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Alone Again I am alone Here in this wilderness Once I was found, Heard a voice calling, Reaching, yearning Wanting only me But now I am alone I cannot see What it is that there is to be seen Oh how I wish I could Find what it is I'm wanting Searching for Within me Without me I am nothing I am alone


Blank The pages turn, The flames that burn, The days that last, From summers past, The ties that bind, The lies that blind, And lost in time, We wonder. When life stands still, Before the kill, The world moves on, When summers gone, And as the trees, Sway in the breeze, We sit, and smile, And wonder. And then we stare, Into the air, And filter all our thoughts and dreams, Out through all the popping seams, Of this slow life, With all its strife, And wait to know, And wonder. The pages burn, What's left to learn? The days are gone, And so the sun, The ties that break, Lost in the wake, Of life in motion, And so we wonder. These are all our thoughts and fears, Flying in the frost, These will not last out the years, Just letters on a blank white page.


It’s Gone I hear the whispering, What the voices say… It's Gone I know when they talk, About me, behind closed doors… She's Gone I feel the cold, The chill in the night… They're Gone They hate us, Because we're different, Because we matter, Because they can't change us… That is… Until… We're Gone


heart Here is my heart I brought it out Just for you I hope you like it And you see What I mean When I say As this builds up Inside And its hard This is all new I don't show people What I show you But you are different Trust when I say You are so special I will show you My heart Bring it out Just because I love you So here is my heart


June See the happy children, Running all around. Listen to their footsteps, Pounding on the ground. Hope they'll all stay happy, Wiling away their hours. Let them stay young forever, In their hearts and ours. Playing on the roundabouts, Laughing in the sun. Let it be forever, For each and every one. June has come and gone now, And as summer fades, Children grow up, older, And childhood slips away.


The Killing Trees Black. Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My eyes fully open. But the colour doesn’t change. The whole world is made up of varying shades of grey. I stand slowly, the muscles of my body tensing and relaxing in turn. Below my feet there are a few shrivelled blades of grass; more black than any other colour. While I am looking I realise that I have no shoes. My naked feet glow, snow white against the dark earth. The wind whips through my hair, and the thin cotton dress I’m standing in. I’m now unsurprised to find that it is dark brown, drab and colourless, like the rest of this place. My skin jumps with the chill, running right down my spine. Looking around I see for the first time where I am. A darkened hillside to my right, covered with the sinister plant life of an abandoned moor. To my left a single tree, leafless and dank. It looks to me almost as depressed as the atmosphere it finds itself in. From the top branch hangs a noose, swinging in the breeze. A path leads around the base of the tree and off between the moors. There is nothing to do but follow it. And so I do. It starts as dirt, warm on my bare feet. But as it progresses past the roots of the tree it changes, into what feels like gravel. I glance down. And to my horror, see shards of bone, razor sharp under my feet. I want to run, but my feet just walk on, ripping and tearing. On looking behind I see a trail of my own blood, running between the bones and into the dark soil beneath. Without wanting to, I round a corner. And come suddenly upon a flat cliff top. Here the path ends. In front of me there is a dismal view, a shear fall down to jagged grey rocks, interspersed with willows and bogs. All shrouded with a thick covering of fog and mists. Behind me the path runs down a slight slope and then back down around the hillside. Where it turns downwards there is another tree, the same as the first, complete with swinging noose. This one is more recent however. Hanging from the rope is a skeleton, creaking quietly in the wind. Its empty eyes bore into the soul. I turn, trying to block the image from my mind. And find myself facing a wall, glaring against the dreary sky. Its garish red bricks threaten and impose. I look upwards, upwards, straining to see where this barrier ends. But it simply disappears into eternity. I dare not turn back to the cliff, or the tree, or to any new phantom placed in my path. Consequently I tread backwards, away from everything. And then I see the sign. A tiny, rusted bronze plaque, above a small wooden door. Which reads two words in simple script.


‘COUNTY GAOL’ Those two words send a shiver down my spine. The whole dark world seems to collapse in on me, and I am on the ground, pulling at the dark, dead grass around my feet. I understand now the killing trees, the mist of death that surrounds this place. I feel crushed by the despair and doubt. As I kneel, a single tear drops onto my white skin. Blood red, it runs down my finger and onto the ground. And the world spins out again, releasing me. I stagger to my feet, stagger away from the door, from the wall, from the whole concept. My eyes are wide now, with fear and sadness. I stop, I turn, and I run. Down the path and away. On and on I run, running away from that wall. The gravel, the bones are shredding my feet, but I feel no pain. I just have to escape. I round a corner. And next to me there is a tree…a killing tree. And in front of me there is a red brick wall, a county gaol. I turn, and run back, down the path again. But around the next corner is another killing tree, and the gaol again. There is no escape. I collapse sobbing, next to the corner of the building. There I sit, praying it will all go away. Black. Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. And as my eyes open, I can see the grey sky, and feel the brick behind me. And in looking forward I see the killing tree; and the skeleton hanging. But the landscape has changed. As far as the eye can see, there is now flat, dust desert. And surrounding me, the tree and the gaol is row upon row of barbed wire. Dripping barbed wire. Dripping blood. I stand, walk to the tree, to the wire surrounding me. The grey sky has been exchanged for one of teal, the sun harshly glaring down, turning the world to dust beneath my feet. I shelter under the sparse tree, and stare down at the wire, wondering if it can all be real. I touch it, speculating on the possibility that I am insane. Even the wire between the barbs is razor sharp. My blood drips down, added to the steadily growing pools. In horror I watch it disappear; mingle with the mass of red. As I stand below the tree I hear a new sound, a faint whisper from behind me. Slowly it grows, a strung out scream, growing into a deafening crescendo blocking out my very thoughts, feelings, hopes…dropping me into a pit of despair, a cage and I can’t break out, break through the screaming. Through the uniform sound I start to hear individuals, men, women, children, babies. I hear their suffering and their pain, the torture they endure. The pain they tolerate so I can live. And then from through the screams I hear a voice. A single, weak voice, a child, calling out to me, calling my name. Over and over, calling for me to save him, save him from the dark. Because he is afraid, so afraid of the dark. And I can hear him so clearly. But there is nothing I can do now. Maybe then…but now no longer. I hear footsteps, marching. It is


happening again…again and again, over and over: the screaming, and the child, and the soldiers, coming to take me away. The people, screaming, dying so that I might live. Because they have been told that I can save them. And it is a lie…and I am the cause of all their torture. And I hear the child, the little boy, locked in a dark room waiting to be saved, because he is afraid of the dark. And the marching. And the hissing. The hissing sound, the sound that reeks of death, of murder. My murder. I am simply the bait. I lead the cattle to the slaughter, and even as they die, they call my name, believing I will save them. But I am no angel of salvation. I am an angel of death. And it stops. I find myself curled under the killing tree, squirming in agony. But now there is silence. I stop, and stand silent. And slowly turn, to face what I know I will find. The door of the gaol lies wide open. And before it is a monster, more beast than man. Hunched in ripped grey clothes, bloodstained. Greasy black locks, and piercing red red eyes. Death lives in those eyes. He turns to face me silently, and the sky goes black. Existence is wiped out. There is nothing left, except him and I. And the wall. And the killing tree. I look into his eyes. I know nothing of this man. He is not one who I have wronged. This man is like me, we are one and the same. This man is a cold blooded murderer. And he will murder me, here and now. And I will be missed by no-one. So it should be. And so it will be. Without warning he is upon me, swinging me this way and that. I follow my reflex reaction. I scream. He ignores me. He juggles me between his huge hands for a little longer, and then without warning, he throws me through the air. I hit the wall with no sound. Lying motionless on the ground I wait for him to pounce on me again. Here is my punishment. He is back once again, his glaring eyes and bloodstained lips above my head. I wait for the final hit. But it never comes. Instead he lifts me, and kisses my bloody forehead. And then he is gone. I am alive. I drift slowly out of consciousness, one sound echoing in my ear, the voice of a small boy… ‘Save me…please…it’s so dark. Save me miss. Save me…help me…’ Black. Everything is black. And as I slowly prise my eyes open it changes, from black to grey. My eyes fully open. But the colour doesn’t change. The whole world is made up of varying shades of grey. Have I been here before?


Live Live... As flowers glance across Fields of maize To children at a loss On summer days Eyes to the skys Blues and whites And then back To dark starry nights and die... to the sound of feet pounding down as those who decide meet in silent sound ears to the ground and in tears we drown as death comes and we all fall down


Scarred Preface: Re-reading this brings back all kinds of memories of teen angst that I didn’t really have when I was writing this. What I did have was a wonderfully weird group of friends who were all struggling to come to terms with themselves. I think a lot of sentiments which I didn’t personally experience, but which my friends shared with me, come through in this. _______

See... Red lines running across palms Deep cuts on lower arms Scores on skin But what is hidden? The scar on my heart The reason I cut And let my blood depart Washing my body in fire Burning pain, death Desire; To be someone new New face, new name New skin, no pain and Loss and fear No tears Let me be someone without problems Without "issues" Let me be someone un-scarred


Grey Lives Preface: As with some of the other pieces, I believe this was a creative writing piece for school. _________

Wouldn't it be nice, if lives were black and white? For some people, they are. They wake up, have breakfast, go to work or school, come home, have dinner, go to bed. Just like that, black and white. They meet nice people, settle down in nice houses in nice estates and have 2.4 children, who they dote upon. They are happy with their little black and white lives. And then, there are those others. Those of us who do not have black and white lives. The ones in the grey areas. And often you can't tell who those are. They wake up, like the rest of the world. They have breakfast, go to work or school just like everyone around them. They have dinner, and they go back to sleep, ready for another black and white day. But what makes them grey, is the things they do in between these meaningless tasks, events for every day. ___ My name is Grace, and I'm an alcoholic. as if i'm here, fucking AA bollocks and i want to be gone...just play along Yes, I umm, I think I have a problem with alcohol, which I'm trying to tackle at the moment. For my family, you know, because I feel that maybe I'm being unfair on them. I don't personally think that my drinking is a problem you know... no problem at all actually, because i hardly drink at all, yet i get to sit here with a bunch of boozers and talk about my fucking 'problem' ...but at any rate, I think it might help my family if I maybe didn't drink anymore. ____


..::~jellycat~::.. hey --sezzajane-hiya ..::~jellycat~::..~ i dint cya afta skl 2day...were woz ya? --sezzajane-me? ..::~jellycat~::.. yes u, hu else am i tokin 2? --sezzajane-m8 i jst went home dint i ..::~jellycat~::.. sarah, u no if u got a prob u can tell me rite? --sezzajane-course...wot u tokin bout? ..::~jellycat~::.. its just...well ppl hav been sayin you'v lost weight nd u r gettin pretty thin...ur nt ill r u or sumthin? --sezzajane-NO...fukin hell y ppl always tokin bout me...i'm as fat as eva me ..::~jellycat~::.. u not fat nd u no it --sezzajane-ye woteva...neway, i'm fine jas ..::~jellycat~::.. well if u say so...cya 2morro k? --sezzajane-ye, no probs well...i can't tell her i was throwing up in the toilets can i? she'll think i'm anorexic or bulimic or whatever the hell you call it. i'm fine but maybe i ought to think about when i pick to do it...if people are noticing...i mean i'm fine, just food doesn't really agree with me...which is no bad thing, i mean i've always needed to lose weight... ____ by Mark Smith I am not strong and brave How can I be saved? Nothing I can do To get away from you He kept running far


Away from where you are But you were always there Making him so scared You crept up on him Beat him through his skin Bruised all black and blue What can the boy do? Tried to tell his mum She said he was dumb Tried to tell his dad He said its too bad Tried to tell Miss in class She said do your maths Tried to tell his mates But they laughed in his face Scrawled it on the bathroom wall Its like he isn't here at all - Mark, this is not what I asked for. See me. Please do not produce melodrama every time I ask a simple task. ____ Case #23 Review. Housing application. 1 woman, 2 children aged 7 and 12. New situation. Safe house necessary. Present situation. Threat of severe domestic violence. Suggestions: Suggest a move to the top of a priority list. Notes: There is reasonable evidence to suggest fatal attacks are a possibility but the candidate refuses to move unless accommodation is found, she does not want to leave her children 'on the streets' ____ ANON


hi well i got told to write something down or something. because see miss dresden saw these marks on my arms and she thinks its my parents or something like they're beating me up. so i just wanted to put down that my parents haven't done anything. i cut myself like that. i am not telling you why, and i do not need any help. i don't want my parents to know and i don't want to talk about it. all i need is just to be left alone, because its not a problem. a few little cuts never hurt anyone. they just help me thats all. i'm fine. ____ Dear Diary, I'm going to die. I am killing myself tonight I want all the people I love to know, it wasn't you. I love you all, don't be hurt. I just have to do this. I can't handle living anymore like this. I can't take the way I'm treated at work, in the streets. I know, that there is nothing wrong with being the way I am. But i can't cope with the fact that no-one else has learnt that yet. They need me to be someone I'm not and I don' think I can do that I don't think I can be that other person. I need to die Because I can't live as myself...no more. _____

Wouldn't it be nice If life was black and white


Alone: I I am here Just like always And I know that you're not late You just won't show Why don't I go? Maybe I just don't understand Stupid girl Don't get it yet You'll never show And I'll be here... Alone


Alone: II Am I being a dumb girl? Am I truly? Just because I will wait In the dark, on my own Alone Just for you Don't feel you're special please... I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression The idea you mean something You are nothing Except a warm comfort on a cold night A night like tonight


Alone: III And so I'm resigned I'll leave You'll never see me again Once I've left Accepted That I am as little to you As I pretend you are to me Off I walk Alone Again


The Passer By Guess what, Nobody likes you, Guess what, Nobody cares. Guess what, Nobody needs you, Guess what, Nobody wants you there. You can sit on the street corner, Until the end of time, And nobody will notice you, Or throw you a life-line. There's There's There's There's

nobody nobody nobody nobody

who's seen you, who cares, to look for you, who stares.

And if, and when, you're dead and gone, There'll be no-one to cry, Because nobody ever knew you, And we're all just passers by.


The White Room Preface: I feel the need to preface this one, as it’s coming slightly out of context. As far as I remember this was a creative writing project when I was about 15, entitled “My Favourite Room�. I would like to stress that this is complete fiction, I was not a traumatised 15 year old, just a very creative and imaginative one, apparently. ________

The answer to the question,' What is your favourite room?' is a simple one. I do not even need to think about the possibilities. The single room that stands out in my mind is one right at the top of a large house, in a small village. It is so light and airy. It has pure white walls, and a white standing lamp. Even the floor is plain white. White painted boards. Carpet is irritating. There is very little in the room. A bed, a lamp, a chair. No desk, no writing needs to be done in this tranquil haven. Other matters can be left at the door. A single oak bookshelf, hidden by a white curtain, is all that intrudes, to remind one of the outside world. On the wall, is a huge window. It has a blind, again white; to hide the world, but this is not frequently used. Instead it is left open, to reveal a breathtaking view. Rolling hills, tall cypresses and a picturesque village. It is hard to retreat back into the room, once the sight captures the observer. I could stay there all day. However, eventually the peace of the room calls the inhabitant back, and the view is replaced by the cool serenity evident in the surroundings. The room was once used as storage space, but was converted into a bedroom at the start of the decade. Some of the original features linger on; the dark imposing wooden beams, now also white, of course. They reminisce of the house's origins, as a calm country getaway for the more wealthy Tudors. Also included in the room are the telltale marks of a box room, darkened marks on the boards from the feet of an old bathtub, and slight scrapes on the walls, from an old bookshelf being moved.


The only decoration in my room is a single picture, hanging on the far wall. It is only about five centimetres square, but it draws the eye in, convincing the admirer to delve into the tiny portrait. The designs on the rim of the frame show that it belongs to a long lost era, but the picture inside tells a different story, a black and white photograph print, artistically taken, maybe in the early twentieth century. The photo itself is of a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, with large dark eyes, and a long dark braid, running the length of her back. She is seated on a small stool, trimmed with velvet, and she is wearing a beautiful dress, emanating wealth and bearing. Around her neck hangs a delicate string of pearls, and on her lap sits a small kitten, playing with a ball of string. In the background the room itself is obscured by a large brocade curtain, being used as a backdrop, and in front of this on the right, stands a magnificent old globe on a stand, and to the left, a large well-stocked bookshelf. The child herself seems unaffected by her impressive surroundings. Her head is turned to the camera, and her eyes show a mournful tint, as if she can see the future of all the gaudy possessions around her. Indeed their future is not beautiful, as they gather dust in an attic storage room, and are eventually thrown away, to make way for more modern frippery. Her face shows no discernable emotion, and even any request by the artist of a smile has been ignored. She looks not lost, nor haughty, but simply unaffected, as if she does not belong in the frame, but has wandered in by mistake, and been placed, like a mannequin, for display. This child embodies the overall sense of the room, showing how no matter what decoration or dress is placed over the space, it will not change but remain as it was created. This makes the room come alive as one moves from the picture. Upon turning it becomes obvious that this is where the picture was taken, despite there being no particular shape or item to suggest as such. It is simply the atmosphere that gives the indication. At this point some doubt springs into the mind as to whether this room is in fact as magical as it first appears. Having discovered the picture depicting the space, almost in another life, it seems confusing to suggest this room is so perfect. The face of the girl coveys dislike for her surroundings, and one wishes to know, having discovered this, what it is that she finds so hideous about such a pleasant room, with such a picturesque view. There must be some reason, and only her picture holds the key. Instinct takes over, as it becomes evident that there is some secret to be unlocked in this room. There is so little there however that is seems difficult to know where to start. Some old books, on a lightly concealed bookshelf, wooden Tudor beams, and a tiny photograph seems very little to go on. The obvious place to look is the picture. As it is removed from the wall, the light falls on the back of the frame, revealing the tiny indents where the back can be removed. Now decided on a line of inquiry, the back is allowed to fall away, down onto the clean white bed linen. On the back of the photograph are some small letters giving an insight into the rest of the picture. Composition notes as to the organisation of the shot. They are partially faded but the remainder reads,


'…red curtain pinned to beam, globe stood in fr…', '…bookshelf moved from its alcove, scraped wall in process.' 'The child had been sat on the stool, with her kitten on her lap, her mother's pearls around her ne…' The last note, at the foot of the picture is probably the most revealing. It is not in the same hand, and states simply, 'Louisa'. Next to this, something has been scribbled out. It once read a name, beginning with the letter 'J'. Once the picture has been replaced, attention turns to the bookshelf in the alcove. Whereas it has previously gone relatively unnoticed, further inspection leads it to become apparent that this is the bookcase in the picture. The books appear untouched by time, and though the pages are yellowed, they are still legible. Most are uninteresting, encyclopaedias, and almanacs, detailing the family line or the sea voyages of a long lost uncle. One however immediately catches the eye. It is more worn than the others, as if it has been handled many times. The front is blank, but on the first page there are a few handwritten lines. They read, 'The Diary of Louisa Anne Strachey' On turning a further page, more lines in the same small hand are revealed. It is not interesting, simply the trivial matters of a young girl noted down. However, one page, in the centre of the book is detached, and falls away from the rest of the book. It is cleaner than the other pages, and is obviously not part of the book but something placed there. It is a letter, written to the child, and the words convey a terrible secret, which keeps one fixed to the paper. 'Louisa, I know that you do not want to have any communication with me from now on, and after what you saw I cannot fault you. It must have shaken you, and I apologise profusely, though I know I can never hope to make it right again. I have run away, escaped. I cannot tell you where to for you may hand this letter over to the authorities. I just hope that you will read through this whole letter, and make your own decision about the events that took place. I know that he was your younger brother, just as he was mine, and as the oldest I should have protected the two of you, not split the family up. However, when Father and Mother were killed, and we were left in the care of Uncle Henry, he took it upon himself to share the content of the will with me, as I was fifteen at the time, and responsible enough to know. It was then that I first found hate for our father. The reason for this hostility is simple. He had decided to leave our entire inheritance to Paul.


I know well that we both already harboured hate for the snivelling brat, not of our mother, but a lowly servant girl. That our father would neglect us in his favour was monstrous. I was only thinking of you, dear sister, when I took the child up to the box room, up to the old bathtub. My intention was clear in my own mind. If I killed the boy, then the money would be ours. The fittings for the picture were still fixed up, but thankfully the tub had been left in place behind the curtain. I started and finished my task with little interruption, save for the kitten, who made its way up the stairs. I was just removing my hands from the child's throat when you entered, in search of the cat. I wish you had been spared the sight, but sadly you understood immediately. You ran from my presence screaming, and knowing what was to follow, I escaped as soon as I could. I had to leave him there, in the bath. I dread to think what else happened on that fateful day. All I know is what I have found since, that you inherited the money. For that I am glad of everything that happened that day in the box room. I would do it again, a thousand times. I love you my dear little sister, and I hope you will forgive me. Jeanette' Poor little Louisa, to find her dear sister killing her younger brother. For her this room could never have been the haven it is now. After fifty years her spirit still lingers, revealing the rooms sinister past. For me however this will always be my favourite room, with its calm serenity, and beautiful unspoilt view. The mystery of the past, contained within these four walls, only creates more haunting appeal. In this place where beauty and peace reign, the dark mysterious undertones give it the final quality to make this my favourite room.


This Kid Theres this kid He goes to school He comes home Alone Theres this kid On the welfare state On the social Alone Theres this kid Lying awake Lying, dying Alone And why is no-one there? Because no-one notices, He's another number, Not a name, It's just not right, It's just not fair that he's not treated the same. Because he is the same...but what do they care? What do they care?


When it all falls apart When it all falls apart What will you do? Who will you call to, And who will be there to hear you? Who will be left? When it falls apart When you lose everything That you have worked so hard for And everyone you ever loved Friends, family and those closer to your heart What will you do? Will you sit and weep? Sleep And hope tomorrow it will be better? What will you do? When it all falls apart...


Pre-19