Her Hero – The Writeycorn

Her Hero

her hero is brave,
her hero is strong,
her hero is clever,
her hero is intelligent,
her hero is mortal,
her hero is funny,
her hero is amazing,
her hero has the naughtiest sister in the world,
her hero is loving,
her hero is kind,
her hero is the best sister in the world,
her hero is Carlotta*.

Inspired by the November Writing Prompts.

*The Writeycorn’s sister

Her Hero – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 12:58 to 13:08. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Tall, lanky maybe. Skinny certainly, but without any discernible presence. Entering a room full of people he would be unnoticed, even a room of one. Hell, he wouldn’t cause a stir even entering an empty room. If you happened to notice him at all your first thought would be of that old cruel line of Churchill’s regarding the charisma of a political opponent: “An empty cab drew up and out got Clement Atlee.”

Grey, annoyingly coiffured hair with an really stupid little upturn at the front. Long and slow is the voice, with nothing to say. Slightly accented with a catch to try and impress the false idea of thoughtfulness, maybe a hint that he wants to be thought self-effacing. In reality he has nothing of interest to say, and is actually rather pleased with himself.

Yes that is very clear. Rather than facing himself and seeing the weak and embarrassing fool there he somehow believes that he is assured, interesting, knowledgeable. Never has an original thought troubled his unfunctioning mind, a standard off-the-shelf view dressed up as insight, one of the clearest indicators of that type of English person; self important and ignorant.

A waste of skin, destroying things that belong not to him, dull, obvious, English, old and pointless.

And her hero? Give me a break.

Nov 30th – Her Hero

Hero scooter

November 30th – Her Hero


The guy in the shop actually asked her if she wanted it in pink. Honestly.

She was sure he was only being helpful, and although she’d tried to stop thinking that way, this was India. But even so.

She’d been in the city for a few weeks, work was going well, although she was busy. She’d still had time to get out and see the sights, the local ones at least, and it was when her manager suggested that she stop relying on the chaotic public transport system (which, to be fair, still had, in her eyes at least, a little charm) and get herself a car, that she had her brainwave.

She was going to get a scooter.

How hard could it be. And she’d seen the roads, gridlocked, nothing moving. She’d seen the scooters weaving in and out, moving. That was, quite literally, the way forward.

The fact that she’d never ridden a scooter before was neither here nor there. After all, she’d spent a damp year in Manchester cycling to and from her placement, so two wheels weren’t a total novelty.

There was a Hero shop not far from where she worked. Which is why, three weeks ago, she was in there explaining to the salesman that no, she didn’t want it in pink, thanks all the same, and that Panther Black would do quite nicely. It had a ring to it: Panther Black.

They thought she was mad in the office, of course. The company would quite happily pay for a new car, so why on earth did she want to go for the scooter option. She said a few things about independence, not being stuck all the time, the ability to go where she wanted, when she wanted, regardless of the traffic, but they didn’t really understand.

And it was, in truth, difficult to really explain. There was just the thrill of it. She pictured her mother’s face when she’d told her that she was getting a scooter, the gasp at the other end of the line. That’s why she was doing it. She had come out here to live, and now she was living!

She was picking it up after work. They were staying open for her. And then she was driving home.

She’d bought her Hero.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Voided Victories – The Writeycorn

Voided Victories

“Whoooooooooo we won!” “Yes!” It was the football tournament  in the European school and it was the semi-final 5ENB v.s 5NEA English vs The Dutch. The referees were Dutch and were cheating. We (English) started complaining ………………..

it was the final of the football tournament in the European school The Spanish vs The Dutch, a Spanish guy  had a broken arm but we chanted “LET HIM PLAY, LET HIM PLAY” so he played. The Dutch cheated again and won but got stopped by the principal!

Inspired by the November Writing Prompts.

Voided Victories – Dead Deer

It isn’t the drugs you know. No it was never about the performance enhancement, not for me. The guy was an arsehole, that was the problem. His deliberately provocative stance against all and sundry (especially against those noticeably anti-drugs – I mean, come on!) was just unpleasant and unnecessary, and that’s why he was so unliked across Europe.

‘Nice guys don’t win’ would be the mantra of a pugnacious flawed human such as he. It is a ridiculous claim. It is obvious to anyone that the true champions are the ones that win everything, but win with grace and magnanimity. There are plenty of examples from his own sport as well as all others.

This, I suspect, was the cause of his downfall. I mean it had been obvious that he was guilty for many many years before his admission, it was a bit ridiculous that he could still stand up and spout the bullshit, but more so that people continued to believe him. And all the shock and surprise when he admitted it! I mean, where had they all been?

Next came the outrage, from all quarters. Tennis player’s appalled that someone might turn to illegal medicinal methods to aid and assist their game. Tennis! Satire isn’t dead, but it is on life support.

So the record books are left with a big hole in them, yet for many the gap is ignored and they still believe. And he still gets to travel the world airing his views, sharing his  grevances! And those who stood up to him, who refused to take his poison, what of them? On the scrap heap, ignored; still seen as dull whiners.

He was a nasty piece of work and he was a cheat. Why is he still lauded in his homeland? Oh hang on – they like that type so much they have one running the place.

Today I wrote from 15:44 to 15:54. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Nov 30th – Voided Victories

November 30th – Voided Victories


“Go on, eat it all up.”

“You’ll like it.”

“I made this specially for you.”

She knew they were watching her. They always watched her eat, now. So she tried, with a smile, to move forkful after forkful of the calories into her mouth. One sausage. 301 calories. A slice of cake. 257 calories. A banana. 89 calories. A glass of water. Nothing.

She sipped at the water. Smiled at her parents across the table.

She knew they cared. Cared. She also knew that they didn’t know that they were suffocating her with their care. Their encouragement. Their triumph at the smallest of victories. Their victories were the white spaces on her plate where the calories had been.

They didn’t understand. She was a good girl. Good at school, good grades, friends. Good at sports, too, once, before all this started. All this.

She knew what was going on. She had read the literature, gone to the sessions, talked to the overweight nurse and the overweight doctor and the perfect counsellor with her shiny hair and tiny waist and perfect small curves. She knew what she was doing.

She also knew that they didn’t see what she saw in the mirror. They didn’t see the swell of her stomach in the spotlight she angled up, every morning, every evening, just to see.

They’d started going through her computer. They didn’t know enough, though, to find the private browsing history, the chats, the perfect girls with their perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect bikini bodies, on catwalks and covers and full-page spreads. They didn’t know about the chatrooms, late at night, where she could talk about calories and figures and BMI and perfect shapes.

They wouldn’t understand.

So she smiled at the dinner table, as she smiled at the breakfast table, as she smiled when she went out the door, her mother’s hug a hug goodbye and a pair of caliper arms, measuring, judging.

At school she was safe, if she was careful.

Straight into the bathroom, empty her stomach.

A victory.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Fractured and Formless – Dead Deer

Trying to make a decision that will alter the course of my life. As so often this complex and nuanced situation, full of pressures and many unclear variables, it comes to a simple binary decision. Yes or no.

And of course each of those options bring more problems and decisions. Which way to jump? How much weight to give to each important element? When my mind has been battered and bombarded for so long now (I cannot believe the calendar is telling the truth) it is left fractured and formless. Keeping thoughts in order and in place is a very delicate and almost impossible task; but I cannot chose until I  can.

My thoughts; an express train going round and round a circular route constantly knocked off track. To get it back I need to stop and start again. From the beginning. Everything needs to be in a line. I need to concentrate, and there needs to be concentration around me. Yet there is constant non-stop distractions, half-interested non-focussed demanding the answer. Just keep on topic, keep balancing the plates on the sticks until I can finally drop one way or another. Because once it is done, it is done, for better or for worse that will be the route I take.

And finally, who is driving this train? This is the worst element; the thought that what fractured my haunted head is the same thing at the controls of the train, railroading, manipulating, deciding already and merely pretending not to. As always. That is what drove us here.

Today I wrote from 22:04 to 22:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here