Author / Colette

by Colette

Sheffield Steel

Written by Elanor Rose

sunset

The sun set, flame red, there was no delay.

We met on the day that the world would end
and clasped fingers in the dark, unafraid.
As the steel sheets of Sheffield tumbled down,
fell beneath our feet, fell into pierced ground,
we stepped amidst the debris side by side.

As the red brick of Birmingham crumbled
we fumbled to find something lasting and new.
We remembered the cities that forged us,
now gone – and struggled to salvage the dust
unnoticed by the ruins around us.

And when then the rain came, we were ready.
The sun set, flame red, there was no delay.
We watched it sear through the thunder-clap clouds,
no longer humbled, no longer content
to allow our origin to be lost,
to admit our time together was spent.

Sheffield Steel marks Elanor Rose’s first poem published in Inkblots. Her inspiration was based on a challenge she set herself: to write romantic poetry without referring to the traditional romance tropes found in poems, such as flowers, forever afters and fairy tales. 

by Colette

Gone – An Alexander Episode

Written by Dice

puff_smoke_vanish

Once you step outside the Room, you cease to exist. Are we just a puff of smoke? Abstract, fluid.

“Mr Speaker, would the honourable member like to explain why my idea of a takeaway from Jekies was scuffed so? He may do well to know that Jekies serves the best food in the Milky Way,” called out Alexys.

Alex laughed. Today, the Impossible Room had been made to look like the inside of the Palace of Westminster, and so they had decided that they should debate the question over dinner in the House of Commons. Alex, Alexys, Lexi and Zander were all dotted around the large debating hall. Lexi stood to answer Alexys’s question when a terrible shout came ringing down the halls of power.

“Zander!”

Everyone went quiet and looked towards the large double doors. Standing in the opening was Alexander, his face white with horror.

“Jennifer’s gone!”

Zander stood very quickly, horror spread over his face too.

“Impossible!” he cried in response. “No one can leave or enter this place without you or me knowing.”

“She’s gone! I watched her disappear in front of me. It happened instantly.”

“Who’s Jennifer?” asked Alexys loudly.

“You best be joking,” shouted Alexander back at her.

“No,” replied Alexys quickly, surprised at Alexander’s angry reaction.

“We don’t know her, Alexander,” said Lexi calmly, backing-up her sister.

Alexander looked like he was going to react very angrily when Zander spoke before Alexander could even open his mouth.

“Alexander, they are not like us, they are not yet Alexanders. They cannot remember if a timeline changes. The only reason they are still here is because they’re in the Room.”

“Zander, you’re suggesting…” Alexander didn’t finish his sentence before he ran out of the room. Continue reading →

by Colette

October’s Content And The Return Of Fiction Frenzy

Jack_o_lanterns_group

Time for some late night pumpkin or Jack O’Lantern carvings? We think so!
Image Courtesy of irishcentral.com

Hey Inkblotters and welcome to October!

We’ve arrived at the turn of the spooky season once more, so it’s time to start penning those ghost stories. Who knows, I may even write one up myself for the Fiction Frenzy we’re hosting this month! But I digress, let’s talk about October’s content and what goodies you’ll be able to dig your teeth into this month.

The beginning of October’s content brings in another one of Dice’s Alexander episodes – he’s churning these out like there’s no tomorrow! But I guess that’s only fitting for science-fiction, right? We’ve also got three new contributors this month; on the 8th is Elanor’s “Sheffield Steel” with references to a few British cities, Miss Smiley’s prologue of “Death’s Mistress” on the 16th, and Dizzy Dazzle’s poem “The Humanitarian” will be coming up on the 20th. Plus, there’s a couple of surprises wiggled into this month’s content too, so make sure you keep checking back throughout.

In other news, we’ve got the return of the Fiction Frenzy, formerly known as the Friday Frenzy. Our writers and readers loved the concept, but sadly just couldn’t resist a Friday movie evening or a night out on the town. And who can blame you? So, the Fiction Frenzy now operates for the entire month. Starting from today until October 31, the Fiction Frenzy will be in full swing with the delectable theme Trick or Treat. There is, however, a twist, which you can read more about in our forum post, here. If you think you’ve got extra inspiration, don’t just sit on it, write about it! We want as many submissions from our readers and current contributors as possible – after all, it’s a Frenzy for a reason!

And to wrap up this long post yet again, (I’m good at waffling on aren’t I?) the theme for this month’s Half Hour Challenge is “Where Angels Fear To Tread”. The theme was thought up by our own Lilith and comes from the full quote: fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Remember, you can email your Fiction Frenzy and HHC entries to creativewritinginkwell@hotmail.com, or follow us on Twitter with our username @inkblotswriting to get all the latest posts straight to your feed.

Have a spooky one! 🙂

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

by Colette

Anna

Written by Hope75

abandoned_school_theatre

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 →

by Colette

Fudge

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!

by Colette

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

by Colette

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 →

by Colette

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

September_back_to_school

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

by Colette

Morning Tiger

Written by Rob

weekend away

The couple’s weekend: wine, romance and sex. What can possibly go wrong?

“What are you grinning at?” Karen snaps at me. I should be used to this. She has a beautiful face but it’s screwed up enough to frighten a pitbull. I’m confused. Sure, we’ve not been getting on too well of recent, but last night, as soon as I slipped between the sheets, she was all over me like a rash. Such passion and surrender; so giving, so inventive: I thought all my Christmasses had come at once. This morning she seems to be back in the doldrums again.

“Didn’t you enjoy last night?” I try.

“I slept well, if that’s what you mean.” I give up. I’ll never understand women. I was feeling full of beans. I was up with the lark and out for a brisk constitutional. Now I can feel her sapping the positivity out of me again. I’m so glad I sneaked out of the dark room without waking her.

We’re away for the weekend. Karen’s pal Julia and her partner Derek invited us to watch the rowing regatta at Holme Pierpont. They found a quaint little hotel just a few miles down the road from the regatta venue and booked for all four of us. Now Karen and I are waiting for them in the lobby, ready to share breakfast.

The lounge door opens and Derek staggers out, looking like he’s near to death.

“What’s up with you?” I ask, though I’m fairly sure that I know. I left him in the lounge with a bottle of brandy at around midnight. It looks like he didn’t make it up to bed.

“I think I must have dozed off on in the chair last night,” he croaks. “I’ve got a mouth like the sole of a limeburner’s clog. Where’s Julia?” Continue reading →

by Colette

The Writer’s Block

Written by Dice

N.B This short piece was written on behalf of the author’s recurring writer’s block. 

writer block

Uh-oh, looks like this writer is suffering from that horrible Writer’s disease: The Writer’s Block.

“A tale, a tale write, a tale to write?” cried the Swedish lady. Why is she Swedish? Who knows? They felt it to be right.

Should she not speak in Swedish? På svenska hon ska tala. An English-speaking community this is, to write ‘In Swedish she should speak,’ would achieve little but to confuse them as they attempt the pronunciation. And maybe now they would learn it and sound… uncool at school.

“A tale to write?” enquired the balding fellow, with the LIMP, pronounced L-imp. “Why a tale to write?”

“I feel that I must, since it is my hobby and my joy.”

“Then write dear lady, if you are indeed expensive.”

“I would, but for my life I fear that I have that dreaded thing that I cannot name.”

“Name it blonde woman, name it, you must not fear what’s in the name. Name it quickly as the backing music is becoming more sinister, and the room has become colder.”

A convenient breeze passes through causing the man, woman, and the scurrying shrew to shudder as the pitch from the violins increase.

“I can’t name it, to name it would be to admit it!”

The woman shrieked in horror and placed her white-gloved hand upon her reddening cheek. A strange action to take, but less strange when you considered the balding man with the big, strong, firm, and attractive belt had slapped the blue-eyed lady with his moisturised hand. Continue reading →