.

Sleep. It is neither within my reach, nor is it within my grasp.