Story Chapter One...The Scandalous Misadventures of Ivy Harrington and Lily Blakewood
The coach turned the corner and pulled up to the four storey town house my family occupied in London, and Mother gave me her signature perturbed sigh, followed by a glare, and if this weren't such a recurring means of conversation between the two of us, I would have been worried. I swear that woman could give the Judge a run for his money, and I should know he was my father. In return, I gave her my best cocky grin, feigning innocence when she glared even more and gave another of her signature behaviours. Lectures.
"This isn't funny Ivy! Abandoning your Governess? Borrowing my sedan chair without permission? Wandering about the town without supervision? Going to boxing matches and bull baiting? Socialising with unattached wayward men? Imagine if someone we knew saw you! It could ruin your prospects and your reputation. And not just you, it would reflect badly on all of
LyricsExploring every fibre and reason and thought so I see what I have before me. And I smile.
So almost tangible. So almost real that even if I cant feel it in my hands I can in my heart. Because words do nothing. They are nothing in this world without the meaning behind them.
A song is a poet's playground with the music on full blast.
A paint ball gun aimed at a canvas and a drum beat in sync.
A tear drop in a photograph.
Sometimes with words that explain my soul in a lyric. And sometimes by missing every point I could ever make, but doing it so sweetly, so passionately, so vibrantly that I revel in the love that wasn't mine. Light up at the smile I never witnessed. Or understand the pain of a stranger.
These are the notes that send me to sleep.
These are the melodies that make me cry my heart out for just a second.
These are the beats that bring me back to the best and the worst and every thing in between.
Its as free as anything else can be
The Art of Forgiveness The Art of Forgiveness...
Its easy. Isn't it?
Because anger is like an earthquake. It's loud and terrifying and can shake everything out from underneath you. Break things. Take things from you.
And before you can act or think or even blink it's too late. It's happening. It's happened. And now it's just about picking up the pieces.
Which is easy.
When you're sorry you mean it. It's being sorry for the way things turned out. For the way things passed. For the way they started.
If you had the chance again, you'd do something different. Maybe everything different. Your choice.
And when you forgive someone you mean it. Not more. Not less. Just
Whilst looking through the old grubby windows of the old grubby house, my heartbeat immediately slowed, my breathing steady.
It never ceased to amaze me, how simply stopping for a few moments, and looking out of that window, how much better I always felt.
There was nothing particularly special about the view: a tall, concrete grey lamppost flickered to life, hesitant at first, nervous, then after some time shining brilliant orange, dazzlingly contrasting, but also remarkably at home on the cluttered little street; the trees, taller still, towering silhouettes against the pastel sky, almost like guards, protecting those who lived in the mismatched row of patchwork houses.
A creaking bus pulled up at the quiet bus stop, the last stop before entering the lively, loud, proud city. After dropping off its cargo (a chestnut haired mother with bulging shopping
The room was cold as a gravestone and the drop in temperature, even on a day as dark as this, hit you fiercely and relentlessly as you stepped through the old, weathered oak door. Silence. The windowsills held a thick layer of dust, which hid the patterns of decades of decay and neglect. The ballroom was a silent shadow of its former self: the floor was cracked and uneven, like an ancient oil painting deprived of care from many years. Even the chandeliers, once a marvel to behold, seemed bereft of life, as if they had simply given up completely. And how was it, that even though I could clearly see the emptiness of the room before me, how I still felt as though I was being watched?
Shaking away the distant memories I had of this place from my mind, I stared into the ornate mirror, the single splinter breaking up the perfect sheet of metal, jarring my reflection. A year ago, I wouldnt have recognised this gi