I haven't read too many books to have an inspired author, but I have watched many movies and shows to decide that there things that inspire me and just the randomness of any moment. I worship my notes app half-written stories, and a trillion jotted ideas. I try to keep my writing simple not to complex because I have not learned complexity in writing yet I'm still learning which is fun. And I try to write for both perspectives male and female instead of she said, did, felt, fucked, touched, licked etc idk I try to stick to mundane situations and try my best to incorporate description and interest in them. Still learning that too :) but mundane short stories with half-started conversations or a response to a question to start off a story is my go to.

I lost my heart two years ago - I gave it all away.

It was love, I knew, I swore it so: at least that's what I told myself.

Our love was strong as iron, incorruptible as the platinum of the band that he proposed with. We built from these foundations a winding concrete path, secreting all the treasures that we bore within our breasts, the gifts of time, our fledging love, as it leaped, it soared, took flight.

But then we saw the pavement, was not at all that smooth, for despite our good intentions, the cracks tore through us, tore right through.

The arguments were like a lava stream, igniting benevolent skies.

But no passionate flood is self-sustaining, however true its plea, for all at once, the summit imploded ,and all our love dripped through.

There it congealed upon the floor, now void of all devotion, for when I gave my heart away, who knew it not to be that irrevocable love, but cruel blind charity.

I walk now along that boulevard, and though the cracks do show, my feet run smooth on cobblestones, for in them beats my vibrant heart, now whole in majesty, forever now for me.

#Author #writer #blog #love #fantasy #fiction #dream

Blog - hannahvernon.co.uk

The flap.

It came unstuck last night.

Again.

I told Tabitha to fix it. I told her. I really did this time.

Last time though, I forgot.

I am always forgetting things.

Like why, when I wake, my bed is always so very cold, as if a shadow walked over my soul.

And why, when I dress, each garment itches, though I had determined months previously to extract every label, every loose stitch, every imperfection.

Yet still, my skin crawls as the fine hairs of my clothing send spiders scuttling over the surface of my warped and wrinkled flesh.

But the flap was different.

I remembered the flap.

I remember how it sounded, disturbing the silence with its metallic screech, the patter of paws and the clatter of claws, stealing through my frozen heart.

Every time the strays descend, the armada lurches in my chest. The waves rise and the ocean lifts, and the spray then seals my lungs. I cry out at night, praying now for silence, when once, the sounds meant peace.

So please, darling, when you visit next, tell Tabitha to nail the flap, to bury those memories.

A broken heart cannot bear the sound, especially when it’s me.

#author #writer #dream #fiction #fantasy #memory

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

Running.

The flames were running.

Running through the forest, the once green Amazon's pride.

Running. Rippling. Roaring. Ruling.

Condemned to run red riot through all.

Pouring from the trees, open veins, undiluted fury, flowing water, burnt at the seams, damaged beyond repair.

Trees bow to its supremacy, incapable of being salvaged, charred to the desperate bone, souls in agony, aflame.

Bank accounts were running, figures escaping, dollars dwindling; all insignificant to the life, the greatest of all gifts, running like a stagnant stream, life's blood now pooled across the dirt.

An expensive project, some complain, condemned, dissolve to dust. Others though are desperate now, to set the forest free. Our lives, they cry, are endangered now, for these, our lungs, are blackened, black as the darkest sin. But as the fiery banner unfurls, a lance across the dawn, no chivalrous act, no selfless donation, can truly save our trees.

We run to save our rainforest, but soon are out of breath, for at the expense of the lungs of the earth, we have drawn that final gasp.

Running, we are running now, running out of air.

All because the fire is running, victorious, there.

#Amazon #writer #author #fiction #blog #fantasy #dream

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

It was the socks, in the end, that concluded their love story.

Betrayal: such a bitter word, seemingly so unjust when confronted with something so mundane as the laundry. Yet there they were, the dagger in her side, hiding in plain sight.

After years of marriage, she had thought her husband to know all her haunts and habits, specifically a hatred of bright accessories.

Perhaps the God's stirred up a neon pink concoction in their laboratory to warn her of his infidelity.

If not, the discovery of the other woman's gaudy socks so unlike her own was a remarkable coincidence.

Frayed edges, like the pages torn from a careworn book, who's spine was folded once too many times. That was the state of my heart.

Once man's greatest treasure, broken beyond measure.

Ripped, scratched, like the surface of a schoolboy's desk, imbued with the chalked markings of my strife, etched upon my soul, like never to wholly heal.

I stitched you up with cotton and feather, put you together like the jigsaw of my heart. My greatest prize? You tore mine apart.

Where is my needle and thread? May someone sew me up like your much abused teddy bear? I think I may be slightly in need of some tender loving care.

#writer #fiction #fantasy #competition #blog

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

"I heard she's dating a human." His eyes studied her as she walked by.

"Surely that is her business. We need not concern ourselves with such trivial occurences. Human hearts are so fleeting, so fragile, so-"

"Trusting?"

The speaker paused. "Yes, trusting."

"That is not a fault."

"No?"

Smiling, he reflected on she who had passed them. "It is their being finite that makes them valuable. He will bring her happiness, for he has a heart that beats resoundlingly for her, crying love from the depths of his heart."

"So?"

"We must not condemn, for he will treasure her. Always"

Thanks to those,

terribly twisted,

terribly true,

teachers of tyranny.

Thanks to those,

those tactful,

those talented,

those trusted,

tellers of tyranny.

Thankful, truly thankful,

thankful to the teachers,

teachers that teach thee.

Teacher, teach me truth,

teach me tact,

teach me talent,

teach me trust.

Trust, a terrible task,

teach me to trust thee.

#author #writer #dream #competition

Blog - Hannahvernon.co.uk

An odd sort of word, precipice.

When describing a rock or a cliff, it is reflective of an overhang, oblivion, the vast expanse between sea and sky from which you are at the pinnacle of life, plummeting with no hope of resussitacion, no conscious choice.

You fall into oblivion, a slave to predetermination.

The precipice of life is not like that.

The precipice of life is the pinnacle, the climax, the point at which one relinquishes the chains that have bound them, stares deep into the star-spangled sunset of promise and smiles sweetly at how true the blessed fruits of free choice can be.

There is no inevitably, no cold commands forcing you to dance like a marrionette as life's captor jerks the strings.

You are free to make your descisions alone, unaided, on the precipice of life and the cusp of a crossroad, yet without the horrors of predestination looming over you like some jagged overhaning rock.

Open your eyes. Teeter forwards, over the edge, the edge of experience, the experience of new life.

Embrace the milestone, the precipice.

You are free.

#writer #choice #author #fiction #fantasy #dream #competition

Blog - hannahvernon.co.uk

Firstly, it was not an accident.

I may therefore be guilty of a slight extension of the truth.

Secondly, I had hoped to leave that shop with a new book freshly scented with the breath of printed words tucked inside my bag.

I did, because I fell in love.

You see, love need not be something you search for, but can happen so unexpectedly that you are drawn to it, compelled to its light like a moth to a flame, blindly attracted and with no means of evasion.

In that quaint bookstore, despite having made several purchases yesterday and harbouring a shelf of adventures yet to be embarked upon, I united myself with that prize, forming a commitment between writer and reader, vowing to take their carefully crafted words into my heart, to be devoured until the bitter end.

Thirdly, that sounds like a marital declaration, but then, to an extent, reading a novel is like signing a marriage contract. You are wedded to the characters, the plot intricacies, the thoughts behind their every word, vowing to take them into your heart and to nurse them through delight and despair, biting back laughter or choking back tears with every misadventure as if they were your own children. You make a pact to deliver those words into your life and soul to the best of your ability by breathing its song until the final page, where you promise to care for it as a chapter of your own story. This is because, irrevecocably, accidentally, you have fallen in love, and to love entails the cherising of one until its final days, where you can replace it on a dusty shelf until its binding is weathered and ageing, or you can gift it to a new home, always recalling your shared journey together.

I did not accidentally buy that book, Dad. I found it, I bought it consciously, but that is because I fell entirely in love, and could not consider waiting to conclude the next chapter of our stories together.

#writer #author #fantasy #fiction #dream #competition

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