I Am Found

The Lady lifted her gaze to the sky, and the light of a thousand moons reflected in her glistening eyes.

‘Why do you cry?’ Asked the Hummingbird.

‘For so long,’ she began, ‘I have wanted to be seen; to be believed; to belong.’

‘Are you not those things?’

A tear fell down her cheek like a falling star, ‘No,’ she replied solemnly.

‘Am I those things?’

She looked down at him, with a small smile. ‘Can you be seen?’

‘Only this morning was I watched and photographed by a human.’

‘Are you real?’

He stretched out his beautiful iridescent sapphire and emerald wings, and looked at them. ‘I am!’ He concluded.

‘And do you belong?’

The Humming bird cocked his head in thought. ‘I drink the nectar of flowers, and help pollinate – which in turn keeps the cycle of life going.’

 ‘I didn’t belong,’ she paused, peering back up at the starry sky. ‘People did not want to see me, and loved ones did not believe me, and so, I did not belong.’

‘And now?’ Asked the Hummingbird.

‘Now others are backing my Truth, and people wish to see me again, and those who choose not to believe me – despite everything – are those who do not belong with me.’

She plucked a dandelion clock from the soft grass, and lifting it to her lips, she blew softly, and the fluffy pappus spun and danced on the warm night air, lifting higher and higher into the sky.

‘I am found,’ she smiles.

– Maégan Jane Boyle
3rd January 2021

All Seasons

I am lost in a season with you,
I feel the cold, bitter howl
Of a deathly Winter wind.
And I feel the burning heat,
Of a blaring Summer sun.
I feel the soft mist
Of a Spring shower,
And my skin is coated
In golden Autumn leaves.

I am lost in this season with you;
A season of all seasons.
My compass spins a dizzy dance,
And I remain where I stand.
My thoughts remain uncertain;
My body baring the weight.
My heart overflows with
Giving too much.

And I wonder,
When will this season end,
As all seasons must do.
Yet fearfully, the voice inside my head,
Tells me – like seasons do –
It will come again.

– Maégan Jane Boyle
25th November 2020

The Emerald Eye

Master Arendule left the hot glaring sun of the desert, and entered the open trapezium-shaped doorway, and into the cool obelisk. His eyes took a moment to adjust, but that didn’t slow his limp stride; he had a purpose, and he must see it done.

The smell of frankincense still lurked in the shadows with the dust, and the bones of the ones who once protected this sacred place. Some people thought it good fortune that there was no door to the obelisk, but they would soon find themselves mistaken. Like the frankincense, nothing that entered here ever truly left. He wondered how many looters came to this place in search for the truth behind the legend of the Emerald Eye, and he wondered how many even managed to see it before the obelisk breathed in their souls; as if starved for air – a sudden, deep intake of life-giving essence.

What people ignored from the legend, though, was that the obelisk was alive – and it was that fact that sucked the air from their lungs. Master Arendule knew the legend, though. It had been passed down for centuries through his family, and somewhere inside here lay the bones of one of his ancestors. For a moment he wondered if the obelisk would know; that his family had tried once before, but he pushed the thought from his mind as he delved deeper into the obelisk. His boots echoing on the stone steps as he descended further into darkness; he felt his boot kick what he imagined were bones, as he listened to them rattle.

When he reached the bottom, lamps blazed alive with a roar, leading him down a curved hallway lined with skeletons still clutching their spears, bows, and axes, dressed in their leather cuirasses, cloth robes, or plate suits. He lifted his chin, trying to ignore the hollow eyes that watched him, and the toothy grins that taunted him, and came out into a giant, round room. The water that surrounded the podium in the middle of the room reflected the light like a black mirror; perfect and still. The podium was round, with simple columns and a dome roof made from pearl slates.

He moved to the edge of the water, and a deep rumble trembled beneath his feet as a stone bridge breached the water, offering him dry passage across.

Master Arendule took in a deep breath, and the obelisk echoed; the air in the room seemed to grow thin, until a gentle breeze danced within his long, greying hair; on it, smelled dust, and frankincense. His eyes darted to the black water at either side of the bridge, and he swallowed.

I must see it done, he thought, and he strode forward. His gaze locked onto the sarcophagus in the centre of the podium. As his foot touched the podium, the bridge descended again into the water, leaving him stranded. He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, and approached the stone coffer, looking over the intricate detail of branches, leaves, lilies, stars, moons, and suns carved into the sides.

He reached out; hesitating but a moment before his fingertips touched it. He let out the breath he realised he had been holding, and again, the obelisk breathed with him. He laid his palm flat on top of the sarcophagus, and rolled his shoulders; the lid was thick, and undoubtedly heavy. He then began to push the lid, and with a groan, it began to move. He held his breath expecting a putrid smell that hadn’t been unleashed for centuries, but instead a warmth radiated upward, and with gasp, he jolted backward, frowning at the slight, dark opening.

I must see it done, he reminded himself. He rubbed his hands together, apprehensive of what lay inside. He grit his teeth at the pain of his grinding bones, and braced himself. He continued to push the lid, until light flooded inside.

He looked down at white cloth; silk and lace, with beautiful ivy strands embroidered in a shimmering green, butterflies in pearlescent red and black, and lilies in ivory, tinted with lilac. But what stole his breath, was the face peering up at him with the loveliest of smiles.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ her voice sang, peering up at him with her one brown, and one green eye.

– by Maégan Jane Boyle
15th October 2020

Just a little short story; essentially a free write, but minorly edited. I quite enjoyed writing it – it was just something to stretch my creative muscles, I suppose. Hope you enjoyed reading it!

Savage.

Broken;

Dissatisfied.

A better lie.

Reach for a soul,

To find a cold shard;

Split open fingers –

Bleed my words.

Found no hearth

No home.

Feel no worth.

It hurts.

Reminiscent

Of dark shadows

That lurk

In the back of

My mind.

Just waiting,

Abating.

Unsatiated;

Infuriated.

Happiness

Exfoliated –

Copper wire scour.

Bones aching,

Mind breaking,

Gut persuading.

No insider trading,

You’re wading.

Waiting.

Stating.

Pretty bronze scars,

I feel you;

Not enough.

– By Maégan Jane Boyle
13th October 2020

Nowhere.

Broken devices,
Left over vices.
Silken memories of by-gone days,
People going their different ways;
But I want to stay
Here in this nostalgia.
Don’t wake me.
Don’t wake me.

I saw the dust fall,
The aftermath of bombs,
But I’m safe.
I’m safe.
And I’m sorry.

They said four-hundred people died,
Many injured, I replied.
How many mental scars,
From a memory that repeats.
It repeats.
It repeats.

I see the black swirls,
Poisoning the blue.
I wish it weren’t true.
We’re killing it.
Raiding it.
Spoiling it.

The act of the few,
You’re ruining it.
The many need to rise.
Reprise.
Renew.

I’m tired now,
But I wonder if…
World War III?
Don’t come for me.
Don’t want to see.
Don’t…

Scared now.
Humanity?
Lost, not few.
Apocalypse,
More dictatorships.
Microchips.
Transfix into politics.

I hated this.
Who created this?
Feed me a chocolate kiss.
Or two.
Yes, two.

Overload on sweetness.
Pretending impending.
We are sending
Ourselves.
Above; beyond.
We go nowhere else.
Nowhere else
To go.

– By Maégan Jane Boyle
10th August 2020

Image my own.

Update: life & writing.

I always tell myself I’ll update this blog more, but the truth is, I’m more active on my Instagram and Facebook profiles (latter is mostly private, though). Probably because I don’t feel as pressured to write long spiels when I often feel I have nothing worth saying.

However, right now, I have a few things worth saying.

Firstly – and I’m not sure if I’ve even mentioned this at all – I had planned to get married September 2020. Like many, though, I’ve had to postpone. Both my parents are high risk and so are currently shielding, and my fiancé’s parents are also shielding. We’re actually only having them as our guests (and our two dogs), as – in a way – we’re eloping.

Our new date is September 2021, and I’m still super excited for it. I already have my dress, though I haven’t seen it since February as it’s at my parent’s house!

Secondly, the novel is finished. If I do any more to it, I’ll just be nit-picking. I’m exhausted, but I’m so proud.

It currently sits at a word count of 117,468.

Thirdly, I have submitted. Yep. That’s right. I’ve sent my manuscript sample, synopsis, and cover letter to several literary agents in the hopes that I’ll be super lucky, and one will offer me representation. I now have a maximum of 16 agonising weeks to wait for any potential responses.

And I am terrified.

I’d laugh and I’d cry… but instead I decided to stuff my face with Cadbury’s DarkMilk chocolate buttons (yum!).

[10 minutes later]

OK, so I cried… I’m still crying.
I’m not sad. I’m just… I don’t know. Proud, and scared. And excited.

There are more agents out there if these say no. I’m not afraid of the rejection. It’s not worse than never having tried.
Writing is my passion; it’s my life. I’m not happy without it. So even if it’s a no, I’ll continue to write.

So, yeah. There’s the update. I’ll update you on my first rejection, and if it ever happens, I’ll certainly update you on my success.

Any luck sent my way will be gratefully received!

Best wishes,

Maêgan xox

For those interested:
Instagram: maeganjboyle
Twitter: MJB992

Thoughts; Hopes; Dreams.

I think we lose something when we hold ourselves back out of fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgement. Fear of failure.

The thing with that, though, is that there will always be the next scary thing. Might even be the same thing, just coming round again. Very few of us get second chances, and I think deep down we always want the first time to be the best time. I mean, do we ever really want to have to need a second chance? Do any of us just say “I’ll fuck it up this time, because I’ll do it better – do it right – on my second chance”. Surely we don’t? Because we don’t know if we’ll get a second chance. We don’t know if we could make it any better.

I’m not saying let yourself go completely. Sometimes having that apprehension is what truly makes things thrilling… and what often makes it even more rewarding, is pushing past the fear, and coming out the other side, and saying I did it.

But holding yourself back because you’re afraid… You end up hiding parts of yourself, and people who are worth you, your time, and your energy, just want to see you.

Who are you? Are you that person that when they decide to do something, they decide to put all of themselves into it – because why decide to do it at all if you’re going to do half-halfheartedly? Or are you that person who teeters on the edge, wishing they could, but never actually doing? Or maybe you’re in between… but is that satisfying?

— Thoughts to myself.

I’ve finished my final draft. My fiancé is reading it – even as we speak. Taking his time to both enjoy it, and scrutinise it. He’s found some small issues, things I’ve just passed over, and so far one issue with two chapters not fitting together cohesively. Not surprising, though. Where he is now and from here on I did the most edits, and I often wrote those scenes on a separate document before shoe-horning them in, and then trying to meld them together, otherwise I just found myself overwhelmed. Perhaps wasn’t the best way, but it was the way that got me writing.

I’ve known for some time, though, that I am terrified. Terrified that my work is just awful. Terrified of failure.

 

I’ve been writing since I was a young child… mostly short stories I can’t even remember. It wasn’t until I was about 11 years old I found the desire – or perhaps even need – to write something more. Now, if I go longer than a week without writing, I’m miserable. Yet when I try to find inspiration from successful writers, I just find myself frozen with such intense inadequacy. It was only earlier today I was looking at a published author, just a year older than me, who was first published several years ago, and saw that their daily routine is writing from noon until late at night.

Now, perhaps only those with disabilities, chronic illnesses, or some other form of limitation might understand where I’m coming from… but I can barely write three hours a night – and certainly not every night.

Comparison destroys so much happiness, I know.

I know.

But it wasn’t just them – many successful authors spend most of their days writing. Physically – and especially mentally – I just can’t. Brain fog and fatigue with the inability to concentrate makes the process so incredibly difficult and slow, and I can’t help but be angry, and hurt, and upset about my limitations. It’s a daily grief sometimes.

I’m still going to do my best and put all of myself into it, though. I just have to hope that at the end of it, there’s some success… I’m just not sure in what form.

Right now, my novel sits at 111,337 words.

— photograph taken by me, 10th May 2016, East Lothian, Scotland.

These Lines Entwine

I saw you in the gentle scope of dusty blue.
Riding the line, free to define.
Scolding those that got close,
Only if they tried to get hold.

But you were the freedom.
Alive to refine your inner mind.
I thought I would follow you,
But your pace wasn’t a number.

These depths of yellow blow dim.
Sunken in a new meaning.
I realise I was standing on the rim,
Finding words for my own plea.

Echoes of another subconscious.
Too bright for someone’s sight.
But not for mine,
I felt the inner-ear chime.

I watched the hollow aubergine.
We laughed, marking this path.
We took hands instead,
And walked ‘til we bled.

By Maégan Boyle
05/02/2020

Anywhere you go.

I’ll follow you into the grey, my love;
To touch those satin lips.
I’ll bear witness to the flashes of light,
And listen to the roaring,
To find a heart that beats like mine,
Under a lilac-tinted cloud.

I’ll follow you into the blue, my love;
To hold those silk eyes.
I’ll give up my earthly obsessions,
And offer my voice,
To find a soul that speaks to mine,
Within a warm spring stream.

I’ll follow you into the yellow, my love;
To breathe in your roses.
I’ll display my heart on a podium,
And wet it with my tears,
To find a smile that returns mine,
Within a cold, bitter breeze.

I’ll follow you into the black, my love;
To lie beside your body.
I’ll trade my life of happy sin,
And tie it with a bow,
To find a love that holds me,
Until eternity lets go.

By Maégan Jane Boyle
27th June 2019

Whispers

I wake,
To find myself broken.
Uneven, split between
Dark lines.

I face the light,
The day’s new dawn.
Came again,
And again.

I would fret
For the dawns last rhyme.
That golden light
Behind the satin,
Would it remain raven.

I hold within me,
A rhythmic beat
That calls itself my life.
A song.

One I’ve heard,
But not one I listen to
Unless
It’s rattled.

Yet hope;
still shimmers.
Like the tiniest
mirror.

A reflection of me,
True me.
Behind an overshadow.
Looming,
I’ll weave it a carpet.

Then lay this soul,
To rest.
A little while, you must
Repair yourself.

Hold close the echo,
To your lips
Shall keep it tender.
This is your elevation.

By Maégan Boyle
15th April 2019