Category Archives: Creative Writing

Lola’s Story

My name is Lola and I’m 23 years old.  My hair is dark, past my shoulders.  My eyes, the windows to my soul, are unreadable, or so men have told me.  They have hidden depths.  If they knew what was really hidden in those depths, they would never sleep again.  I couldn’t even begin to describe to them the horrors and humiliations that I’ve suffered over the last decade or so….but I sometimes think it would be amusing to try, to watch them squirm and writhe in horror, whimper pitifully like the  bitches they really are.

Men find me attractive but that’s not really surprising.  I have a dancer’s body and I’m beautiful, or so I’ve been told, but beauty really is only skin deep.  There is darkness in my soul.  I’m damaged goods…

I was 11 when I was taken.  It was the day of my audition to play Marie in The Nutcracker.  I’d practiced for months and, with casual childish arrogance, had assumed that the part was mine. I just knew that I was going to be Marie!  How could it not be?  I’d danced each step to perfection.  I rushed gleefully from the stage into my mother’s arms, expecting her to be as excited as I.  Instead she urged caution, warned me that the part wasn’t yet mine.  Pushing her away I yelled that she didn’t know what she was talking about, to go away and that I hated her.  Those were the final words to my mother.  How often I’ve regretted them, wished that I could take them back, although I doubt that she remembers them now, for I have been replaced.  Replaced with a perfect daughter, one who doesn’t shout that she hates her mother.  This perfect daughter is a fetch.

Quite simply I hate her.  She has stolen my life, the life I should be leading.  I have considered killing her, torturing her, making her scream and beg for mercy, like they did to me.  They stole 12 years of my life and she should pay for that.  All the while I’ve been living in that hell, she has been going to school, making friends, dating….all those everyday things that we all take for granted.  Except people like me…

But how could I?  What would I tell my parents?  How would they ever understand?  How would I ever begin to explain?

What if they didn’t want me?  Their perfect daughter replaced with me.  Their lives would be turned upside down, it would be as though I were the fetch.  They don’t know me anymore.  I’m damaged immeasurably.  I’m not sure the old Lola exists any more. That place made me into what I am today and that person is destined to walk alone.  It can be no other way.

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Creative Writing Ink Prompt April 3rd (see my post yesterday)
Creative Writing Ink Prompt April 3rd (see my post yesterday)

I want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I belong here, as much as I don’t want to, I belong here. I try to ignore the icy tendrils of fear that grip my heart as I push open the rusty iron gates knowing that she is here waiting for me in the distance, past the treeline where the graveyard sits hidden from the road.

I won’t allow the dread to take hold. I can do this. I’m strong. I’m not that frightened little girl anymore. ‘I hope she’s late’. The thought creeps across my mind, unbidden. I know better, she is never later. Sure enough, there she is, leaning against the willow tree, long red talons the colour blood contrasting viciously with the pale trunk of the tree. She knows I’m there, this woman with the face of an angel but a heart so withered and blackened that it would make Satan himself weep.

‘Hello Lola’ says my Aunt ‘It’s time to go home’.

Creative Writing Ink – Writing Prompts

One of the major reasons I created this blog was to get over my writers block.  I wanted to write regularly to get back into the habit.  Once I did this, I reasoned, I’d be bitten by the writing bug again.  To be honest, the want to write has never gone away.  Life got in the way for a while and when I was in a position to write again, I found that I had writers block.

I took short creative writing class at the local adult education centre which was great.  I sculpted a story, some wonderful characters….then didn’t go to the final class where we had to read out our story.  I chickened out.  I was too afraid to share my story!  I’m smiling at the irony of this as I type it…a writer is too afraid to tell her story!

I sincerely believed that I would be engaged in a writing profession from an early age.  I planned on a career in journalism and that I’d write novels in my spare time.  I was always sensitive about my work and whether people would like it but it was the kind of thing that I wanted to read.  I had a story to tell.  I didn’t just have a story to tell.  I had dozens of stories in my head, buzzing around, vying for attention.  I had to keep a notebook with me so that I didn’t lose track of all those ideas.

I don’t know what happened to that notebook…

It’s funny how life turns out though isn’t it?  I didn’t become a journalist and I no longer write.  I used to miss it but I became used to it.  Sometimes I’d read a fantastic book and long to sculpt a story like that but I didn’t know how to write anymore…I’m still not sure I do.

I’ve been dabbling at it over the last few years, writing up the Roleplay sessions that I have with friends, developing the character that I developed until he or she became a living breathing thing.  Remind me to tell you the story of Rupert Lloyd Foxe one day!!

I think the time has come to get back in the saddle. 

I’ve discovered a website called Creative Writing Ink.  They have a prompt section on their website where they publish a picture and you write a story around that picture in your blog and post it to their site.

It will be a big thing for me to have people read what I’ve written but I think that’s the next step for me!