The Muse’s Journal: Personal reflections

  The swish of my tail The twitch of my ears I lay low to the ground and pounce I twist and I turn I claw and I snitch I let out my call and meow My playtime is over I jump onto the bed Nuzzle the stranger's hand I purr and nudge her hand I keep her happy I sit by her arms Until I decide this isn't my place I move down the bed I fall asleep on her toes Relaxed.

  The rain drummed softly against Muriel’s purple umbrella, each drop a tiny heartbeat in the crowded square. Behind her, the white-marbled fountain whispered its own music, water threading through the air like a secret. She stood still amid the bustle, a single calm point in the storm, her gloved fingers brushing over the golden heart-shaped locket at her throat. Inside were two faded black-and-white photos—faces from a life she longed to replace. Maybe tonight… maybe this time… she thought, hoping the empty spaces would finally be filled. She checked her watch. Her pulse quickened. And then—there he was. Magnus slipped through the crowd with a purposeful grace, his hand reaching for hers before she could breathe. The moment his fingers closed around her glove, the world seemed to part for them, the path to the waiting hotel opening like a promise. Inside, the concierge lifted away her umbrella while Magnus gently helped her out of her long black coat. The purple velvet dress...

Another short story - I had plans to make this into a longer one, but other things kept me from doing so!    The sun slipped away behind a wall of bruised grey clouds as we left the city behind, vanishing so abruptly it felt deliberate—almost as if it wanted no part of what waited for us out here. London faded into a distant memory as I stared through the spider-webbed cracks of the rear window, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar or safe. Nothing answered back. The clouds cracked open instead, unleashing a downpour so heavy it seemed to smother the world. I turned to the side window with another sigh. Towering hedgerows pressed against the narrow, twisting road, swallowing everything but the path directly ahead. I couldn’t tell where we were going, nor where we had come from—only that the last town we passed felt impossibly far away, as if it had never existed at all. Between there and here lay only this suffocating lane, dissolving into a churned path of mud...

 This was written for the story that I am also writing, but I love the imagery so here we go: I slept deeper than I had in days—so deep it felt as if the world loosened its grip on me entirely. And in that depth, something opened. I say I dreamt, yet it was more than a dream, less than reality… a vision suspended between breath and oblivion. I was no longer myself. I was a blood-red phoenix , rising effortlessly through a sky so vast it seemed to breathe around me. Flames unfurled from my wings and tail—silken ribbons of fire that curled and shimmered, spilling molten embers that tumbled into the wind like falling stars. Everything glowed in shades of crimson and gold. Beneath me stretched lands I had never seen—emerald plains so lush they gleamed like polished jade under sunlight. Hills rolled like sleeping giants, rising and folding in endless waves, pausing only to give way to wide, serene flatlands. Rivers glittered like silver serpents, dividing the country into four perfect...

A Short Story I wrote whilst doing my creative writing course. The wind clawed at Dixy’s long ebony coat and tugged mercilessly at her short blue skirt as she raised her fist to knock on the heavy oak door. The sky churned above her—grey clouds twisting like something alive, waiting. Yet Dixy’s smile refused to dim. Today marked the beginning of her new, independent life. She smoothed her skirt to keep it from whipping up in the rising gusts, a shiver of excitement skittering across her skin. After all the searching, she was finally here. The door swung open. Fred filled the doorway, tall enough that Dixy had to tip her chin up, her heeled boots suddenly feeling less like fashion and more like vulnerability. The look on Fred’s face was…odd. Not anger, exactly, but something sharp and unwelcoming—as though she were assessing Dixy rather than greeting her. A flicker of the future, perhaps. Dixy dismissed the thought. She was a little early, after all. She extended her hand. Fred took...

  In a picture on a wall There is a boy so small, A boat behind him sits Wooden boards behind him fit Into the dingy ready to sail. Mute-white material to hail To the top of the tallest mast. On the mantle-piece below All sitting in a perfect row Many knots that link from mast to bow Like a common knowledge you have to know To know all these knots remembering The simplistic terms for sailing. Here we are today sitting by the river Now that small boy an adult – the giver Of that vital information With determined concentration How a boat is rigged From head to foot and ribbed To set sail upon a water clear And how we can pretend to be A simple brigadier I watch him with much delight My own knots not so bright My small dingy low to the ground The wind clipping metal – an interesting sound I enjoy the sailing Not the boring rigging On my own I could sail afar Much better and quieter than the car.