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Sun sets, Moon-dawn, Party banter On and on. Across the room A handsome soul, Once chubby boy Now twice as old. Laughing, chatting, Stars in his eyes, A life of joy Picked from the skies.
I ended my letter with an unintelligible scribble, simultaneously rounded and geometric all in one irregular movement.
Her childhood was simple and idyllic much of it spent walking through fields with an older man an allotment keeper who knew the land so well.
I'm working in pig heaven, Such a long, long way from Devon, The footie's on our little screen, In our hut surrounded in greens, I miss my writing, I really do, Especially when knee-deep in poo.
Slurry slurry everywhere It's all that I can smell, Hanging thickly in the air Choking, this is hell.
I scraped the plates into the bin. Father and mother went into their room a few minutes ago. "I guess he was tired." Sylvie shouted over my scrapes.
Swiftly, I toddled into mother and fathers room. Searching for the money jar, I was figuring out how much to to take without them noticing.
Whoops. The egg fell and cracked revealing a bright yellow yolk. I am sure that was the best egg yet, I guess I really do have bitter fingers.
Chapter 1 Light filled the dark bedroom just like any other morning.
Tossing and turning I couldn't get to sleep. All I could think about was the city. Running away was how I was going to get away. I'd pack my rucksack secretly and one night I would run away.
I almost fell down the well, I was exhausted. Sylvie would say I haven't done anything, she wouldn't be wrong. I have done things, but mentally. Nothing physical.
"Here!" Me and Sylvie spoke together as we plonked down a bucket full of the dirtiest carrots. Mother just looked at them, her head on one side.
Me and Sylvie where told about the city, tall towering buildings and metal boxes on wheels.
I lay looking through the hole in the ceiling. My home is falling apart. Battered Broove Farm. The farm house was a small white cottage with a thatched roof.
Even the smallest breeze,. Through fresh spring leaves,. Or laying back,. On some old mac,. Hearing birdsong,. Slowly drifting along,. White spotted skies,. And fresh baked pies,.
I open my eyes to the same blank ceiling I always open them to. At my side, my brother Henri turns over and sighs fretfully in his sleep.
Morning came too early. I didn't sleep well, and had just began to doze when I heard the dull buzz of my alarm, ringing into the silent air.
As a boy I was fortunate, I was loved and encouraged, I felt safe always. Days endless and sunny, Running In between furze and rose, Each moment remarkable.
The tedious, dry, and cracked ground is difficult to shove a rake into, and after many tries of beating the spokes into the soil it gives in and is shoveled down beside me, revealing fresh dirt for...
Once there lived two brothers who lost their parents at an early age. They worked together on their family farm.
Set in a tiny remote village in the village's only store.
He awoke in his bed, light streaks of sun poured In from his loosely closed shades.
The pagans were overrun Someone traded their dreams for bullets and a gun Said they got high and killed your sun A sacrifice and the women were on top Screaming out, oh no, no oh god no, no, no, no...
Perhaps it is simply because I live in a rural county (I can live in hope) that such closed minded attitudes are so rife amongst daily life. Today, however, really took my breath away.