Granny Tales

The mist was rising up from the moors in the distance resembling swirling tendrils of smoke as they wisped around in the chilly night air. A burnt orange kaleidoscope of colours, autumn leaves caught up in the breeze as they danced to a staccato beat. Tonight was the night when all things dark came to life and witches swept the skyline with their brooms. Every year on Halloween our own resident witch made her presence known to us. I’d taken up my favoured viewing position in my room, tucked up in the fat cushions of my window seat, a woven blanket tucked around my legs, waiting and watching for the inevitable.

As if almost on cue the distant and haunting cackling began. The sound always felt like cold fingers scraping down my back, sending a wave of violent shivers through me. I tugged my blanket further up to my chest, as a childish grin settled itself on my lips. My eyes furtively darted back and forth across the darkened landscape outside, as I waited in anxious anticipation to catch a glimpse. The cackling and calls sounded like cats screeching in the night as they grew closer. It was hard to pinpoint exactly which direction they were coming from as the dense night air caused them to echo all around.

Suddenly she appeared from behind one of the large oak trees that rested in the top left corner of our property. At first I could just see the black shadow of her cloak dancing from behind the tree, whipping and snapping back and forth as the wind picked up speed. I giggled to myself as I leapt up from where I sat and moved onto my knees, hands leaving prints against the chilled glass. My nose was flattened against my face as I pressed it to the window, the glass capturing my breath as it fogged over with each exhale. The pointy peak of her witches cap making an appearance, alerting me to the fact that she was about to make her move.

Gracefully she floated out from behind the tree just above our hedged fence, her cloak lightly trailing behind, black skirt flitting about her legs as she straddled the broom. She threw her head back and let out a raucous cackle to the moon above, the golden orb casting glints of light across her form. Winking from beneath her witches hat was bright pink hair, the very sight sent me into fits of juvenile tittering. I’d known for the last two years who our garden enchantress was but I kept the secret to myself because I knew how much joy these fables brought her. I’d even found the tools she used to continue this elaborate hoax, tucked away in the back of the garden shed. Granny loved to tell tales, the fantasy worlds she created kept her young. She’d even told me she was born with the pink hair and ironically it was that hair that always gave her away.

 

(This is for a local writing competition…trying to get a writer to keep a story to 500 words is hard work…lol…I feel like something is missing from it because I couldn't expand on the story.  Fingers crossed it does good.)

Granny Tales

Here is a sneak peek at the short story I’m working on for the writing competition here.

 

The mist was rising up from the moors in the distance resembling swirling tendrils of smoke as they wisped around in the chilly night air. A burnt orange kaleidoscope of colours, autumn leaves caught up in the breeze as they danced to a staccato beat. Tonight was the night when all things dark came to life and witches swept the skyline with their brooms. Every year on Halloween without fail, our own resident witch made her presence known to our household. I’d taken up my favoured viewing position in my room, tucked up in the fat cushions of my window seat, a woven blanket tucked around my legs as I sat, waiting and watching for the inevitable…..

Aotearoa

Land of the long white cloud
The long lost garden of Eden
We have natures beauty at our door
As the natives sing their dawn chorus

The long lost garden of Eden
Amber sunsets bless the skies
As the natives sing their dawn chorus
Our warriors release a war cry

Amber sunsets bless the skies
Lofty mountains caressed by snow
Our warriors release a war cry
Cheering on our black and silver heroes

Lofty mountain peaks caressed by snow
Picture perfect beaches whisper
Cheering on our black and silver heroes
Silver ferns proudly adorn our chests

Picture perfect beaches whisper
Remaining nuclear free
Silver ferns proudly adorn our chests
Kiwiana at its best

Remaining nuclear free
We have natures beauty at our door
Kiwiana at its best
Land of the long white cloud

(This poem is another Pantoum)

Written by Lyla Arthurs
May 2011

Losing It

A narcissistic malevolent cloud
Taunting me
Poking me
Until
Like a cobra
Once coiled
Now I attack
On the defensive

You push me
To the edge
Breaking point
Bursting like a
heavy laden rain cloud
Ranting and raging
Expressing the truth
of my emotions

Controlling
Manipulative
Abusive
That’s your
modus operandi
Unstable and weak
Time to take your meds

You’ve spent more time
locked with the village loons
than a whore spends
lying on her back
And yet your highness claims
I’m the head case
You’re mind remains a rich
tapestry of over dramatics.

 

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
May 2011

In The Night

Epileptic seizure of the earth.
The darkness hides its secrets,
but magnifies our terror.
Like a silent witness crouching
in the darkness,
it catches us by surprise.

Hypnotised by fear.
Nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide.
Convinced mother earth
was calling our number.
Time forever frozen in our
cities ticking tower.

A collective picture montage
imprinted in my mind.
Walls dancing,
roads buckling.
The dooms day roar of life
as we know it changing.

Standing helplessly beneath
the framed entrance.
Forced against my will to watch fear
etched on the faces of my loved ones.
The heartless matriarch of nature
has unleashed her caustic fury.
Then Silence.

Written by

Lyla Arthurs

April 2011

(This is my take on the 7.1 earthquake that hit Christchurch, New Zealand on September 4th 2010)

Living Transgendered

(This is the Oral History I wrote for my life writing paper.  Its not my story but someone else's.  I conducted a half hour interview with the subject of this non fiction piece, and from that created his story in his voice.)

I am transgendered, not a cross dresser or transsexual. I don’t like to wear women’s clothes just for a laugh, and I still have all the appropriate bits in the right places. Nor am I a hairy panty wearer. I don’t get my kicks from bashing off in a pair of my missus knickers. But from about three years old, I wanted to wear clothes of the opposite gender, and knew that it would be disapproved of by other people in the household, almost like it was imprinted in me. I think it’s genetic, whatever the genes are get mucked up, X, Y something chromosomes you’re born like it for whatever reason.

My aunty and my grandmother used to like dressing me up like Robin Hood and stuff, but also quite often as a girl. They actually said other people wouldn’t approve. My grandfather and my mother didn’t know, nor did they like it when I played fancy dress. I would pinch, or borrow mum’s tights and big stretchy knickers, then sleep in them with pyjama trousers and socks over the top. When I was about five, I would try and see how many pairs of grannies tights I could get on at a time, and still walk. The answer was twelve pairs of forty denier support tights, and I could just about bend my legs.

When I was at primary school I used to hang out with all the girls. I didn’t fancy the girls; I wanted to be one of the girls. Yeah, I climbed trees and played golf because I enjoyed doing that too. But I didn’t want to live as me, and I didn’t like my pee pee. The older I got, from about eight or nine, the more interested I got in other clothes and makeup. It would have been a year later that I first left the house and went round the block dressed fully. I wore make up, mum’s glasses, a big floppy hat, and heels, dressed as what I thought was a woman. On another occasion I went to a lingerie store at the top of the road, and bought a suspender belt, knickers, and stockings, claiming it was for my sister. Funny enough the woman behind the counter looked like Tootsie, and she must have wondered what the fuck was going on. I think she would have probably guessed I was an eleven year old boy.

I would have been about ten when my mum found her clothes under my bed. She flipped and thought that I was a sexual deviant, and my father went along with it. All they did was shout, call me names and there were threats, “If we ever find it again there will be consequences”. I’ve spent a lot of time blocking that out. I then went to greater lengths to hide the stuff at the back of the bed, by putting stuff in front of it. I also hid it in cubby holes, wherever I thought they wouldn’t find it.

During my teenage years, from about eleven to fourteen it became quite sexual, even though it isn’t usually a sexual thing. But, I put that down to going through puberty. I didn’t know then whether I liked effeminate guys, or whether I was gay, or wanted to be a woman and go out with guys; I didn’t know what was going on, even though I did like girls and had a girlfriend, then it just kind of calmed down a bit. At the time though it was agony; it led to me wanting to commit suicide on a few occasions, because I couldn’t be who I wanted to be or who I knew I was.

At about fifteen or sixteen, I’d gone to my old man a few times pissed out of my skull to talk to him about it. He wouldn’t talk to me when I was pissed, and I wouldn’t talk to him when I was sober. I wasn’t happy with who I was and the way I had to live, I was blocking those feelings with drugs and alcohol. Eventually when I was half cut on one occasion he would talk to me. He asked me if I was gay, and said he would pay for an operation etc. Because I’d already been made to feel like an absolute pervert I refused the operation. If I’d been supported when I’d been younger and not ridiculed I would have done it, but I really just took it as an insult.

At eighteen years old I joined the Royal Marine Commandos, spending almost nine years serving in places such as Northern Ireland and Afghanistan. By the time I left, my rank was Captain, which is equivalent to 1st Lieutenant in other army ranks. Being able to fulfil my need to dress was restricted because of long periods away on active duty, which could make me a little anxious. When home I lived mainly off base, which meant I could dress then without anyone knowing. Within the military homophobia is huge and rife, and what I was fell into that category. It was alright to put a dress on for a laugh, but not to be transgendered. As an officer it’s imperative to keep the respect of rank and file. I knew zero gay marines or paratroopers, they will be there, but you wouldn’t know, you would lose the respect of the boot necks should it get out. Being a Royal Marine made me feel more normal, I got to act as a man and forget about being transgendered. Putting on 35 pounds of equipment and strapping two firearms to your body is a very powerful experience in itself.

Today at the age of thirty four, for the majority of my life I live as a man. If I could change tomorrow, flick a switch and it would all be right I would. But it isn’t as simple as that, so I stay as I am. I’m not so unhappy that I’m going to cut my own penis off or jump off a cliff, as some people would or do. And I don’t feel the need to go the whole way because it would just destroy many parts of my life. It would be extremely difficult, and hugely emotional. I work in what would be considered a manly job, and do all those things that would be considered normal for a male. I have been married to a woman, and have had several long term relationships with women, which has resulted in having and raising children. Currently, I am engaged to a woman, but would also consider myself slightly bisexual. I’m not attracted to men unless they are extremely effeminate, I am also attracted to men as women; but I haven’t acted on it.

When the need takes me, I still dress as a woman. It gives me a rushing sensation, like taking drugs. If you’ve ever taken class A narcotics you’ll understand what I mean, the tingling all over and shallow breathing. I enjoy the illusion of presenting as a female; I want to be accepted as that when I’m out. I want to get it bang on, to the point where you can go to a straight club and nobody would know the difference. When I can’t dress regularly I get quite depressed, for me it feels correct.

My hope for the future is that people will become more educated on the fact that transgendered people aren’t of any threat to anybody. We’re not a threat to society, we’re not a threat to other men, or women, or children, or babies, and people just need to realise it. It’s just not an issue, what’s the problem? I do what I want, they do what they want. It’s more accepted for somebody to bash their wife than it is for a man to put on women’s clothes, and I think that’s terrible because I’m not actually doing anybody any harm. The only harm I’m doing is to myself by not doing it when I want to.

Written by

Lyla Arthurs

April 2010

The Other Woman

Cold glass left a chilly imprint on my forehead, as it rested against it. The roadside trees and shrubs formed a blur of greens, causing the illusion like we’d been thrust into hyperspace. The ebony silhouette of the hillside against the backdrop of the night sky was hypnotising, appearing ominous and beautiful all at the same time. For an hour and a half now, the monotonous tone of his voice had filled the tin can on wheels that we were travelling in. One client after another drawing his attention to the phone in his hand. Business always came first. How could one person’s voice conjure up feelings of love and contempt all rolled into one? Almost absentmindedly, an index finger reached up to readjust the earphones of my MP3 player. It was silent for now, but strangely a comfort to know at the click of a switch I could find distraction from the world around me.

It was often at these times, when the boredom from being “on the road” set in, that my mind would wander. Slowly fading memories from moments passed, would often invade precious head space. It was the only thing that could cure the monotony of travel. And as I fell into the reverie, I took the opportunity to find that distraction. Without a thought I flipped the switch on my MP3 player, the deafening sound of “Fall Out Boy” enveloped my senses. The scenery before me seemed to slowly disappear into a hazy mass, the reality before me fading out. There had been happier times between us both, and although I could not pinpoint the exact moment that things had seemed to take a turn for the worst, there was no denying that things were not the same since her.

Debbie, with her satin glazed flowing hair, auburn in colour until the sunlight hit her head and it erupted into flamed tendrils. It was no wonder she had caught his attention, as it was quite an alluring effect, I could not deny her that much. Before she had come along, life had been simpler, life had been fun. Spontaneous, was the word I would have used to describe our relationship back then. Unplanned escapes to the art centre for coffee and lunch, unscheduled jaunts through the city gardens simply to enjoy the sun that had invaded the skies for the day, the classic dinner and movies was a favourite twosome treat. We always drew attention, double glances as he paraded me, a much younger woman about on his arm. But then came Debbie, illicitly prancing her way into our lives. Her hypnotic blue eyes acting as a seductive back up in case her blush locks failed.

Damn Debbie had been a favourite catch phrase of mine that I had coined. He had told me that she was simply a business acquaintance that he had met. I should have known better, and if I was being completely honest with myself, a part of me had always known. I was not a complete fool, although he may have thought so. But female intuition is strong, especially when conversations around the dinner table consisted of “Debbie said this,” or “Debbie did this” followed by amused chortles and snorts, which made him sound like a walrus in heat. Meals around the table and evenings spent together slowly began to dwindle, as later hours were required at work. Late nights, turned into early morning returns home as he stumbled through the door at some ungodly hour. What man would work such arduous hours if he had me at home, unless it had something to do with Debbie. It would seem he did take me for a fool after all.

He had even had the audacity to bring that woman into our very own home. He may as well have slapped me across the face. But of course I had to be polite as she giggled like a silly school girl, prancing around like a starlet. Every so often she would place her hand on his arm in what most would consider a flirtatious manner. It took every ounce of strength that I had to stop myself from pouring the spaghetti bolognaise into her lap. How dare they flaunt it before my very eyes, those lying bastards.

Something had to be done about this female invasion. What normal women wouldn’t get jealous and vengeful. Many an evening was spent planning and scheming of ways to take down this seductive witch. It had become like an obsession, notebooks engraved with a rainbow of flower and heart doodles, full of inventive ways to destroy the woman and have her evicted from our lives. Thankfully I didn’t have to carry out any of my heinous plans that were driven by a woman scorned. My grandfather had always said the best revenge was to simply sit back and watch them stuff up their own life. How right he was, Oh sweet, sweet revenge. I was never told the exact reasons Debbie no longer worked at the company, he told me she had been relocated to another branch, but I knew better. That stupid tart had probably committed fraud or something of a similar nature. There was no way she could be as perfect as she made out.

My face screwed up like a bulldog chewing a wasp as the final notes of “teenagers scare the living shit out of me” rang out in my ears. Quietly I flicked the switch on my MP3 player, the sudden silence in my ears was deafening. However, it wasn’t to last long as the blaring sound of a horn screaming past us in the night, dragged me back to reality. Once again I was aware of his voice beside me, causing a cringe to form. “Sure thing babe,” another pause as the garbled voice on the other end of the phone babbled on for a moment longer, “Not a problem babe, I’ll get that sorted straight away, take care, buh-bye.” I hated it when he called those other women babe; he was such a flirtatious businessman. Those naive women always lapped it up and ate out of his hand, I hated it; babe was my pet name dammit!

My smile was forced as he tucked the phone away at last, casting a glance my way, he didn’t seem to notice that I was faking happiness towards him. His hand reached out to tweak at my nose as he so often did. It was our thing, and no matter what always seemed to get a chuckle from me. How could I hate him when he grinned like that, and seemed so enthusiastic about life in general, that was of course one of the things I loved about him, his infectious love for life. And he knew that, he knew how to play me just like one of his customers, he knew how to win my affection every time. “Shall we stop at McDonalds for a sundae?!” A little wink accompanied his question, causing a small snort filled laugh to escape from me, as a solid nod of my head was given, “Sure thing Dad.”

SONG CREDIT
“Teenagers”
My Chemical Romance
2006

Written by
Lyla Arthurs

July 2007

The Reflection

(My first attempt at a short story. We were given a cue and had to take it from there, with the encouragement to keep it real. So I did what I do best and wrote what I know, what I feel, and from the heart. It needs a bit of work, but it will do for now)

Twilight, that elusive point in time, where everything seems to stand still and the world seems unsure if it is day or night. All the hues that had been the sunset blended into one as they faded, greens became blues, then reds and pinks, even purples made a brief appearance. This was the time of day, where the shadows begin to grow, only adding to the eerie ambiance. It was at this exact moment that I chose to stumble across that open door.

It had always astounded me, how one random moment in time could change your life, and alter the path you took. “Everything happens for a reason,” he always said. As I paused at that door, silently chastising myself for not bringing that damn map, I began to think that there was perhaps some truth in the words he so often uttered.

The decision to take this little holiday had been made at the spur of the moment. It had been a little over two years since I’d seen Jules in person. The fact that life had once again decided to throw me into a downward spiral of heartache, seemed like a good enough excuse to find comfort in my best friends company. Jules had made an attempt to stay home from work that day, but having always been the more stubborn of the two, I insisted she go about her day as usual. Of course, the bribery of cheap wine and chocolate that night may have sealed the deal. That was how I managed to find myself lost, bags in hand, in an unfamiliar town, down a quickly darkening back street, standing beside a secluded open door. However, there was one thing that had an air of familiarity, and that was the voice emanating from inside.

Having always been little miss practical, I thought perhaps whoever was inside could offer me directions or had a phone I could use, seeing as “Murphy” had decided to throw me another curve ball, a dead cell phone battery. As I took that initial first step over the doors threshold, a firm statement was thrown in my direction, “It’s time to let go!” That tone within the voice, the pronunciation, everything that echoed within the sound was familiar. I closed my eyes for a moment, my head tilting a little to the right as I tried to place it. Quickly I shook my head, denouncing the thought that I knew the person lurking inside as ridiculous. I didn’t know anyone else in this town besides Jules, and it was that logical thought that I went with as my own voice sounded, “Hello? Is there anyone here? I’m lost and need some help.” Soft nervous laughter accompanied my words as I finished calling out.

My eyes slowly scanned the dimly lit room as I stepped further inside, and as I replayed the previous few moments in my head, the realisation set in; I did recognise the voice. “Don’t be stupid,” silently chiding myself as I moved further within the confines of the room. My gaze began to adjust to the lack of lighting, allowing me to finally catch sight of the owner of the voice. A harsh gasp sounded as I sucked in a sharp mouthful of air. My mind was reeling as I tried to process what was happening, what I was seeing. A look of utter confusion reigned on my face, shaking my head firmly as I tried to rationalise it all; but that face, those eyes and lips, that hair, even the way they dressed. It couldn’t be though, someone was playing a trick, that was the only logical explanation. “Very BLOODY funny, ha ha. You can come out Now!”, yelling out into the silent room. However, there was no laughter to back up my theory of a practical joke, only her staring back at me with an all familiar smirk and a tilt of her head sideways. There was no trickery of mirrors as I had first assumed, I was standing there staring at myself. But How? Jesus, what the hell was going on!

Once again her voice sounded, whispering at me harshly, “It’s time to let go!”
“NO!”, my own voice screamed back, “I can’t!” The tears began to well up as I knew instantly what, or more to the point, who she spoke of.
“If you let go, it will be alright. You simply have to trust.”
“No, No, NO! I can’t do that. If I do I will loose everything, I’ll lose him forever.” My head shook back and forth emphatically as the tears began to fall freely. This was absolutely insane, I was being given advice by my doppelganger. But it was real enough when her softening voice filled with sympathy when she spoke once again, “Sometimes you have to let go, in order to gain.”

My arms wrapped around myself tightly, as the silent sobs racked my body. I knew what words were going to come next, but it was not her barely audible voice that uttered them. I spun on my heel quickly to face him, deep crease lines forming a frown as I tried to comprehend just what was going on. It was becoming like a scene from a bad episode of the twilight zone. Fire burned in my eyes as I faced him, my own voice escaping once again, laced with tears and pain, “Don’t even say it. Heartache shouldn’t be included in that bullshit you believe!” I spat the words out at him viciously, only for them to be greeted by a quiet smile from him and his own simple words, “Everything happens for a reason, Angel.”

I tried to scream at him to shut up, to argue with him that if it was true, why was my heart in broken and tattered pieces, what was the great reason for that! I wanted him to explain to me why the pain I was feeling was happening for a reason. But before I could rant, rave and grieve at him, everything went black. A complete blackout filled with a haunting silence. She had disappeared, he had evaporated into the oblivion that now surrounded me. Suddenly I felt like I was being hurtled into the darkness, free falling and feeling like I was trapped in a tumble dryer, before everything suddenly came to a gut wrenching, grinding halt. I lay there for a moment, attempting to gain my breath, waiting for the whole of me to catch up. I took the time to work my way through the disorientation that I found myself snared within. Slowly everything began to make sense with a creeping realisation setting in. My hand slinked its way across the bed, patting the space beside me. But, of course he was not there. I finally began to understand that it had all been a dream. Once again, the tears flared up, beginning to sob uncontrollably, real tears this time soaking my cheeks and pillow, as I realised I had woken up from the wrong nightmare.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs

June 2007

The Finale

Mechanical humming vibrates from nearby.
Arise, oh weary sleeper.
Plagued dreams linger on,
tempting return to permanent slumber.

Arise, oh weary sleeper,
embrace the hours ahead.
Tempting return to permanent slumber,
depart, no longer linger.

Embrace the hours ahead
do not race towards the dawn light.
Depart, no longer linger,
darkness deep and dreary.

Do not race towards the dawn light,
her hazy warmth awaits your arrival.
Darkness deep and dreary,
drowning beneath her lucid glow.

Her hazy warmth awaits your arrival,
as surrounding voices whisper for your return.
Drowning beneath her lucid glow,
as your terminal breath elopes.

As surrounding voices whisper for your return,
plagued dreams linger on.
As your terminal breath elopes,
Mechanical humming vibrates from nearby.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
May 2007

(This poem is called a “Pantoum”. The form works by taking lines 2 and 4 of every stanza (verse) and making them lines 1 and 3 of the following stanza. This changes only in the last stanza; where lines 3 and 1 of the first stanza become lines 2 and 4 of the final stanza.)

Finding Reflection

Broken mirror,
Where has my reflection gone?
A hundred pieces, sprawled
amongst the woven carpet.
Scarlet flow from fingertips,
blends with woollen fibres.
What should be painful pricks
are numb, as the attempt is made
to gather the shattered pieces.

Laying them before me.
Trying to make sense of
the jagged debris.
Each one should fit soundly
against another, but they don’t.
There is no order to the
reflective mess before me,
only crimson smudged chaos.

And as a light filled glint
sparkles from the shards,
blinding me for a moment,
I finally find my reflection.
It is broken and distorted,
Just like me.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
May 2007

Four Seasons

Weary petal drifting.
Caught inside the southern breeze.
Finding comfort in its descent,
to the chocolate earth below.
Autumn colours matching,
swirling coffee in my grip.
As it repairs me for the day,
I contemplate the seasons
from the shelter of my lounge.

Sunshine days have passed.
No more warmth to lounge beneath.
As coffee coloured pigment,
fades from the skin.
The hours of light dwindle,
just like the need to repair
to the family batch, for weekends.
My father’s past words echo,
“Never mind petal, a fresh summertime
will dawn again.”

Winter will present,
with snowy tears caressing
drowsy petals,
lament for summers end.
Home comforts offer solace
from seasonal tantrums,
as the lounge basks in its
open fire’s glow.
Steaming coffee warms the body,
family moments repair the soul.

So let us repair to the lounge, with coffee
to soothe, while we wait for spring’s petals to bloom.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
April 2007

(This poem was written for my creative writing paper. We were instructed to write a poem that used the words “coffee,” “lounge,” “repair,” and “petal” three times – then a fourth time together in the final sentence. We had to use each word in at least two different ways – e.g. for different denotations, different connotations, or as similes or metaphors. So this was my attempt at it)

Seize And Confuse

Like a creeping vine,
intent on smothering.
Hazy moments filled
with fog, sweep in.
clouding the senses.
Suddenly like a swarm
of angry bees,
trapped in a jar.
Not knowing which
way is up, or which
way is down.
Deceptive sounds.
What is said,
is not what is heard.
Unreliable words fall.
Nonsensical ramblings
depart my lips.
The seizure of my mind
is inevitable.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
March 2007

Grandma’s Table

Chestnut hue, quarantined
beneath a dusty dew.
Wood lines,
matching tired scratches.
Lifelines of generations passed.
This milled and rounded form,
balanced on gnarled carvings.
A quondam resting place for
many an elbow.
One-time surrounded by coffee
cups, and Sunday roast.

Darkened stains
a timeline, to family
secrets shared.
Once an heirloom,
long ago, Grandma’s
timbered treasure.
This beloved,
a matriarch of sorts.
Now resting in her basement crypt,
amongst the junk filled boxes.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
March 2007

Timing And Perfection

Affairs of the heart
A complicated tangled web
Weaved from emotion
Wrapping round the inner core
That which is the soul

Everything ever dreamed of
All that was ever hoped for
That which was missing
In all the years that have passed
They now stand before you
Encompassed in that one

In spite of this all
Life entertains itself
At our own expense
Dangling happiness
Just within our grasp
Before snatching it cruelly away

The perfect person
But not the perfect time

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
March 2007

Time Doesn’t Heal

They say time heals everything
They lied
If truth lay within those simple words
I wouldn’t feel the pain every time
I called your name

Two years have passed
And yet it only feels like yesterday
That you graced the living with your presence
Every gaze I caste on your pictures
Causes another wound to my heart
The tears still fall even now without hesitation

They lied
They spun tales of deception
They said with every passing day
It gets easier

The broken hearted know the real truth
Time doesn't heal
It simply reminds me that one more day has passed
Without you by my side

No longer here when I need you
Now you are simply a whisper in the wind

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
November 2006

Destiny?!

Consequences of moments passed
Decisions made
Cards of life dealt randomly
Or so they say
What is the truth that lies behind
This that we call living

Are we simply pawns
Movements on the board our destiny
Decided without our influence
Higher beings playing some sick game
Of universal chess
Satisfying their own simple amusements
Or do we make and break
Our own existence

Does this all lie in our own hands
Are we the ones that hold the blame

Somebody give me the answers
Somebody give me the truth
Is the finger pointed at myself
Or should I be raising my clenched fist high
Silently cursing those that deliver the cruel blows
Fate crashing down on our shoulders

What are the answers
Give me the truth
Before the depths of insanity
Reign within my soul once again

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
February 2006

Turmoil

So alone
No direction to follow
Except down
Into the dark divide
Which is my heart and soul
Sorrow, pain
Confusion and anger
Is there anything that can
ease this aching

The place where my heart once rested
Now nothing but an empty hole
Never knowing if I can ever love again
Since love was ripped from beneath me

Never saw it coming
Taken by surprise
All I desire is to
Scream, yell
Rant and Rave
Let my bitterness rain down
On the world below
Force them all to understand

Let the pain flow
Let it consume
Until I can feel no more
Let the numbness reign
Alongside the cynical outlook
That has now become
My right hand man

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
July 2005

A Tribute

Darkness Falls
The angels call
“Its Time To Welcome You Home”
Despite the pain
And tears that fall
From the ones left behind
A sense of peace settles in our hearts
Because it was your time
No more sorrow, fear or pain
Only light and love remain

You fought the fight
To some it may seem you lost
But to those who travelled
The distance by your side
Your strength inspired us all
And as you take the time to gaze down
On all those who’s path’s you crossed
Your heart should fill with a sense of pride
At the legacy you left behind

Although words may never justify
Just how much you touched our lives
And every emotion will need to be faced
Simply day by day
Forever we shall celebrate the life
You lived and loved
Through memories that overflow
With enough to fill a lifetime
And in our hearts and souls
For an eternity
You will be

(This was written for my Nana’s Funeral)
Written by
Lyla Arthurs
November 2004

She

She stumbles along a crowded street
Without any shoes upon her feet
Everybody stares her way
But no one will give her the time of day

She asks for a few cents here and there
Just enough to feed her child
Most people look away
Pretend to be interested in the simple things
Anything so they don't have to acknowledge her
Acknowledge her very existence

She’s been ignored all of her life
Not good enough to be anyone's wife
Just enough for a mans cheap fix
Like a drug she has been abused

Why do we ignore the lonely hearted
Why wont we give them a helping hand
Why is it people are scared
Too scared to help those less fortunate then ourselves

Maybe its because then we admit we care
And to care leaves us open to our own pain

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
June 2000

Crystal Tears

Eyes the shade of a deep lagoon
Stare longingly into the sun
A heart that once echoed with sweet love songs
A soul with thousands of dreams
Both lay in a heap broken and torn
And my eye weeps a crystal tear

Life like a dark ominous force
Strikes crippling blows at the heart
Once standing tall and proud
Now hunched over like an old brooding woman
The weight of the world on her back
Such a bleak outlook on life, on my future
And my eye weeps a crystal tear

Gaining momentum as they stream down my face
Collecting as a pool in my hands
As I gaze into this watery puddle
I can see deep into my eyes
The very window to my soul
I can see the strength like a grand oak in a storm

These crystal tears like a saviour
Rescuing me from the depths of despair
As I see the strong hope that my heart carries
I know I can make it

The healing process has begun….

….With a Single Crystal Tear

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
September 1999

Oceans Apart

I hear the oceans thunder as it beats against the rocks,
And I wonder if forever is just another day…

Would it take a lifetime to swim the ocean blue,
Would it be eternity before I see you.

It breaks my heart in half to know your far away.

If I had wings like eagles and could spread my wings
and fly,
I’d have been here yesterday and today you would
be mine.

But oceans are between us,
They’re the wedge between our hearts.

I wish I could be there to hold you in my arms,
To see your bright smiling face and your handsome
boyish charms.

But fate it is against us,
And the world is not our friend…

…Because we are oceans apart.

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
May 1999

I Lay

I lay beaten and broken
A victim of your anger
A victim of your rage

I lay cursed and crushed
A victim of your bitterness
A victim of the words you say

I lay weak and weary
A victim of your abuse
Your emotional abuse I endure

I lay angry but alive
Its a miracle I survive

The amount of times I wanted to take my own life

I am hurt by the things you say
I am hurt by the anger you display

You hit me and you curse me
You play games with my mind

But I wont accept it anymore
There comes a time when I must stand

I stand tall and strong
A survivor of your anger
A survivor of your rage
A survivor of you bitterness
A survivor of the words you say
A survivor of your abuse
Your emotional abuse I endured

I stand tall and strong
And life it does go on

Written by
Lyla Arthurs
February 1996