Parnassus Park

Written by Lost in a Dream

Even stone angels wear away in time...

Even stone angels wear away in time…

A neat row of marble statues either side of the path,
They certainly looked impressive under the street lights.
Symmetrical and complete.
Smooth marble so glossy I could almost see my reflection.

Yet, when I look into their eyes I can feel no story,
Just an empty, soulless stare.
I held their hands and tried to make a connection.
But I found them cold and hard.

Away from path, hidden among the undergrowth,
Their contemporaries gather:
A collection of stone angels
Sinking in the mud.
Their features rugged and incomplete.

In the knot of shrubbery,
With half-formed wings,
An incomplete angel offers a rugged hand.

Through the angel’s abrasive hands,
The sculptor carves his pain.
I could feel it, experience it.

It spoke more than a volume of polished prose.

If you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Lost in a Dream you’ll be pleased to hear that she has several more published in Inkblots! Here is a link to one of our favourites; “Masquerade“.

Not Today

Written by Lumberjacktom

The most precious commodity in the universe... A baby. Image courtesy of

The most precious commodity in the universe… A baby. Image courtesy of

Your skin is so smooth, almost translucent on the delicate curve of your sleeping body. I’m overcome by how fragile you look in that moment; your eyes closed, your shoulder length hair splayed across the pillow. I’m trying to tell if you’re beautiful. I think I’ve forgotten what it means. A squat, square face, big eyes, softened by your smile. A child’s face. Innocent. You have a child’s body as well, I might still mistake you for a boy, if there were any of those.

Doc says you’re ready for a child. He tells me you’re strong for your age, that it don’t matter that your breasts haven’t come through yet, that a baby can live on formula just fine. I keep thinking, maybe if I tell them you’re barren, that your womb’s no good, maybe they’d let me keep you. I wouldn’t have to break your fragile little frame, squirt my seed into your tiny body and let a little life grow inside, ’til it forced its way out, and surely split you on its way. Maybe then, when they didn’t care anymore, I could keep you safe, until you were properly a woman, ’til you knew what it meant to bear a child.

But they wouldn’t let me do that. They’d test you this way and that until they were sure, then they’d go inside and have your ovaries. Or put someone else’s baby in, one made in a lab from the chromosomes of men, a perfect little womb-bearer made to specification by the bio-engineers with their microscopes and pipettes. Just like you.

You wouldn’t let me, either. You want a little life too; it’s what a girl is born for, they say. And why wouldn’t you believe them? It’s what you’ve been told all your life, that is. When you grow up, when you come of age and your body says its ready, we’ll find a man for you, and he’ll give you a little one. Wasn’t it what you were born for? Just like the mother they put you in, deemed fit and seeded with life. So of course its what you want. What you say you want, anyway; I think you’re more scared than you say. I think you know you’re too little, too unspoilt by the world, else you would complain more that we haven’t tried. Seems fitting, you say, that we should get to know each other, since we’re a couple now, some kind of courting period. If it goes on much longer, they’ll find out. They’ll spread your legs on the doctor’s couch, and find out I haven’t yet broken you. Then what? Maybe they’ll seed you with someone else, and leave you with me, so I can stand by you; hold your hand while you push out someone else’s child. Or maybe they’d take you from me, say, “If you won’t use her, someone else will.” Scared to be a man. If that’s how you figure it, I’m as much a man as you are a woman, though I was one and a half times your age when you were born.

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Keep Smiling Through

Written by Dice

Dancing on VE Day, May 1945. Such a wonderful celebration! Image courtesy of

7th May 1945. The sound of celebration was in the air. The Mall leading up to Buckingham Palace was awash with excitement and colour. People danced, sang, cried, laughed, hugged and kissed each other. All wanted to share the moment of triumph. Rule Britannia and long live the King.

Robert was no longer celebrating; he had join those crowds early on, but now he walked alone over the rubble of bricks and mortar that had once been his family home. Only a few weeks earlier it had been hit by a V2 Rocket. Robert had been serving at the war office at the time, but his wife had witnessed it. Robert thanked God that she survived, and that their son, Albert had been evacuated a year before. He tried to picture what Gloria had described. She had said she watched the rocket fly through the roof, a moment later there had been an almighty explosion as if the devil himself had reigned damnation on the street. Deafened by the explosion, her hair flying in the wind from the blast, Gloria had watched as other houses and buildings fell to the explosion, yet their home had remained standing like a lone soldier whose comrades had fallen around him. The wind had changed direction whooshing past her, racing back towards their home. And in that following instant their home was gone. Other houses had pieces of wall remaining, some had only lost a single wall. Robert and Gloria’s home was completely obliterated.

Robert kicked at the bricks sombrely. He had been frustrated enough with his amputated arm that had prevented him from re-joining the fight back in 1941 and defend his family. And now their home was gone too. What kind of a man cannot defend his family or provide a home? He had tried so hard. Everywhere was full. Robert wasn’t a poor man, he offered much to possible land lords. All he wanted was a home to shelter his now deaf wife, if he couldn’t help or defend her, he would provide a home. But he had failed.

As darkness fell Robert could still hear the joy and laughter throughout the ruined city. Limping he made his way down the steps into the Holborn Underground Station, where he and his wife had lived since the bombing. As usually he was greeted with the stench of urine and sweat. The stay in the Underground was unpleasant, but where else could they go? As Robert reached the bottom he could hear singing.

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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“.

Letters From The Front

Written by Eruantien

The Civil War Letters of Rev William Salt, still perfectly preserved

from Sergeant Amanda Davidson:

Dearest brother,
We’ve been here for about a week now and nothing has happened. The living quarters are the worst that I’ve seen for a long time, but despite that it’s looking like the nicest posting I’ve had. But enough of me; how are you? How’s work been treating you? How’s the compact machine gun coming along? I hope you get all the kinks worked out soon. Lay some flowers on father’s grave for me.
PS. I do wish it would stop raining.

Dearest brother,
We were attacked last night. Lost most of a company. The Colonel reckons that they were just probing the line, I hope he’s wrong. Have you had any ideas for how to stop the rounds getting jammed when the bolt draws back to let the next one into the chamber? Oh, it’s still raining, the place resembles a bog more than a battlefield.

Dear Richard,
I’m writing to you from the infirmary now, there was a bit of a scuffle this morning and I took a scratch. It’s nothing really, but the colonel insisted I went to the infirmary to get it seen to. I like your solution to the jamming autorifle. I’m so proud of you little brother, now we have a weapon that might yet turn this war around.

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Written by Lilith

Where cat meets girl...

Where cat meets girl…

She awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth, curled up in the scummiest corner of the alleyway and wrapped in a large crumpled blanket. Or was it a cloak? She lifted the fabric up and tried to get a better look at it, but something distracted her; her hands.

Her hands. She turned them over and over, trying to make sense of the opposable thumbs, the multiple joints of her fingers, and the softness of them. They were so useless! How was she meant to defend herself with these? Her arms seemed weaker, too, but she was reassured by the fur that still spread down from her shoulder to elbow to the back of her hands. She lifted the cloak off herself to get a better look at the rest of her body.

Her knees were bent the other way, for a start, and her feet seemed completely wrong – so long and flat! She only spent a few seconds noting the new prominence of her mammary glands, then craned her neck over her shoulder to see whether her tail was still there. It was, thank the Gods, and longer than ever.

Her eyes were struggling now with the low light in the alleyway, but her ears were still in the right position on top of her head, and as she twitched them experimentally she was happy to note that she could still hear everything she needed to. But there was something in the way of them… She lifted a hand to her head and lifted some of it up. Dark grey, shoulder length fur – no, hair. Human hair.

She was half woman, half cat. A Beastman.

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You’re Home

Cold and alone… Can this really be home?

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

No home for you there, little boy.
Just keep on walking by.
No point looking in, little boy,
Just avert your eyes.

The day is dark and cold, little boy.
But ’tis warmer still
Than the warmth of a lie, little boy,
And no lie hides the chill.

Truth will sell you short, little boy.
Leave you sad and alone.
You may shiver and cry, little boy,
But the truth is, you’re home.

Time Was Standing Still

Has time ever stood still for you?

Written by Lost in a Dream

Frozen in that moment,
Time was standing still

The foreign familiarity of an old song
Forges a link
Between then and now.

The lyrics were hardly profound;
Yet, they seemed perfect at the time.

Now, the individual words are insignificant.

They didn’t sum up how I was feeling,
I doubt I entirely understood them
Five years ago.

But I remember singing them out
With conviction.

Time locked in lyrics and
Memories trapped in chords were free.
I had the privilege of indulging in the past.
Just for a moment, that memory came alive again.

It was as though nothing had changed.