Tag Archives: creativity

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! ūüôā


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


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



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


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


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.