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



The door slams behind me and I slide down the old wood. My fingers are trembling and my hands are covered with thick, jammy blood. I don’t know what happened. I think Sven put me in here.

I don’t know why he put me in here. There must’ve been a death. A human death. I try to remember, although I’m struggling. Whenever a wolf changes, there’s always half an hour where you’re purely a wolf. No human emotions, no human memories.

This is the most deadly time to be a wolf. Depending on how many packs there are in the woods, it can be quite literally Kill or be killed. So many murders have gone unsolved in the woods. I still find it hard to believe that it was only last year that George had butchered that village boy, Samuel.

I hear a sharp rap on the door, and I realise that I’m in a priest’s hole. I hear a voice. “I’m DCI Johnson. I’m investigating the potential murder of Scarlet Blake.”

“Oh!” replied a young female voice. “Where was she found?”

“In the woods out the back of your property.”

“The woods you say? Are you sure she was murdered? It could’ve been the wolves.”

“The wolves?”

“Yes. When I was five, my sister was taken by the wolves.”

“Your sister?” I couldn’t see anything. I imagined that he was recording he every word.

“Yes. My sister was twelve at the time.”

“Was her body ever found?”

“No, Inspector.”

“What was her name?”

“Astrid. Astrid Ballinger.” I have to use every ounce of my self-control to stop myself from screaming out. Of all the houses, Sven chose the one which housed young Jasmine. I don’t think I’ve seen her since I was turned, since she was five. I imagined that Johnson had stopped her writing to look at Jasmine sharply. “You sure?”

“Yes… why?”

She sighed. “I was investigating that case.” She paused. “Some of her DNA was found at the scene.” I felt myself shaking.

“That’s impossible. She was killed by the wolves.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean?” Jasmine’s voice went very frigid. 

Johnson matched her voice with equal coldness. “Her body was never found.” 


So, there’s a little post for you about Astrid the Werewolf. I told you you won’t see these characters for the last time. Don’t worry, there’ll be another short story/poem/whatever-I-feel-like-writing very soon.

I’m sorry I haven’t posted anything for a while. Life took over. But I will post very soon to make up for it.

– The Empress

Continue reading

Another Short Story that needs a title

Dear Followers,

The last time I requested a title, I got nothing. It still needs a title. Please, actually respond to this request, because I actually want a title.

Onto the story: It was inspired by two episodes of ‘Silent Witness’- Truth Part 1 and Truth Part 2. The victims in Part 1 are kidnapped and tortured before being poised by Anthrax (oops, spoiler) as part of some sick guy’s plan to get noticed. Perhaps not so much Anthrax, but more drug lord kidnap thing, I am open to all title suggestions.Now, my story:

She had been there too long to know the difference between night and day, winter or summer, rain or sun. She didn’t know whether she was alive or dead. If she was dead, she wondered what she’d done to anger God so much to put her in this Hell. If she was alive… She didn’t want to think about that. The door opened and two people walked in. A curvy silhouette followed them as they dragged her to a cuffed wooden frame. They suspended her, and she saw the curvy silhouette walk around her. “Have you gut the whip?” she asked, her voice sounding muffled and distant.
“Yes.” The woman nodded as her victim closed her eyes. And the pain. It felt like a snake was digging its teeth into her as it dragged through her skin. “Quicker, faster, harder,” the woman barked.
“Sorry.”  And then the pain again. A saw was slicing through her flesh roughly. Warm liquid trickled down the back of her legs before she was taken down again. As her captors exited, she slumped into her knees, the only sound in the room being the erratic drip of her blood onto the cold stone. She had been there too long to cry.


My English Essay

Remember when I posted my ‘A Little Something to Inspire’ poem? Well, here’s the actual English paper it inspired. Take note: This is how you write rubbish that receives an A+.

Life is art. To succeed at life, you need to be an artist.

You need to understand that life is beautiful. The gentle sway of the trees in the light wind. The faint patter of rain on the window. The clouds catching the fiery rays of Sun as the day fades to night.

You need to understand that life is passion. The fire in a musician’s heart. The power of a painter’s brush. The legacy of a writer’s pen.

But then, how does one become an artist?

You need to sing when you can’t hear the song. You need to chase the sun into the depths of the night. You need to smile when you want to run. You need to love when you can’t trust; it may be the best thing you’ve ever done.

You need to dance when you’ve fallen down. You need to laugh when you’re all alone. You need to hitchhike when you’ve lost your way. You need to fly when you’ve lost your wings. You need to find the sun in never-ending rain. You need to find the light in eternal darkness.

You need hope in the darkest of hours. When your friends have turned your back on you, you need to leave before you’re chained.

When you’re imprisoned by your fears, you need to let them go. Relax; what you’re fearing isn’t the worst that could happen.

Your life is now. It isn’t a dress rehearsal. You can’t change the script; there isn’t one. You need to seize life with both hands. If it kicks in the gut, brush yourself off and kick it back harder.

As the day ends and you close your eyes, don’t sleep. Dream. If it’s bad, learn to fight it and find a better one. You might find the thing you’re looking for.

And when you do, then what?

Well, your life is a story. You have to write your story to the best of your ability. Every person you meet is a new character – and you, the author, can make them however you want. Befriend them; they become the core of your happiness. Loathe them, and now they are your antagonists.

Feel free to make mistakes – only the best characters are flawed. I, myself am living proof that the errors of your past only add to the masterpiece that is life.

But sometimes happiness is only found when shared. But how do you share happiness?

Find love. Without love, the masterpiece that you as the artist has struggled so hard to perfect will be bland. Finding love will add the colour your artwork needs. Whether it’s a platonic love for your friends, or a romance with someone special; whether it’s an obsession with a tv show, or a craving for a celebrity. Your love will make your artwork a masterpiece.

An easy way to find love is through starting hobbies. I like writing, one of my friends likes blogging, another is a hockey genius, and one even likes Maths!

Make sure to share these hobbies. A musician should participate in school ensembles, and one with a more artistic temperament should join the art club. Perhaps one with a more physical persona should participate in sporting activities. Who knows? You could meet somebody worth double their weight in gold.

I have only given you an inkling on how to make your life an artistic masterpiece. There is so much more you could do to become an artist. Life is wonderful, yet repulsive. You have to find the beauty, the wonder, the excitement in a world of ugliness and disgust. You must if you want to thrive.

Life is art.

Become the artist.

And there’s my A+ English essay that is (in my humble opinion) absolute rubbish. Make sure to vote on the poll!

-The Empress

 


In the Water

A poem for you because I wanted to, and I’m really bored:

In the water, I am free

In the water, I am me.

The water rushes through my ears

The people’s hate; I cannot hear.

Beneath the waves is where I play

Alone yet tranquil, everyday.

The water quickly fills my eyes

Masking the pain behind my lies

The bubbles stream up to the sun

Briefly in peace, I don’t want to run.

The clouds hide the water’s glare

Just for a moment, I see the loathsome stares

I dive in, the water’s glass cracks

Like my mental walls as they are smashed.

Sometimes I wish it would all just end

The loneliness, the spite; the lack of real friends.

In the water, I am free

In the water, I am me.

Alone yet calm, I await my Death

For that euphoric feeling before my last breath.

Ugh, I need to motivate myself to do my geography. Wish me luck!

-The Empress