My writing

A recap of my writing so far By Lottie

When you realise it’s Monday It’s the peaceful time of morning when the loud girl is asleep. The one day she sleeps in is the one day when it’s not a weekend. The machine blares, grinding coffee beans shaking the girl from her sleep. She sits up, eyes open. Her pupils relax when she realises it’s still Sunday. She narrows her eyes when the wrath of Monday blasts her out of her fantasy. Some imaginary person stacks books on her back, squashing her posture. She rolls off her bed and onto the cold hard floor. It must be depressing for the only comfort to have is to squish your face into rough carpet. Reading her thoughts is easy; she is thinking, ‘ew, monday.’

If I had my way- an opposite day poem By Lottie Davidson If I had my way, chocolate will count as vegetables for all children in the world, And books would read people whether they wanted to be read or not. If I had my way, we would all live on the ceiling, and the thought of living the right way up would sound terrifying. Green giraffes would also grow leaves out of their heads as a disguise for unwanted herbivores. If I had my way, whiteboards would scrawl across innocent pens, and chess boards would play on the sea, in a game where pawns are king and queen. And if I had my way, bedrooms would clean themselves.

Acceptance in defeat by Lottie Davidson: An abstract noun Acceptance, the claustrophobic blanket smothering the last tiny pinprick of hope. The truth that is enclosing you like a fist, making you feel insecure and alone. The feeling of blankness, the white sheet of paper that means another start. The thin sun, pushing to break through the clouds, trying to make the best of a situation that makes you want to cry. The grey mound of earth, waiting to cover up an old life that you used to have. The relentless storm clouds that are hovering above your head. And acceptance, the final feeling before you turn numb and move on.

Frozen in time The feeling of excitement is almost the best feeling that you can feel. The bubbly, enlightening feeling just giving you a reason to carry on with life. All through the school day, concentration was overwhelmed by the feeling of impatience. Because with excitement comes impatience. Finally, the time came. Lottie’s mum picked her up from school early to pick up the new dog from the airport. Lottie was bouncing around in the car, just thinking over and over about how much she couldn’t wait to see the dog. About how she couldn’t wait for it to be her dog. Seeing the dog for the first time almost brought tears to her eyes. Only a few weeks ago when her parents announced they were getting a pet, she wept for joy. Now the constant nagging to actually get a dog was replaced by the constant nagging about when the dog was actually coming. And now, finally seeing it. Finally seeing the crate that seemed so massive for the midnight black puppy. The blanket that was the only fragment of home that the dog had left. Lottie felt that it was inhumane. Inhumane to take a little puppy, a big wire crate and a grey blanket with black paw prints and rip her away from everything she had ever known.

Rest of Frozen in Time Driving home, the washing basket that they had brought on the way there for the puppy to sit in was abandoned. Instead, sitting in the middle seat was a fluff ball. Reasonably sized, she had curious black eyebrows and fur that smelt like what a puppy should smell like. Not really believing the fact that she had a dog now. That this little 7 year old was now the owner of a real life animal. Nuzzling the little black dog who doesn’t pull away, mum drives back down from where they had come from, taking the little puppy to it’s new home.

Crows call Draft’s It is the time of year again. The time of year where the one’s set their hats into the summer breeze before they die. The hats fly to find the new Ones. The new people that would carry the burden of the crows, replacing the Ones before them. As soon as the One is found, the one before them immediately passes. The Ones will simply carry their final hat and salute death with strength. Strong, so strong. The Ones live all over the world, but they all congregate at the same scraggly piece of land every 90 years. The one’s never age in themselves. Their skin stays as soft as a baby's backside; wrinkles nonexistent. It’s just one day, their spirit is evaporated into the African sun. They die. Out of the blue; then their body is lifted up by a million crows and dropped in a hole that reaches the core of the earth. Hot, it is so hot there. It doesn’t hurt to become ‘One with the Crows’ It just happens, the circle of life, cemented into the ground. But a word of advice, never spill your secret. You can't be divergent in the world. You may be the same, or you may be no-one. If you are the one nobody can live around you ever again. The crows kill. Peck peck peck.

I see, I remember, I imagine I see a jungle of a backyard. Filters of light, varying colours. Browns and greens, they all create depth and tones in the foliage. I can see the broken pots and discarded beer cans I see the tattoo on the tree, embedded into the branch. My mark, there forever. Perhaps, the children after me may see my name on the tree. If there are even trees in 50 years. I remember the anger, the tears. Watching them from outside, looking in. My house, my family. Reading the situation I had created from afar. Reading their lips, mouthing ‘Don’t worry about your sister.’ It was peaceful up there, somewhere where nobody else could get to me, other than the cheerful tui and the swooping Kereru. I can remember all the times where I have felt happy in that tree. So high above. Always annoying my father who disliked it when I climbed above the house and perched on wavering branches.

I see, I remember, I imagine continued. I knew I couldn’t fall. Not here, not now, not ever. I imagine it happening, nonetheless. The cold, burning sensation of pain. The leafy undergrowth and roots. Alone. I imagine the shock and the scolding I would receive. From my worried and angry parents. But why scold me when I am already in pain? I cannot tell the future, but instinctively I know I can never fall. Slip I might but catch myself I will. My forest, with it’s green green leaves and brown brown branches can save me from the far more alarming fate of fury.

The age of the draw Trekking along the desert I see no sign of life. I had been walking for over 6 hours, and the water that had once hydrated me was long gone. IT could not swallow, for the dry, scratchy sensation that had made its way down my throat. I hitched my drape (embellished with gold embroidery) further up my shoulder. In the sweltering heat I had turned quite red. Well, I must have for the feeling of peeling that had overtaken my shoulders and neck. I tasted sand. Grains of it. A rather unpleasant sort of sensation, actually, for every time I closed my mouth it felt like my teeth had ground up and were not there anymore. And lord, my eyes. How they scratched. Well, they would have at least. It took me a day and a half to finally make it. Where I could cure my, well, perhaps illness once and for all. ‘Here.’ I thought. For I could not speak. I leant on them- the not particularly special wooden draws. They were dirty, and were starting to wear down after time passes and grains of sand and wind eat off it, leaving it quite bare, yet full all the same. Huffing and puffing I stood there for a while, listening to the sign of life, because for the first time in a while there was. There were dozens of them, hundreds and thousands. They were a way away, and for all I knew I knew that they could not see me anyways. Fighting, they were. Well it must have been for the screaming and battle cries I had been listening to.

Finally, I heard it. “Feet. Feet. Praise the lord, why is there FEET?” Any reader, or person would have thought this was a rather daft question. ‘Why, any person has feet! For if they didn’t, well, they had them!’ I have feet. Legs, a body and functioning arms. A face, probably not particularly pretty, I imagine. But how would I know? I’m invisible. Imaginary. I suppose you could say I’m a sort of dream, but dreams are usually what romantic couples call their partners.

I have been trying to cure myself for years. The first time I tried to make myself real, it only worked partially and only my feet were solid and visible. The rest of me… well if this does not work then I suppose there is nothing else for me. I can only ever be feet. Maybe I do not live up to what I was supposed to be, once a dream now a pair of feet. Rather dirty feet, sandy and brown. Is it annoying for me? Well yes. I would rather be entirely solid or not at all. Instead, I am a mixture of both. Not really there, but there enough. Enough to feel the sand through my toes. I had heard for years that this place held a certain sort of power. That it could cure you from insecurities and blast you back into the real world, pretty and free from any ugliness. Many people have done it, and succeeded but maybe, now I am all the way over here, it will not work for me. Perhaps I am too imaginary to be real. Maybe I will never be more than a pair of feet.