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niamhpoppleton · 6 months

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The Frog's Discovery Of Christmas

As ice danced across the plains and a sea of white blanketed the ground, a frog awaited Christmas' arrival. He wasn't quite sure what it was he was waiting for. Whisperings of "Christmas" as a concept had drifted through the winds about him, and yet to what exactly it pertained he did not know. So, with wide eyes and a thick, red scarf bundled around his neck, the frog sat and waited.

A hedgehog had once mentioned something to do with a "Santa" but had never gone into much more detail on the matter and so what a Santa was the frog could not say. Though, if only for the reader's amusement, it must be noted that he created the image in his mind that a Santa was quite similar to what we call a cracker. So, keeping his eyes as wide open as possible, like an eager child, the frog sat and waited.

He had once heard a snowman singing a song called 'White Christmas' and soon came to the conclusion that Christmas could only come about on a snowy day. This explains as to why the frog chose to sit out in the snow to wait for Christmas, even though he was experiencing a temperature so cold that he had not even believed it to be possible. For days upon days, underneath the snow's motherly nurture, the frog sat and waited.

As night fell across the world, and stars began to dance through the sky, the frog remained awake. Moonlight beams danced across the snowy grounds and rested around him creating an almost sacred glow about him. Around midnight - not that the frog knew of the time - a shadow overcame the glowing orb in between the darkly painted canvas above; one could say it was shaped like that of a shadowy figure within a vehicle that was a cross between a flying car and a horse drawn carriage. With a shout of "Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!" a small red parcel drifted down to the snow-covered ground before the frog, as the shadow dashed away into the night.

Carefully, the frog unwrapped the small gift, and found within it a snow globe that portrayed the predicament in which the frog found himself and when the snow globe was shook it would cause small porcelain balls of snow to float around the glass sculpture. In the snow globe it would be Christmas every day, for the frog had no clue of how to track the date or time and as far as he knew a snowy day was Christmas Day.

While one may say that this incident was only a figment of the frog's imagination - a hallucination caused by that of sleep deprivation and conditions ferocious enough to give you frostbite - the snow globe sat upon the frog's mantelpiece for years to come, and there it still remains to this day.

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niamhpoppleton · 10 months

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rain.

the rain came tumbling down,

it hit the window panes quickly,

it attacked the world angrily,

a storm of pain and sorrow.

I don't think I know you anymore.

you turned into rain,

created a time full of nothing but pain.

our love is a secret memory stowed away,

drowned in the ocean of my mind,

but still, I wish you were here.

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niamhpoppleton · 11 months

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The Orange Tree

She.

She who stood within a field of fast growing, relentless weeds that spread like a wildfire across the forest of her very being, or a pandemic across what was her world.

She who could still remember when the sun would beam down across the town. When golden shards of light would tiptoe across her skin. When her smile was pearl white, and her eyes were alight with wonder and awe – when her passions were the main fruit that she bore.

That was until the skies turned endlessly grey, and her smile faded away into something bitter and sad, as she waited for the rain to pour down upon her, drenching her in eternal misery and sorrow. You probably wonder why didn’t she just walk away? You probably question why she didn’t she just escape from the cage of never-ending pain that circled day-in and day-out through the train station of thoughts that lived within her jigsaw puzzle of a brain.

As a solitary tear rolled down her face, she realised all she wanted was to cut away the weeds that wound their way around her ankles and up her thighs, binding her to her place.

Silence overcame her, as a single thought began to formulate. Staring down at her seemingly permanent fate, she realised that she didn’t have to stay. And as the thought dashed through her mind, a voice called out from far away – a voice that she knew far too well but had lost when she fell into a rabbit hole and was buried with sharp, taupe-coloured stones that dug deep enough to tear a hole in her heart, yet never, ever drew blood.

When she looked up, she saw what was not that far away but just too far to be out of reach – an orange tree with fruit hanging from every branch, and the girl who sat beneath.

She tried to scream for help, to cry out to the girl beneath the orange tree, but her voice became tangled within the broken, unturned music box that lay between her skin and bone. An overwhelming feeling of melancholy possessed her entire body, sending shivers that ran–like ice-cold water on a winter day–down her spine, and she had to try so hard to suppress the urge to vomit. Nevertheless, the sickening feeling rose until it overtook her entire soul, and orange juice spilled out from her throat onto the ground below.

The girl beneath the orange tree arose, and held out a hand; she did not look up from the grass and the yellow roses that grew like an enchanted garden below the motherly nurturing tree. However, the girl encaged by the weeds that dug into her figure, did look up. By moving her hand from her side, and allowing her skin to meet the girl’s, a smile began to carve it’s way into her face.

Slowly, but surely, the girl beneath the orange tree faded away into golden fireflies that made their way to the heavens above. They did not leave, however, before encircling the girl trapped by the weeds, cutting her free from their cruelty and toxicity. Once again, she was allowed to be the girl she was previously, who sat beneath an orange tree.

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niamhpoppleton · 11 months

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Back from the break with a new piece up on the blog today!

#writing #teen writer #short story #supernatural horror #horror story #goosewax #goosewax journal #journals #writing journal #my writing

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niamhpoppleton · 11 months

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the secrets of beauty.

beauty is subjective,

that is what they say,

that it falls through the eyes of the beholder,

yet the way the moon shines upon the earth below,

how rain taps gently against window panes and roof tiles,

poetry read in a drowsy state by the subtle glow of a golden candle,

piles of orange and red and brown tattered leaves upon the floor in the midst of the autumn months,

fog steaming up glasses so that one can only make out the basic features of their surroundings,

the smell of freshly ground coffee or freshly baked bread,

laughs at jokes that have long grown old,

and stolen glances across rooms at those who you love

though you refuse to tell the secrets of your heart to,

beauty may just be subjective,

and it may just vary person to person,

yet in a world so full of wonder,

it is hard not to find the subtle beauties that are hidden within each second of each day.

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niamhpoppleton · 11 months

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through the eyes of vintage film.

with hues of grey and black and white,

watched on cool, candlelit nights,

romanticism intertwined in to each scene,

upon the canvas of the silver screen,

she watches in awe,

encapsulated in the ideologies of love and war,

and through the eyes of vintage film,

the world becomes a romantic realm.

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niamhpoppleton · 11 months

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An Unexpected Visitor

Foreseen many centuries ago was the coming of the visitors: creatures of the darkness who bask under the moonlight. What they would look like, nobody knew. When they would come was even more unclear. Yet, the fact still remained that someday they would arrive, and when they did they would be searching. Written down on paper were the prophecies foretold by the witches that once roamed the plains. After years upon years of waiting, the concept itself turned to myth. Nobody thought they would come; nobody thought it would be them who the visitors searched for.

On a Hallows Eve night, as the wind whisked ferociously through the stormy grey skies above and the moon settled full between the speckles of light we call stars, nobody suspected a thing. Not even as they plummeted down from whatever ungodly world they fell from and cried like a new-born child – not even as they crawled from the ground and drew nearer and nearer to the town.

Everything was as normal as normal can be in a town with a history of witchcraft and wonder that at night still haunted the air. Whispers of the dead called out their truths, tapping against the panes of glass that withheld the outside world from the residents, though it was merely rain before the storm. Tap. Tap. Tap. Droplets clung to the windows.

Sitting within a house, with the orangey glow of a small candle lighting the room, was a girl. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders and back, black and thin like feathers of a raven, as she turned the crinkled old pages of a leather-bound book. The ghost of a smile flitted across her face as her eyes scanned the words that darted from Latin to Greek, whispering the incantations beneath her breath, her fingers tracing the words as she spoke.

A flash of light dashed past the window – sparks of white and gold flickering through the darkness, followed by a crashing sound that filled the air like fog over the mountaintops. Even so, the girl continued reading, whispering, as the ball of black fluff that she had named Destiny, an animal that she fed and watched over but did not own, stared at the door with curious eyes, meowing softly.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Sounds of the rain pouring from the heavens above were not dying down, as they fell more viciously, hitting against the windows more hurriedly. Though the next tapping noise that came was more like a rapping: a knocking of skin upon wood, nothing like water grasping on to glass. It was coming from the door. A thick, persistent knocking to the beat of a heart. Dudum. Dudum. Whatever it was, was calling the girl – her name was intertwined between the knocks. Almost trancelike she arose, gracefully tiptoeing across the room, a haze over her eyes as though she had been cursed in fog and storm. Her bony fingers stumbled as she unlatched the lock at the top of the door and she heaved as she pulled on the icy, metallic handle – for some reason, it seemed almost heavier than usual, as though the metal itself was warning her not to open the door.

There stood the visitor – lanky and emaciated and knowing, in the doorway. Its fingers were spindly; its body draped in a gown of black; an orangey red glow looming around its figure as though it had taken the essence of hell and bathed in it. As it glanced upwards, staring the girl down, with embers of fire dancing within its eyes, she found herself with only one question: why does its face look like mine?

Silence.

Never seen again. That is all that is said and heard about the girl. Except, in this circumstance ‘never’ is contingent upon what people perceive, and when one person sees her roaming the plains once more, that can no longer be the case. I suppose that the girl will be seen again… Perhaps – if the prophecies are true – the visitors will be too.

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