Lost Love

Written by Kvothe

Glittering jewels scattered across a black abyss,
Darkness consuming the edges of light, stealing warmth,
Cold biting bone deep, despair folds around me.
Empty space of the only one I have ever loved,
Heart bleeds. Remembers the gentle safety of her arms.

Then, as if answering my harboring call,
A graceful beauty wanders in, filling the room with joy.
But my heart falters, while blood runs cold with loneliness.
I can’t find those perfect words. I want to tell you how I feel,
All past hurts lost, with only a mind for you.

As the bravest of warriors, I smile on seeing you,
Heart melting, happiness burning, cheeks flush.
But another takes your hand and kisses your neck,
Territorial and yet tender he claims you. Forbidden fruit.
I walk away leaving my lonely heart on the floor by your feet.

Time passes and wounds heal but the hurts stay the same.

Having written this piece largely to pass the time while on holiday, Kvothe’s poem hits us where it most hurts. Losing a loved one to another can be torturous, particularly if the one you love doesn’t know your true feelings. Kvothe captures those truly dark and lonely moments, wraps it up in a box of heartache, and leaves. We can’t help but feel for the poet here. If you enjoyed Kvothe’s work, make sure to read his lyrical beauty, “Tinker’s Tale“. 

Featured Image CC // JLS Photography


Is It Wrong?

Written by Ashcloud

Is it wrong to be annoyed?
Is it ever justified?
She seems calm, cool, collected.
She is raging inside.

Is it wrong to be upset?
Is it a matter of circumstance?
She weeps over the smallest matter.
She is never seen when in this trance.

Is it wrong to be alone inside?
Is it easy to change this wrong?
She is always trying to let him in.
She has been alone for so long.

A lesson in reflection exudes from Ashcloud’s poem, where raw emotion is questioned through simple vocabulary. There are many small moments in our lives where we question others, but – more so – we question ourselves. It’s a haunting loneliness and, no doubt, we’ve all felt it. If you enjoyed Ashcloud’s work, feel free to view her other poems, including the heartfelt ‘A New Star is Born’ and ‘Sleepless Nights’.

Featured Image CC //  Artūrs Gedvillo

The Start of Something Beautiful

Written by Ricardo

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

The light which illuminated Grace’s front room was not the kind she was accustomed to. At this time (which was 21:03 on a Saturday night for anybody out of the know) Grace would usually have just landed on the sofa after spending exactly twenty-four minutes soaking in the bathtub and then dressing in her Marvel pyjamas; the television would be on Channel Four and she would begin watching her shows three minutes late.

But this time was different. Instead of the kit-cat clock which hung on her cream walls striking 21:03, its unblinking, unreal eyes gazing around the room as if afraid that she wouldn’t turn up one day and leave it with only its own incessant ticking for company, the clock showed 21:00 when Grace’s backside hit the sofa. This time, it wasn’t shielded from the eyes of her kit-cat clock with her usual Marvel pyjamas. Today she wore a Batman onesie. And to complete the utter anarchy which was her life in these few desperate moments, the light which illuminated her front room was the glow of the moon instead of her television.

And so Grace sat upon the sofa, alone except for her kit-cat clock, which for the moment she decided to called Terry, and looked around herself. And she noticed that by the light of the moon, everything was in fact a lot darker. And at 21:03 she turned the television on, and the light of a floating number four joined the moonlight in its game of showing Grace the darkest corners of her own front room. And she began to cry. Continue reading →


Written by Lilith

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

Could you eat all this? Image courtesy of sunsetstation

There’s a feast laid out before him, but he barely takes the time to let his eyes or mind register it properly before his hands have reached out and the first bite is in his mouth. It’s an apple, he realises, chewing energetically and swallowing it as fast as he can – eager to make room for the next mouthful.

Three more bites are enough, and he’s sick of it. The apple is delicious – red and shiny with a perfect crunch, sharp and sweet to the bite, but there is so much more on the table that requires his attention. He drops the apple and reaches out for a loaf of bread, tearing it in two and buttering it roughly before throwing it into his ready jaws.

The bread dries his mouth, and suddenly he is thirsty; his throat drying up too soon in the meal. His left hand finds a flagon of wine while his right is reaching for a dish of carrots, and he pours it straight down his throat without hesitation. It glugs as it makes his way into his body.

Already, his bloated face is reddening. He polishes off the carrots with no more than the odd courtesy chew, and reaches for the platters of meat before him. They have been prepared to be eaten immediately, and as he tosses turkey and ham slices into his maw, the first trickle of saliva makes its way around his lower lip, and dribbles onto his chin.

More wine. More bread. More meat. He grabs a chicken leg, stripping the flesh from the bone and baring it completely. The bone, useless to him now nothing edible remains, drops to the floor and is forgotten. As the table clears and the meal is over, one small fact does not escape this man. He may be sated, but he is not happy – he is alone.

Gluttony was written by Lilith several years ago, as an experimental piece to aid her general writing – we love her disgusting descriptions! If you’d like something a little gentler of Lilith’s, please check out her most recent fiction 35.2.

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.

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.