I Wish

Written by Sparky

We're all wishing for something, after all. Image courtesy of ABA English.

We’re all wishing for something, after all. Image courtesy of ABA English.

I wish I were a bird, living a life carefree.
Flying through the air, no worries to bother me.
No thoughts of life to weigh me down,
No walking around with that hidden frown.

Or to be a cat, now that would be ideal,
My only worry would be the timing of my next meal.
Curled up on a bed I would be,
Warm and comfortable and dreaming of me.

I would even like to be a mouse,
Hiding away in the darkness of your house.
Small and silent, no noise would I make,
Guarding the house when you are not awake.

Maybe living in the past is where I should be,
When times were simpler, can’t you see?
This modern world is full of pain,
A pain I feel again and again.

One thing is true, it’s clear to see
All these things I would rather be,
Because I am not happy, being me.

One of the oldest members of the Inkwell community, Sparky has always been willing to offer words of guidance to new members while working steadily away on his own projects, which vary from the profound to the absurd. Check out his short story “The Lonely Hamster” on Inkblots today!


Written by Rob

The dawn of time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

The Dawn of Time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

After forty years of trudging through the barren wastelands, Arthur spotted another human form on the horizon, and ran as fast as he could to catch up.

“Hey” he shouted “Wait”, coughing in the sulphurous atmosphere, panting heavily. Stumbling over the basalt rubble, frantic for human company, eventually Arthur made himself heard over the howling wind. The figure turned and looked at him. Another old man, beard and hair down to his waist, clothes in tatters, very dirty.

“You as well?” said the man. Arthur was confused.

“What? Me as well what?”

“You caught the leprechaun?”


“….and told him you wanted to live for ever?”


“You should have said “for evermore””

“Well, I know that now.”

“Never mind: only fourteen million years or so before anyone else is born.”

Rob has the record for most HHCs completed, having taken part over 40 times in the years he’s been writing with us, so naturally we’re very proud to present another of his challenge pieces here on Inkblots. If you’re interested in the Half-Hour Challenge or any of our other challenges please feel free to check out this section of the forum – anyone can join in!


Written by Lost in a Dream

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

A beautiful image for a beautiful poem. Courtesy of Bourbon Theatre.

“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.” – Oscar Wilde

Under an inky sky,
We danced by the river.
Our glasses brimming with wine
And the night unwritten.

Saving our faces,
Our masks were our poetic license.
We re-wrote our roles
While we danced in and out of convention.

Or were our masks our muzzles?
Each one of us a servetta muta
Biting our tongues
To maintain an ill-fitting mask?

It didn’t matter.
Beneath the glitter, gilt and gestures,
It was just a guessing game.
Our masks just heightened the mystery.

If you discover me,
Let it not be by the wagging of my head,
or the touch of a dry hand.
But, know me by a soul coloured feather,
A signature star.

While writing this poem Lost in a Dream was inspired by two plays: “The Rover” and “Much Ado About Nothing”.  This is her fifth entry on Inkblots – here is her first, “October“.

Thankfully Forgetful

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

When someone leaves what gets left behind?

When someone leaves what gets left behind?

The boy and the girl sat upon a grassy hill that overlooked a lake. The sun was flying low in the sky, casting it’s light off onto the water. The liquid and the light played well together, dancing on the surface with a grace that belied it’s depth. Trees and weeds alike bloomed colourfully, with the insects and birds making their homes and singing their songs to each other, words uncomprehending to the minds of humans. Noise prevailed everywhere; except for where the boy and the girl sat.

They sat comfortably together, close enough to touch one another yet maintaining a distance that may as well have been worlds away. Both looked out at the lake, watching it continue it’s never ending dance, but the boy was really looking at her. He wanted to give her the worlds that kept them apart, embrace them so that he could simply graze her fingertips, give her the smile he knew that she was waiting for. Yet he knew he would not, for the boy was a coward and a forgetful one at that. Such worries plagued him swiftly but they were oft short-lived, eaten away by the blank space that was his memory.

Sometimes the boy wished his memories were technicoloured and forever sharp so that he could remember all good times in all perfect detail, so he could be able to turn to my the girl and say “Do you remember when…”. But it occurred to him that he would also remember all the bad times with identical clarity, the things that should have haunted him; his regrets, his mistakes, all the missed opportunities. But he could not recall them, thanks to the faulted mind he possessed. It was his curse and his gift and, ironically, a constant reminder that memory was a tricky thing; but then again, he thought, what element of humanity was not? These thoughts emboldened the boy for a moment, giving him for once the courage he so desperately wanted. He turned his head, ready to give the girl the worlds that obscured her from his sight.

But she had gone.

The boy did not remember when she had left, going beyond his grasp to a place better suited for her than at his side. She had left him something however; a strange, hollow ache that pounded on his ribcage. Another bad memory. The boy could already start to feel it all begin to slip away but he struggled. He wanted the ache in his chest to stay, not to fade into the nothingness. That ache was proof that the girl had been there at all and with it he could feel her silhouette. He clasped his eyes tightly shut, wanting to hold her for as long as he could yet her form was already dissolving. He grasped for her and the smoke parted around his fingers. He opened his eyes.

The lake was gone, replaced by reality as a dry, dusty dip in the ground. The trees too had vanished, the insect calls and birdsong that had joyfully rung from the branches now yielded to the empty silence. And upon a pile of dirt that may have once been a hill sat a forgetful old coward, waiting with a blank smile on his face for a memory to come back.


Written by Hope75


An abandoned school. A child’s life hangs in the balance.
Image Courtesy of stagesofdecay.com

The child sobbed softly in her arms as she tried to reassure him everything would be OK. The shattered glass crunched loudly under her feet as she and the boy moved slowly through the silent building. Noticing a slightly opened door at the end of the corridor, she made her way towards it.

Pushing it gently with her shoulder, the door opened to reveal an empty classroom. Bright, colourful drawings of dinosaurs, jet planes, and other fragments of children’s imaginations adorned the walls of the room. The seats and desks were scattered and disorganised, while books and pens were still on those that remained upright. Large chalked numbers on the blackboard revealed the day’s unfinished maths lesson, and the teacher’s desk was cluttered with text books and notes, forgotten in the rush.

The boy began weeping uncontrollably as she tried to get him seated on one of the chairs. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated as he hid his head in his hands, tears streaming down his dirty face. Going to the nearest window she peered out into the grey, rain-soaked morning. The school yard below seemingly abandoned as the driving rainfall danced and glistened on the solitary swing set in its centre. She glanced briefly back toward the boy who remained in the same seated position as before. His sobbing had subsided slightly, until it had turned into a quiet moan as he drew circles on the desk with a permanent marker.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted three men with guns at their side slowly entering the school yard below. Using their hands to signal, the men fanned out, each moving in a different direction. Panic now engulfed her as she grabbed the boy and left the classroom, retracing her steps back along the dimly lit corridor. Continue reading →


Written by Silver

Creamy, smooth and oh so sweet –fudge_in_a_box
the temptation to eat is all but a treat.
Bending and stooping he hands me just one,
and taking the chunk, I nibble for fun.

Dun in colour but delightful in flavour,
I gobble the piece with nought left to savour.
When I ask for another he chuckles and smiles,
“There’s one left for later,
but we can’t ruin your dinner.”

I sulk and pout all the way home,
but Daddy is driving, taking me to Mum.
He drops me off at the door, waving goodbye,
placing the final piece in my hand with a sigh.

“I love you sweetheart, but it’s time for me to go.
You should give the last piece to Mummy you know.”
Shaking my head I plead, “Daddy don’t leave,
here’s my last piece ‘til I see you Christmas Eve.”

Bending and stooping he gives me a hug;
I don’t want to let go and start tearing up.
He ruffles my hair and gets up once more
as I traipse through the house, mucking up the floor.

Mummy shouts but I don’t really care
as I find the perfect place to put my share
of half-eaten fudge, split with the Daddy I love.

Fudge was written on behalf of The Inkwell’s Summer Writing Open Review Day (SWORD) and was inspired by Silver’s love and adoration of fudge when she was a child. She would often be given fudge if she’d been particularly good, or received a great result in school, and sometimes her dad would say that she could pick a couple of pieces of fudge in the cinema, even though it was expensive!

Calling Fiction Writers and Poets: The Bill Overton Memorial Fund

loughborough_university_signAs our readers know, Inkblots is dedicated to finding new talent, often searching through pools of content in order to pick out the best, but tonight’s post isn’t about our content, it’s about something a little more special.

In September 2012, I was hit by not one but two deaths that affected me in different ways. One was a family death, of which I loved him dearly – a great Uncle masquerading as my Grandad in many ways – and the other was a former lecturer at Loughborough University who both taught and guided me in the form of poetry and Shakespeare. Bill Overton was a large part of the English Department at the university and gave us a real kick up the bums if we were not reaching our full potential! Sadly, he passed away after suffering from a period of illness. Hearing this news from my former students, lecturers and friends was a real shock. It was something that none of us could even process, so I can’t imagine how hard it would have been for his family and friends.

But since Bill loved both teaching and reading Poetry, Loughborough University has set up a memorial fund, which will support an annual poetry prize, giving the opportunity for new talent to pave their career in writing. It’s a fantastic opportunity for emerging poets but the university, in combination with the Loughborough University Charity Trust, needs your help. They are looking to raise £6,000 for the prize and are already on their way to achieving that goal. Currently, they’ve raised £480 and, though that may seem small at present, every little bit helps. You may not have known Bill Overton personally, you may even be on the other side of the world, but even if you can’t donate we’d love for you to help spread the word. So if you can take two minutes to either reblog this post, tweet about it, or even share it on Facebook, it would be a wonderful gesture.

To donate to the Bill Overton Memorial Fund, you can visit the page at: http://www.justgiving.com/BillOverton

To all those in advance, thank-you.

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

It Is Hard To Tell

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

A shooting star of simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same. Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

A shooting star or simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same.
Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

I saw two shooting stars last night. I wished on them, but they were only satellites. Is it wrong to wish on space hardware? I wish, I wish, I wish you’d care.
– Billy Bragg, A New England.

A face peers out through the cracked and grimy window. The skin might be pale and sallow, then again, it might not. The face is thick with dirt, and it is hard to tell. The eyes might be blue, or brown, or green. They are sunken and shadowed, and it is hard to tell. The face opens its mouth, and a voice heavy with despair slinks from it.
“Please, god, let me find the money by tomorrow.” The eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. “I wish I would find the money to pay him by tomorrow.” The voice pleads with the light in the sky. If the light has noticed, it gives no sign. It marches on.


The room is lit with harsh white lights. Machines beep and whir. The woman on the bed could be asleep. Then again, she could be dying. It is hard to tell. By her side, a small child sits in a chair. He trembles. He cries, silently. He stands up and crosses the room to the window, pressing both his hands against it, leaning his forehead on the cool glass. He could be seeking relief from the hot white glare of the room behind him. He could be hiding his tears from a mother who can’t see them anyway. It is hard to tell. His eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell.
“I wish mummy would wake up real soon,” he chokes out. “Please?”
Behind him, the room falls silent.


A hand reaches out, gently stroking through the thick black fur. The hand is shaking. This could be a sign of age – then again, it could be due to the tremors of the cat. It is hard to tell. The owner of the hand sits on his porch and gazes up at the sky. Drops of liquid splash onto the ground behind him. It could be tears, or it could be rain. It is hard to tell. There’s not a cloud in the sky, though. A pair of eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. A mouth opens, desperation springs from it.
“Please. Please don’t leave me all alone not now. I wish she could stay. Don’t-” The voice chokes to a halt. The cat gives a tremor, and is still. Continue reading →

September’s Content, Fiction Frenzy And Our New Submissions Page


Ready for the grind?

Hey Inkblotters and welcome to September,

It’s the start of the academic year for some of our writers and, most probably, some of our readers, but don’t feel glum as we’ve got a big sack full of lovely content to keep you occupied. For those of you who work like me though, it’s just another month at the grind. But that’s not all September signifies – for many it gives us the Indian Summer we just knew was in the weather bag, but this year Britain has had a ripe-old change of heart. We’ve had heat. We’ve had humidity. And now, we’ve got spider season – thanks Mr. and Mrs. Spider, you can stop scaring us now!

Ahem, back to what you Inkblotters really came here for: our scheduled content. This month, we’ve got an undercurrent theme running throughout our pieces, many of which were submitted for the Half Hour Challenge in August (we had so many this month it was so hard to choose just two pieces!) and many of which were specifically chosen because they were uplifting and had a big dollop of cutesy-pie on top. At the beginning of this month, you’ll find a sweet-tooth poem named ‘Fudge’ by yours truly, as well as some romance poetry from Blue-Eyed Devil popped in the middle. In terms of fiction, we have some great pieces like newcomer Hope75’s ‘Anna’ and writing veteran Rob’s HHC ‘Careful’, which has a moral to its message. There’s also a few more pieces waiting in the wings, so you’ll be spoilt for content this month.

We’ve also got a few announcements to make; the Fiction Frenzy is coming back… soon! We’re very excited to be bringing back the popular Frenzy as it really spurs, invigorates and inspires our writers. We’ve also got a brand new page on our blog dedicated to submissions, so if you’ve always wanted to enter into the HHC but have never sent us an email, well, now you have no excuse. You can find the submissions page, here. And last but not least, the HHC theme for this month is a wicked image to get your inspiration churning faster than you can say HHC! Take a gander at the image, here.

Have a great September!

– Silver, Inkblots Editor