And so she spun the tale of long lost kingdoms and forgotten islands, of creatures long extinct and heroes that lay buried. Her words shaped worlds and left the audience near tears in the face of losses not their own and in elation at conquests and victories upon which they held no claim. She spoke reverently of Gods and beings beyond any other's description and of whom not one had heard of but of whom all found themselves worshipping nonetheless.  She conveyed with every syllable the grief of kingdoms slain, and of the passion and bravery on which new ones were born. With her mind and tongue she forged a reality in which the best and worst of mankind roamed alongside creatures and lands of myth, and it was this reality that every last listener's heart belonged to.
For she was the storyteller, and she made the stories true.

Skyla - 2015

This post is the rough copy of he first part of a piece I wrote for an assessment on exploring depth and emotions inspired by a line or lines of poetry - In my case I chose to write from the point of veiw of somebody currently homeless.

1.

‘A woman figure without fault’ / ‘All night in the unmade park’

The day burns me.

The space around me sings with life. Light. Laughter.

A bee hums drunkenly around my throat and I watch it out of the corner of my eye, plump and satisfied with its lot in life.

Children in the park dance nimbly between birches, and I wonder at the grace of naivety. These strange humans who still see the world through eyes filled with wonder and the belief that good undoubtedly exists and triumphs.

My mind clouds with summer days past, like I’m watching a sick show made up of everything I no longer have. Safety, happiness, freedom. Splashing through puddles, grazing my knee. The knowledge I could always find safety in my mother’s arms, a home to always go back to.

A girl with her frizzy hair pulled tightly back into pigtails is collecting sticks around the tree I lean against. As she rounds its gnarled, aged trunk she halts at my feet and regards me with an expression so free of judgment it causes my throat to tighten with emotion.

‘Can I have that?’, she points and I hand her the stick she desires, a moss covered thing in the shape of a wishing bone.

‘You know, if you hold the two bits that look like handles and spin, it will point you in the direction of treasure.’ I tell her, watching her face fill with the magic of the prospect. She grins and starts spinning, but her mother catches her arm mid-turn and she halts violently.

‘Don’t talk to men like that honey, and put that stick down it’s filthy.’ Her brisk voice fills me with cold and hate. I listen to the girl innocently explain its magical properties and the chill seeps further into me as I hear the women dismiss her belief so casually, taking the stick as she waits for her daughter to enter the car then dropping it on the side of the road. My heart breaks for the loss of another puzzle piece of that girls’ childhood. The cruelty to which she is denied the chance to keep magic in her life. The stick snaps under the tyres, and just like that it becomes merely a combination of cells, and nothing more.


Skyla - 2015

Arthur pt.1

As a young man Arthur was determined that he would never end up in a retirement home. As with all young people the prospect of becoming old had been something in the distant future that seemed as if it would never come. And even though he knew it eventually would, he was under the impression he would be one of those grandparents who did things like skydive when they’re 90, and live in a pretty townhouse somewhere with their abundant family. A bit like the family on TV that he was currently watching in order to drown out the tinny music being played from the retirement home speakers. The father was a stereotypical workaholic, the wife a pretty blonde struggling under the weight of housework and the kid’s troubled teenagers. Arthur knew that if he had a family they would be nothing like that.  

A nurse touched his shoulder and asked if he wanted any coffee. He did, black of course. Three sugars. That’s one sugar more than usual, because today there was an excess of visitors. Arthur watched Susie, a lively 81 year-old, with her granddaughter and her niece. Her niece wasn’t young herself, but she seemed to be one of those people who retains their youthful looks. Very annoying. But Arthur was not a bitter person, and he smiled at her when their eyes met. He stood up and walked to his room, lying on his wide single bed and closing his eyes.
 Life here was inescapably boring, and so Arthur liked to imagine he was somewhere else. Now he imagined he was a hot air balloon owner, who travels the world in his sturdy yellow balloon. Yellow, because it is his favourite colour. By his side is his pet ape (why not?) and together they see all the breath-taking views there are to see in the world. They watch the embers of sunlight die in the evening, from the best seats in the house. They gaze up at the candyfloss clouds with an uninterrupted view, free of the harsh spikes and jagged edges of cities to obstruct their line of sight. They would float to the mountains and greet the barren faces of the mighty ranges and observe in awe the mind-numbing scale of them. Of course they would have to land too, always in beautiful places with amazing food and wonderful people. 
Arthur would continue like this for as long as it contented him, and it was well past leaving time at the retirement home when he finally opened his eyes. 

27/05/15 - Skyla

A girl cycled past on a red bicycle and a dog jogged with it's tongue lolling behind a tall man on a morning run, but other than that it was quiet on that Saturday morning. One of Jason's favourite things about Paris was how hopeful is seemed, and he breathed it in as he made his way to his favourite cafe. He could begin to smell the bitter scent of Coffee and his spirits fluttered slightly.

Cafe Avion sat on a corner next to the road, it's umbrellas and tables just having been set out in the morning sunshine. He chose a table on the corner of the cobbled street and closed his eyes, after asking a friendly waiter for a black coffee.

A chair scraped and he opened his eyes to see a women sitting opposite him. His eyes widened in surprise but he quickly recovered, straightening in his chair.

"Rosie Faire. Im on the run." she stated. His mouth opened but no sound came out.

"Do you live near here? Can I go there?" She spoke as if she was asking him about the weather in her lilting, British accent. Again he wasn't sure how to respond.

"You're mute. My apologies. Well, I guess the danger of you tipping anyone off is averted." She grinned and then stopped abruptly.

"Sorry, that was rude." 

She nodded her head as she spoke and her red curls bounced. She had a heart shaped face and a little dimpled chin. Her eyes were large and her manner confident. She was dressed in denim shorts and a billowy green top which seemed to young for her abruptness. 

"I'm not mute. I'm just not entirely certain what the right thing to say is in this situation." He told her. 

21/03/15 - Skyla

Jason Malcom was not a happy man. He was not, however, a sad or angry man either. Rather he merely existed, willing himself to enjoy life's pleasures but failing to ignore the painful absence of love in his life. It was this that was on his mind the day Rosie Faire stumbled into it.

20/03/15 - Skyla

Moving surely towards the cliffs edge, the man recounted the memories and times passed which had ultimately led him to this dire situation. As if his footsteps were like milestones surpassed within his short history, each one whether it be rarely euphoric or commonly painful guided him closer to the ledge until at last he stood there. His toes hung over into space, his body leant squarely between the welcome unknown and the known which so abused him. Half safe, half gone, like his mind had been. Until, just like his mind, the safe became belittled by the call of the emptiness, and gravity itself could not hold up his sorrows. As he fell he found within himself the something that he had been searching for for so, so long - a spark of something that lit up his soul like fire, reminding him what it was like to feel again. And even if that spark was fear, as the cool water engulfed him his eyes closed with the weariness of carrying the world upon his shoulders, and he felt something he hadn't for what felt like a thousand lifetimes. As his body sunk his spirit soured, free at last to rattle the stars.

14/11/14 - Skyla

I sit on the graveyard fence and watch a magpie pick in the litter of autumn leaves. Part of me wonders what happened in the blur between leaving my house and getting here but I dispel it and enjoy the peacefulness that hangs in the air around me. I can see it like a film enveloping everything, not smothering but drifting so that if I reach out a hand it would tear between my fingers. The magpie squawks and the sound is bright blue and ripples through the film, pushing it out and around the noise. The grass is the kind of green that only appears on happy days, with small brave flowers blooming and swaying in the wind. They catch me and send tiny chimes in my mind, like a little private symphony. 

Behind me a gate clicks shut and the peaceful film retracts slightly , as if scared of the intruder. I don't have to look around to know its Charlie, and when he speaks the musical sound of his voice is as familiar as the lilting of my own. 

'It's bad today?' he asks, joining me at the fence. The magpie flies away and the sound of it's wings taking off seems bright and golden before my eyes. Its not bad, not here.

Charlie knows my silence and doesn't ask again, letting me continue living in this moment. He busies himself picking some of the chiming flowers instead. Bluebells. 

25/05/15 - Skyla