Danse Macabre

large (2015_10_24 00_02_43 UTC)

Thank you to the random person who posted this on weheartit.com . Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween, my boys and ghouls! In honour of this creeeeepy time of year, I have written a poem, aptly titled ‘Danse Macabre (Dance of Death, for all of you who don’t know French) ‘. I hope you enjoy! 🙂

The night is young

The moon still low

The stars still dim

The wind still slow

Night bleeds through the sky

Like water in dirt

Wine on a dress

Blood through a shirt

The bodies then come

From the graves they start to stand

They’ve come out to play

To dance while they can

And then comes Death

Brooding and dark

Mysterious as they come

A heart cold and stark

And then the music starts

A tuneless fiddle

A dented trumpet

And a harp in the middle

He extends a hand towards me

Long fingers wrap around mine

He looks deep into my soul

Sending chills down my spine

He spins me around the graveyard

He twirls me under the tree

Where a girl hung herself;

She was one out of three

He wraps an arm around my waist

And pulls me in close

He stares in my eyes

And I think my blood froze

“You’ll see me soon,” he said.

More of a command than a promise

One kiss sealed our deal

He lips were cold, chilled by darkness

And as the morning showed her face

The music suddenly stopped

The dance suddenly ceased

And to their tombs the dead did flock

And Death left me alone

He retreated to the underworld

And it pained me to stay here

A living human couldn’t join his world

And now that I was all alone

The world looked so grim

And I wished that I was dead

Because then I could be with him

I hoped you liked my Dance with Death! Feel free to tell me what you’re doing for Halloween! I’m dying to know. Now excuse while I go and steal chocolate off little kids while they go trick-or-treating eat lots of chocolate under the bed.

Happy Halloween!

-The Empress


The Demon

In English, we had to write a horror story. Our English teacher is a complete scaredy cat. So of course, I tried to write the most terrifying horror story a girl my age could get way with without being called into the principal’s office. Anyway, here is my horror story. Enjoy!

We had to design covers for our story. Thank you to the obliging eye that was vastly edited during photoshop.

We had to design covers for our story. Thank you to the obliging eye that was vastly edited using photoshop. It was a painful process.

The Demon lurked in the shadows and waited. The women walking home were spotlighted by the streetlights, all of them obliviously falling under The Demon’s judgment. He was salivating over which lovely lady he would spend the night with.

The Demon wondered when he’d become so predatory. He smiled as he thought back to nine years ago, when he was not The Demon.

She was beautiful. Blonde hair fell over her shoulders, her blue eyes full of uncorrupted innocence and her lips sensuous and inviting. Angelina was the epitome of perfection. She was only 19 – fresh out of school. Luke wondered what she was doing in Paris with a dark-minded 22-year-old like him. All Luke knew was that he wanted her. He wanted to be the one to take her innocence.

“When are you going to introduce me to your parents?” she whined. “I’ve been waiting so long to meet them!”

Luke cast his eyes downward. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I –” Should he tell her? Not yet. “I just don’t think it’s time yet.”

“I just don’t think it’s time yet.” The Demon watched a couple fighting as they walked home. She was saying that she didn’t believe they were ready for a family while he was desperate for a child. “When then?” he snarled. “When?”

“When you get a job, when you stop drinking, when I know that there’ll be a job for me when I come back to work, when we can afford a baby…”

“God, you’re impossible!”

The Demon watched as they fought, recognising the man’s anger issues. He reminded him of his father.

His father was The Devil. He enjoyed causing trouble for people and making their lives Hell. Luke had tried to lessen his father’s influence on him. He’d even shortened his name from Lucifer to Luke. That was before he’d become The Demon. The Demon thought back to when he’d started to become who he was. It was a while ago now.

It all started when he was 16. A boy born to be bad, Luke had come in late after stealing a bottle of gin. His parents were fighting again.

“You can’t just let him wander around the neighbourhood, taking things and beating people up. What if he gets caught? What if someone has enough of him and beats him up?”

“Then he can handle himself. He is my son, and he’s merely following his destiny!”

“But –”

“Ah, shut up woman!” Luke watched in horror as his father closed his fist and punched his wife. He watched as he did it again. And again. And again.

His mother scrambled around, looking for something to defend herself with, as The Devil towered over her. She eventually grabbed hold of a knife, but it was no use. In less than a minute, his father had overpowered her. Her blood pooled around Luke’s feet, creeping through his sneakers and soaking his socks.

The Demon has always remembered that day. He remembered how his father had calmly cleaned up the blood, and how he was forced to bin his clothes. His mother’s body was burnt in the backyard the next day. He remembered how he had gathered up the ashes to make a makeshift burial.

The Demon was brought back to reality by a girl walking past. Those eyes, that hair. A pang of sadness hit him as he remembered that it couldn’t possibly be Angelina. He’d been there when she died.

He went back to when he was 22. His father was sitting with his back to his son.

“Dad –”

“I know about the girl.”


“You want to marry her?”


He sighed. “Lucifer. Take a look at yourself. You’re my son. You can’t possibly marry her.”

“I will do it, even if I don’t have your blessing.”

“Thought you might say that.” A large armchair spun round to reveal Angelina, bound and gagged. Her eyes widened as The Devil clicked his fingers. Flames engulfed her and soon, she was Angelina no more. Luke watched as she was murdered by his father. Just like his mother.

The Demon constantly thought back to that day. He watched as a buxom bombshell walked past his hiding spot as he reminisced the repercussions of that event with pleasure.

He’d crept into his father’s room, where he lay defenceless beneath the sheets. From underneath his cloak, he pulled out a large cleaver. He thought back to his mother and the smell of her bloodied body, turning into ash in a matter of hours. He thought back to Angelina, the final look of terror on her face as she realised she was about to die. Two defenceless women. Dead.

He looked at his father. Without any emotion, Luke swung his arm and butchered his father. One, two, three blows, and he refused to stop. He enjoyed the sound of bones snapping at his touch. He enjoyed the sight of his father’s mangled body. He enjoyed the feel of the cleaver in his hand. He enjoyed the smell of blood on the sheets. He enjoyed the way he could almost taste his father’s pain.

After that night, there was nothing left for Luke. Suspicion would fall onto him, and he couldn’t allow that. He’d shed his identity, the person he was. He’d became a shadow of himself.

From that moment on, he’d become The Demon.

His father hadn’t been his last victim. He would use women, for his own needs, his own pleasure before leaving them, throats cut, lives gone. It wouldn’t be until much later that he realised he was no better than his father.

But it was too late now. He’d turned to crime, and there was no going back. He enjoyed the adrenaline of murder, the high that powerless women gave him.

The Demon watched as an attractive brunette strutted past. He crept out from the shadows and followed her home. He’d found his prey for the night.

So obviously the formatting isn’t that brilliant (damn you, WordPress!), but I am interested in what you think, so leave a comment! (God, I sound like a YouTuber…)

Well, thank you for reading and I hope that you have a lovely rest of your life!

-The Empress

An Update on Life

The Gentleman's GuideRecently, I had a friend who had a birthday. Her birthday present from me was an anthology. I didn’t want to wrap it up, so I hid it in her English book, but I refused to let her open it. It was actually quite funny…

Anyway, why am I telling you this? Becuase you can read the anthology yourself on my Wattpad account! In fact, here’s the link: https://www.wattpad.com/story/49607386-the-gentleman%27s-guide

All the info about updates can be found there. I hope you enjoy

-The Empress

P.S: Happy Birthday TangerineTrees99!

A reflection on life from someone who is more pessimistic than I

Here is the first paragraph of an intro I wrote for a novel (or a novella. Or a short story. Or uncompleted trash).This is from the perspective of the narrator, who is a maid for some aristocratic girl. These two live in a house that seems to run itself (including cooking the food) while the aristocrat falls in love with a boy, makes him live with her, before catching him doing something she doesn’t like and torturing him to either insanity or death. In short, it’s a better (don’t you love my ego?), more gothic version of Taylor Swift’s Blank Space (Got a lot of Starbucks lovers – Oops, ex- lovers).

There. I’ve said it. I write stories based on songs.

Okay, I’ll shut up now, and let you read.

I think we have storms for a reason. I think God, or Whoever is up there, sends them to tell us about how our lives are going. The brooding clouds are our typical, mundane lives, the endless rain is the sadness that comes from broken dreams, and the thunder is the anger we feel about things we can’t change. But then lightning flashes, and we have light, hope and excitement. Until, a split second later, everything goes back to the way it was. Only it’s worse.

I’m so proud of myself: I pasted this into Grammarly and it came up as perfect! No grammatical errors!
Now excuse me while I go get a chocolate biscuit to celebrate and waste 90 minutes of my life watching the best television show ever- Midsomer Murders.

Until next time,

-The Empress

The Gentlemen’s Guide to Picking up Girls

I’m currently in the process of writing an anthology for my friend’s birthday in September. This series is about a politically incorrect and cynical English teacher who works at a private girls’ school. His name is George Rothschild.

I had been refraining from posting a story because I don’t want to ruin the surprise for my friend. However, I haven’t posted anything for over a month and besides, she’ll probably like to “try before she buys.”

The chef set a deliciously colourful martini in front of me, earning him an impressive tip. “Thanks, Chef,” I called before dipping a piece of scallop into the correct dipping sauce. Whoever came up with the idea of combining a teppanyaki restaurant with a bar was a genius. I heard a rustle of material as a young woman with money sat one seat away from me. She was wearing a cut-out red evening gown, and her perfect blonde hair tumbled over her shoulder, and her fake tan wasn’t even orange! She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t stunning, elegant, or graceful. She was hot. If I put a piece of bacon on her, it would burn. I enjoyed looking at her. “Can I buy you a drink?” She turned and looked at me seductively. Her eyes were an unattractively muddy blue, but she had more than enough curves to make up for it. “Vodka and tonic, if you don’t mind, Mr…?” “Rothschild. George Rothschild.” “Mr Rothschild.” She looked no older than 22, ten years my junior. She slid onto the bar stool next to me, however when I followed her gaze, a Japanese chef on the other side of the room had caught her eye. “I’ve never had teppanyaki before,” she hinted, taking a sip of her concoction. She looked at me innocently. How I would love to corrupt her. “Chef!” I called. The squat Japanese man who’d made a habit of serving me waddled up to the hot plate. “Yes, Mr Rothschild?” “May I please have a small fried rice? The Miss will have a medium rare steak.” “Certainly.” The blonde smiled at me secretively. “So what is your profession that allows you to make accurate predictions about a girl’s favourite style of meat?” she asked. I struggled not to squirm in my seat at the question. What is it with twenty-somethings and questions about jobs? “I’m a teacher,” I replied. She raised her eyebrow. “Well,” she said, placing her drink down. “I’m a shopgirl at Chanel.” Maybe teaching wasn’t so bad. The Chef started cooking the steak and a flame rose up, bathing her in a thin orange light. He cut up the steak finely and placed it in her bowl. “Thanks, Chef!” I smiled. She nibbled on her meat and then began waving her chopsticks around. “No, don’t do that! That’s rude in Japanese culture!” She put the chopsticks down hastily. “I’m so sorry, you must think me culturally ignorant.” She batted her eyelids apologetically. Of course I thought her culturally ignorant. She was a Chanel shopgirl, for goodness sake! But I didn’t say this. “No, it’s fine. You know now.” The chef took our plates away. “Thanks, Chef!” I called, handing him my credit card. The blonde faked a yawn, thrusting her breasts out provocatively. “I’m afraid I have to go to bed. I do wish that I could invite you up for a drink.” She smiled at me coyly, her hips swaying naturally as she entered the lift. “Apartment 70, level 12,” the chef said. I blinked, confused, and then it hit me. “Thanks, Chef,” I called, and, grinning like an idiot, I followed her into the lift. I didn’t even know her name.

There’s the first story! I’ve written another two, and I’m in the process of writing a third. At this rate, it’ll be a Christmas Present.

Ugh, I really need to get my creative juices flowing. I’m currently in this bland, unimaginative blur. This time last year, I was writing daily. What is wrong with me?

Anyway, I’ll post soon.
But for now, that’s it from me!

– The Empress

P.S: Is it too much to ask you to nominate me for the Liebster Award (what does Liebster even mean?)?

Actually, given my current state of blogging, it is. Yeah, it is. Okay, just ignore my egotistical ramblings.

– The Empress

A Little Bit of Celebrity Spotting – Jazz Style

Over the weekend, I went to this awesome thing called Generations in Jazz. The category my band was in was Division 4.2 and we came sixth out of twenty! By the way, I’m second trumpet (#harmonies).

That wasn’t the only thing that was great.

On the Sunday, the last day, all the famous people that had performed that day were out and about signing stuff and taking pictures. I got a picture with James Morrison AND Ross Irwin!

James Morrison is one the most acclaimed trumpeters today and without him, Generations wouldn’t exist. He has a ridiculously high range, which he flaunts at every available opportunity, and he is a wealth on knowledge when it comes to improving your trumpet playing. This year, he had a reunion with the band he used to play with over 20 years ago! And guess who got their signatures? That’s right. A whole page of signatures.

Signatures of James Morrison's Band 2015

These are all the signatures from James Morrison’s band, including Jeff Clayton (saxophone), John Morrison (drums), Mark Nightingale (trombone), James Morrison (trumpet), and the one in the bottom right hand corner is Ross Irwin (also trumpet)!

Some friends of mine went to the trumpet workshop, where James and Ross were speaking. We learned a whole heap of stuff – although I still don’t get circular breathing…

Anyway, after that, we decided that we weren’t leaving without a picture with Ross. So we went looking for him around the Division 1 tent. Instead of Ross, though, we found James! So we got a picture with him.

One down.

We got lunch, but we weren’t giving up on Ross – he was friends with our band leader after all. We banded with a couple of other girls, and together, we went back to the Div. 1 tent to look for him. That’s when we found James Morrison’s band.  My friend bought their CD and got that signed while I pulled out my best notebook (I’m a writer, don’t look surprised. I had three if you must know.) and let them pass it down the line, and got ALL their signatures.

We then found Ross, and finally, FINALLY, we got our photo. I also got his signature.

And that, my fellow followers, is how you use school events to go celebrity spotting- Jazz Style.

– The Empress

P.S: My brother was so jealous… He still got a couple of awesome trombone solos, so it’s not all doom and gloom for him. But it was still awesome seeing his face when I showed him my loot. Priceless.

Hell Have No Fury Like This Woman Scorned

Here is an elegy I wrote. Well, more of a narrative poem. But don’t you think that calling it an elegy makes it sound more sophisticated?

A girl met a boy
It was love at first sight
She approached him with caution
And then stayed the night

By the morning he was gone
He’d left without a trace
He was allowed to live his life
While she hid in disgrace

Within a month a lump had formed
And she knew then what had happened
The devil had entered her womb
With a babe whose soul was blackened

She told a lady of the church
A woman that she could trust
Then the lady opened her mouth
Then the girl’s noose was cast

She was taken to court
In a rather grand affair
The judge found her guilty
An adultress beyond repair

She was cast out from the world
A scarlet letter on her chest
So she took matters into her hands
And invited the judge as a guest

Just a dribble of hemlock
Then her work was done
His face turned blue with death
By the dawn of the Sun

Then she tracked down her rougue lover
The devil who fathered her child
She found him with his ship
And a reputation that was quite wild

By this time the lump had grown
And the baby had started to kick
Walking became a struggle
And the pain had set in quick

She set to work with haste
A plan was forming in her mind
His death should be abrupt
But she felt this was too kind

So she loosened the planks
And allowed rot to set in
Then she stood back and waited
For her fun to begin

A cry came from his throat
As the water trickled in
And his eyes grew wide with shock
Over judgement of his sin

She was standing on the docks
His child in her womb
And watched as he was dying
His ship sinking to its doom

Because my poems are full of sunshine and rainbows (sarcasm)!

Anyway, please excuse me while  I watch the rain. Where I live, we have short, yet heavy bursts of rain throughout the day.

See you soon (I hope)

– The Empress

The Imagination and Poison

Given the astounding response I ha to my last post (sarcasm detected), I decided to write you something for Easter.

Just kidding! This is completely unrelated to Easter. It’s just the timing of posting. Enjoy your chocolate 🙂

Think of poison. You don’t even know you’ve been struck until it’s too late. And then comes the pain. A burning fire spreads through you like a prickly blanket of nettles, clawing at you like an untameable beast before that final moment when it stops. You realise that Death’s cold, clammy hands are crawling over you, about to steal you, and as you finally accept the inevitable, you feel a flicker of the greatest euphoria you’ve ever known the moment that you die. Now imagine that all of these twisted felings can be felt within a split second.
That is the curse of the imagination. Like Prometheus and the Eagle, by the time you recover from the shock of imagination, it comes at you again, battering at you relentlessly, until finally, you have to give in and put pen to paper. That is the daily occurernce that goes on in the mind of a writer.
It’s like a wave that washes over you repeatedly. The first time is heart-stopping: cold, biting and overwhelming. But then you get used to it. You get used to the tingle that shudders down your back when you get a new idea, the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when you think of a character, the stone that drops to your feet when you write that first sentence.
However there will always be times when it hits you again. It occupys your mind costantally like a teenage lover, and you know, you just know, that it’s the one. That it’s your greatest work. That soon, the world will be screaming your name. You will be on shelves beside J.K Rowling and Agatha Christie. You will be remembered with Shakespeare and Charles Dickens.
And with that finality, you set to work. Day in, day out, until you’re finished. Then when you do, you feel empty. Now what?
Well, the poison strikes again. And the ruthless cycle that your imagination has unwillingly sucked you into repeats itself again and again and again. And you, as the writer, not only embrace it, but you consume it: because you know in the depths of your heart that the day you lose this feeling, leave this cycle, is the day you die.
And you love it.

Opinions welcome. No, opinions encouraged, mandatory even.

Happy Easter!

– The Empress

My First Sonnet!

I have been dying to write a sonnet for AGES! So, today, considering I had no schoolwork, and I had just had my State Music Camp Audition (which I completely screwed up, for the curious), I decided I would write one. This one is written in the freer, English style, which is often called the Shakespearean style, compared to the tighter Italian style, called the Petrarchan style. In true Shakespearean style, I’m calling this Sonnet 1.

I do not think that you know what love is
For your behaviour is horrid and cruel
And yet you insist with you I’ll find bliss
But you forget I’m no longer your fool.

The loved we shared was a lethal poison
That slowly killed my unfortunate soul
And although we had a nice liaison
You soon made it exceedingly awful.

But you promised it would be different
And like a dumb fool, I fell for your lies
Then to me you became indifferent
Now I just wished you had seen through my eyes.

Through your own fault you lie at my feet dead
My bullet passed through your exquisite head.

All opinions welcome! This is my first sonnet, and I would like to write more, so all the advice you guys can give is greatly appreciated 🙂

-The Empress

My Pen

Combing through some stuff on my iPad (while listening to iTunes Radio!) and found this. I though I would share it with you because I’m too lazy to come up with anything current. I have to be honest,

My pen

Is my knife

My ink is my blood

My paper

Is my flesh

My words

Are my jugular

And now I am dead

Wow, that was a happy poem (sarcasm intended)! Anyway, I’ve got a couple of big projects I need to do, so back to procrastination.

– The Empress