Am-bish-un.

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Ambition. Am-bish-un. Amm-bish-unnn. It sounds weird and heavy on my tongue. And clumsy. It’s a clumsy word, in my opinion. And my opinion counts- Mam says. Mam says that my opinion counts and Mam says that “having ambition is a good thing, Jonno; it’s something you should get”.

And then I say, “Mam, I would get some am-bish-un if you gave me some money, and let me go t’ the shop.”

And then Mam pats me on the head and says, “You are a silly one, Jonno”. I just smile, cause I don’t actually know what Mam is talking about. Sometimes Mam talks in “tongues”. Mr White told me that. Mr White told me that talking in “tongues” means that nobody can understand you. Or something like that. I like Mr White.

I don’t like the smell of anty-septic. It’s really clingy. And even when I am far away from it, I still think I can smell it through my nostrils. It’s a bit like lights. When I see a light and then go and shut my eyes I can still see it. I told Mam about that.

Once, I went to the shop. To look for some am-bish-un. The shop lady is very nice. Every time the shop lady sees me, I get a smile. And sometimes the shop lady will say “Hullo Jonno!” And I like it when the shop lady says that, cause it rhymes. Hull-o, Jonn-o. 

So I said “Hullo!” to the shop lady, and then the shop lady asked me what I was looking for. “I am looking for some am-bish-un”. The shop lady didn’t understand, so I began to talk about Mam telling me that am-bish-un was a good thing to have.

“Oh you silly boy, Jonno! Ambition is not a thing you can buy!” And this confused me very much.

Then Mam appeared and took me home.

I would like some am-bish-un. I just don’t know how to get it. Mam told me that am-bish-un is where you have a goal. I don’t know how to get goals except in footie, and I’m not good at that at all. I always fall over when I play footie, and my team usually laughs at me. And I laugh with my team, because I am a “silly one”.

So, the question is- Mam says I sound fil-o-sof-ic-ul when I say that-the question is: how do I get a goal? How do I get some am-bish-un when I am not good at footie? If I ask Mam, I will get called “silly” again. Silly is another funny word. Like am-bish-un. But not as bad.

I am going to ask Mr White to get me some am-bish-un. Mr White is coming round to my house later. Mr White always comes round to my house on a Wednesday, because it is a school day. Mam likes Mr White too. Mam always says, when school is over in our living room, that I have to “say thank you to lovely Mr White for helping you, Jonno”. And I do. Every time school is over in our living room.

Am-bish-un is very confusing. I want some, but I do not know where to go for it. I want to get Mam some for a present. To say thank you to Mam, because Mam looks after me. Mam makes me some dinner every day, Mam buys me some picture books when I am good, Mam pours me some milk when I am thirsty, Mam is nice to me when I feel sad. I don’t feel sad very much. Mam says that when I am sad, Mam is also sad. I don’t understand that, but Mam just smiles. I think Mam deserves some am-bish-un, because it is good to have. I want some too, but Mam always says that you have to “think of others before yourself”. I understand that.

I don’t understand much. Am-bish-un is something I don’t, but I will. I am going to get some am-bish-un for Mam. Then for me. No, for Mr White, first. Because Mam always says that you have to “think of others before yourself”. Then for me.

Then Mam, and maybe Mr White, will give me big hugs and say, “Well done, Jonno! You are a very good boy!” And then I will smile, because I like it when people call me a good boy. I try to be a good boy. But I am clumsy. And it is hard to be a good boy as well as being a clumsy boy at the same time. Mam always says I look sol-um when I say that, but Mam also says that it is understandable.

Am-bish-un. Amm-bish-unnn. I like that word. I am going to start using it. Even if I don’t know what it means. Apart from goals. Because I don’t understand why Mam thinks I need goals for my future. Mam says am-bish-un is about future. I say I don’t want future with Mam. Mam laughs.

I can’t wait to get some am-bish-un. Mam will be very proud. And Mam will stop doing the sad smiles that I see on Mam’s face when Mam is looking at me and Mam thinks I am not looking. With am-bish-un, Mam might stop secret-crying that I am not supposed to see, but I do, when we are in the hospital for me.

Am-bish-un will make everything better.

~H

Copyrighted by the author ©

Last Farewell.

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The day was mist and cloud banks,
You came to me and cried,
You told me you were sorry and-
You never should have died.


Thunder cracked with lightning,
There was nothing I could do,
Once dead the dead stay buried, and-
Their mortal life is through.


Parted lips and shallow tears,
You gave a perfect show,
Reasoning with how unfair, and-
Making me feel low.


I cannot just re-animate,
Your body and your soul,
Once a person's fully gone,
They'll never come back whole.


No reasoning will change my mind,
I'm sure you'll understand,
I will not acquiesce to you,
Cannot perform demand.


So finish what you started, Corpse,
And get your business done,
Say your last farewells because-
You'll fade come morning sun.

~H

Cat.

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I wake in the sun.
It warms my back, and I stretch.
Stretch.
I feel the sun in my face, in my hair. It's warm.
I jump down from the window ledge, and as my feet hit the ground I properly wake.
Before that, the doziness of sunlight.
I pad across the tiles in search of food. I'm hungry, in that lazy, not-bothered fashion. 
My nose twitches. 
The sun still plays across my back - long fingers of light moving across room - and it feel it rubbing against my shoulders, a blanket of comfort.
I find no food in this room, so I move back towards the window ledge in the kitchen.
The tiles are a stark, cool contrast against the heat of the sun.
Once again I curl up, my ears settling against my head, my whiskers twitching in pre-sleep anticipation.
My tail flicks idly and I shut my eyes, imprints of the sun performing for the backs of my eyelids. 
The sun warms my fur,
And I sleep.
~H

Green Sky, Blue Grass.

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Emma smiled. Her eyes sought a light she could not see, and her brain whirred with a hyper-capacity beyond normality. To the outsider, it would seem as if Emma was in seventh heaven, or some variety of it. To the outsider, they would see a tall, slim girl with a halo of dark hair and large blue eyes slightly glazed over, laughing at some unknown joke.

Emma’s laughter was a shield. Emma was on one side of the shield, and the rest of the world was on the other. In Emma’s version of the world, everything was white and gold and transparent. She saw only the truth as it was told. She believed only what she heard and could tell was true. The other side of the shield was false, like an ultimate reality Emma would never be able to reach.

A group of lanky teenagers wandered past where Emma knelt on the ground, by the flowers. Emma tilted her head, but didn’t look up at them; instead she seemed to focus on the ground. On the green, green grass. A colour she didn’t understand. She heard their idle chatter, felt their normality and envied it. She envied the fact that they had friends and could exchange pleasantries on the colour of the sky – blue or grey or black with impending thunder – or how they had done their hair.

Emma felt their footfalls pass, and looked up, under a fringe of black hair. She seemed to watch the sky. Birds swooped and looped and pirouetted gracefully in arcs and Catherine-wheels; the trees danced and serenaded passers-by with their branches; the wind toyed with people’s hair, lifting it and brushing it across their foreheads – Emma could see none of this.

Emma smiled. Her brain began its vigorous sprinting once again. To the outsider, she would appear to be a graceful, kneeling girl, watching the insects play with the flowers. To the outsider, she would seem happy, or at least, content.

Untrue, it was all untrue. To Emma, the sky might as well be green. The grass might as well be blue. Emma was blind, and her world was white and gold and transparent. To Emma, everything was not as it should be.

~H

Winter Is Here.

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The morning frost sat on the grass, awaiting ruin.
A silent landscape of cool. Icicles graced to branches, unweilding to the weak attempts of the pallid winter sun.
"Winter."
Clouds of air followed my deep breathing. Inhaling hurt my lips, the cold like tiny needles poking at my flesh, searching for a weakspot. My hands, too, were suffering: mutilated ice cubes inside my deerskin mittens.
In my left hand I held a spear, hand-crafted, moulded to fit my grip. It shivered in my hand, finely attuned to my movements. It knew I was waiting. Waiting...

...A twig snapped to my left, shattering the icy perfection of the still winter world. Prey was comeabout. I moved panther-like towards the sound. My footfalls were quiet, my breathing shallow, my scent downwind, my hair tied back from my face in preparation.
A doe nipped at the frozen greenery. Her delicate bone structure was blatant to any observer, her quiet beauty as subtle as any mammal's. Deer were among my favourite animal to hunt. Their grace was uncompareable, their challenge worthwhile.
It was a game, the hunt. A game which I won more often than I lost.
She moved towards me a little, falling into a false lull of peace as she searched for an edible patch of grass. Her hooves left dainty imprints in the snow, nice to look at, but to be destroyed soon enough.
I bent forward, judging the distance between my spear and her flank. Doable.
I hefted my spear forward slowly, no sudden moves at to alert her.
And the spear was off, soaring through the air like a bird in flight, choosing its landing spot and sticking true to its course.
Another day, another meal.
A quiet prayer to send the doe into a better place, and I could return to my hearth to feed my sisters.
"Winter."
It still sounded the same, even after I'd killed her.
~H

A new year, right?

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Every year. EVERY SINGLE YEAR I swear to abide by the fundamental laws of New Year Resolutions. No more. I have finally stopped caving to the peer pressure of making them, and have simply given up. And it's surprisingly sweet, an almost tangeable relief.
I'm not going to promise to 'stop biting my nails' or to 'lead a healthier life' or to 'stop punching my sister when she steals my clothes'. Or 'stop hitting my brother' for that matter. Because, there is no way I'd be able to keep those promises.
And when people say to me: 'HEY, WHAT'S YOUR NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION?"
I don't have to make my chin jut out proudly or stick my chest out to mask vulnerability, because I can simply say: "I didn't make any."
I'm breaking with tradition. New year, new me, and all that rubbish. Nobody ever keeps that principle, me included, but we can try, can't we? Yeah, it's futile-no point in trying to argue that, but making a promise you know you're not going to keep is simply a let down to yourself. Because deep down, you know your self-control isn't that good. Nobody's is.
We're only human.
~H

Why I Love You.

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I love you.
I love you because you're warm.
I love you because you're there.
I love you because you stay with me.
I love you because you make me laugh.
I love your smile.
I love your eyes.
I love your dimples.
I love your arms.
I love your torso.
I love your legs.
I love the way you hold my hand.
I love the way you stroke my hair.
I love the way you stop my tears.
I love how you laugh.
I love how you walk.
I love how you look at me when you think I'm not looking.
I love how you love my family.
I love how you love my habits.
I love how you don't care if I'm in a mood.
I love how you stand on the outside of the pavement, and keep me on the inside.
I love all of you.
Unconditionally, and unchangeably.
~H

Banished.

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     I lifted my body from the waist,  coming elegantly out of a bow. Before me, the court looked on, one face replicating another-an unnerving duplication. Below me, a small hand linked fingers through my own. The fingers were paler than my own, more fragile and easily breakable: my sister's hand. Aurelia looked up at me, eyes wide with fear beneath her thick blonde fringe. I squeezed her fingers gently, and she gave me a wobbly smile, completely false yet brave. Such braveness from a seven-year-old. 
     "The Court will rise." Movement as everyone behind me rose. I didn't follow the movement with my eyes, I relied on my ears to tell me that it was happening. Aurelia moved closer to my side, pressing her thin arm against my own, as if she could walk right into me and vanish from the court. If she could have done that, I had no doubt that she would have. "The Court may sit." Again with the movement.
     A sharp silence washed through the room, like a hand passing across a face. I remained standing as everyone else sat. Aurelia's hand convulsed around mine so tightly I looked down at her. In her clear, soprano voice, she spoke to me, making no pretence of what she was saying: "Tell the truth, Fire. You're a good person, the best sister ever, and I believe yo, even if these..." She paused, her face creased with a look of distaste, odd on one so young. I willed her, silently, not to say anything foolish. "Even if they," she jerked her head towards the panel of judges, "don't." 
      As she turned to leave, her hand tightened one more time, and I felt something cold and hard, metallic, being pressed into my own. I didn't dare see what it was, but shoved my hands into my pockets, releasing it there, and lifted my eyes to face the Court.
     "Fire. You have been accused of being the causation of the death of Sir Charles of High-bridge, a death which was declared as murder on February the 19th of this year. We have listened to both the case of the defendant and of the accuser. Our verdict is this: through a four against three poll, you have been decided as guilty of the crime committed." A gasp ran through the room, and the hairs on my back stood straight. "Order, order." The judge continued in his smokers'-voice: thick and hoarse from one too many a cigarette. "Your punishment, however, is not to be death, but is to be banishment, on account of your high status. You will leave this kingdom, and never return unless summoned by one of the High Family-one of your own kin. Do you accept your fate?"
     Silence.
     My heart sounded so loud to me that I was certain everyone else would be able to hear it. 
     I was to be banished. For murdering my own mother. 
     "I accept."
     In my pocket, my hand tightened around the ring Aurelia had given me: it was my mother's, I was sure. The kin-ring she had given Aurelia the week before she had died. She had given me a pearl of the same golden hue, but it had been taken from me when I was accused.
     I heard Aurelia saying my name, the saying turning to wailing, the wailing to screaming. I had never wanted this to happen.
     I closed my eyes and wondered how this had ever happened. How I had been accused of killing my mother and my queen-the woman I had loved all my life.
     Aurelia had been removed from the court chamber.


     I opened my eyes, no longer as a princess of the land, but as a banished nobody, an accused murderer.


~H

Why I don't like snow.

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Here's a fact: I don't like snow.
Do you want to know why?
Why I don't like snow?
I don't like snow because it's cold.
It's cold, it's cold, it's very cold.
Why else do I not like snow?
Because it's decieving.
It looks lovely.
But when you go outside, intending to enjoy said loveliness...
BAM!
It's horrible.
It's cold, and damp.
And it's just not very nice.
At all.

~H

An Insight To The World.

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Sitting in the library looking round at my friends, here are my insights:
1) Male. 16 years. Blonde hair. Tall.
Insight: When he concentrates, he looks younger, and he has a habit of smoothing his hair across his face.
2) Male. 16 years. Light brown hair. Tall.
Insight: His concentration-'face' also makes him look younger, and more innocent.
3) Female. 16 years. Short light brown hair. Average height.
Insight: twirls hair around fingers when she thinks, and purses lips.
4) Male. 17 years. Light brown hair. Tall.
Insight: Folds lips under when he thinks. Not a very fast typer.
5) Male. 16 years. Short black hair. Shortish.
Insight: concentrates really hard, and draws eyebrows together.
6) Male. 16 years. Fluffy brown hair. Tall.
Insight: Has a tendency to mumble.
7) Female. 16 years. Short dyed black hair. Short.
Insight: Widens eyes depending on what she does.
8) Female. 16 years. Long brown hair. Tall.
Insight: Plays with nails and cares more about what people think of her than she says.
9) ME.
The end.
~H

A Lack of Hope.

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It was cold. My skinny limbs looked frail and overwhelmed as the hospital gown-like garment I wore pooled around me. It provided little warm, and, catching the flashing glimpses of myself in the mirror-plated walls I was ushered past, I looked small and filthy. I was one of many. All of us in Compound B were herded in one large line, down the narrow corridors of the Institute. Where we were headed this time, we didn't know, but didn't care.
Hair in snarls and greasy tangles down our backs, left unseen to, we looked bedraggled. Skin dull, and coloured with whichever chemicals had most recently assaulted our immune systems, we barely seemed human. We were grey, and blended perfectly with the despondent building.
I'd often, huddled in the corner of my grey cell, imagined a life outside of the Institute. A life where I hadn't been 'donated' to science. Where my parents, whoever they were, had cared enough to keep me. Where I didn't dread waking up every day, because there'd be another syringe full of the latest experiment to pierce my skin. Where I wasn't what I was now: an empty shell of a human.
Sometimes, I imagined, too. It was dangerous, imagining. If anyone found out about my imagining, I'd be out. Out. Because we were all replaceable. Disposable.
I was disposable.


~H