Born of The Same Star



Our kiss held the perfect balance of

Swirling excitement


Giddish nerves

That ignited life back into every cell of my body,

The type of kiss that travels through you;

That takes you over

And leaves you breathless and disorientated.


What a power you have over me.


T’was as if

Before our kiss

The universe was preparing me for you,

As if God was leaving a trail of bread crumbs

To your lips.

O, my sweet sin, my glorious salvation

May my lips know nothing more than your touch.


All the moments before

Echoed promises of some sweet delight

Soon to greet me,

I saw three rainbows that week

And the moon was full of wondrous


Of loves tender arrival.


Passion is the nectar of the Angels,

Some say,

And our fire left the heavens rejoicing.

The sky withheld no beauty,

Looking up at the dazzling stars

Your eyes were all I could see.

Truly beguiling;

The shine and sparkle of your hazel hues

Became my constellations

My personal galaxy.


Time was immeasurable

Within the capsule of your embrace,

I felt my forever in that moment

As I learnt love’s breath and taste.

I felt my forever in your arms,

Unravelling a pre-ordained truth.


Our connection is rudimentary

Cultivated from afar,

Our souls were born of the same star.


The poetry of heaven;

The jewels of night

We, our love, are of that celestial light.


The Corrupted Wordsmith


Who would win in a battle

Of brain against brawn?

When your flesh becomes your only weapon

To defend the scorned.


The scorned being you,

Humiliated and impassioned

And in need of retribution

By any means.


But in this world

You are provided with only one

Where guns and knives are at the hands of none

When in the game of vengeance


The choice is yours, young fellow

The rules are quite clear and concise

You may have brawn or you may have brain

Physical strength or wisdom’s gains


Many a fool chose brawn

As blind fury can lead one to believe

That physical injuries will suffice

That blood and gore is what you need.


But I, a wordsmith, of the venomous sort

Know more of the delightful damage my words can do

I have just the thing to leave a sting,

The enduring tormenting kind


If the brain is something that interests you.


If so, I can assist you in your malefic endeavours

Teach you the power of mental wounds

Skill you in the art of breaking a heart

Without breaking a sweat.


I know how to kill a person

From the inside out

The type of pain they can never treat

The type of death they can never escape


I know of a death that greets you every waking hour

That will paralyse and steal your life

Until it is nothing

But a succession of torment, that you are forced to relive & relive


Now, if that is something that interests you, fine fellow,

I am just the wordsmith for you

Brute force can get you so far, but

With brains, with me, words can get you the rest of the way.


The choice is always yours.

Dear Heart // Dear Mind

Dear Heart, 

I know you think you love him, I know he stole your Sunday with thoughts of him that clawed at your chest, but how can you be sure that what you are feeling is love? How can you be sure that what you are feeling is any good for you or beneficial in anyway? I’ve been there. Through it all, with you. Helped you heal and we finally got ourselves back on our feet. Maybe the memory of the pain and scars he caused has escaped you. But with me; they remain. Vivid and haunting. That is why it hurt to be around him, love and resentment do not mesh well inside do they? But I am writing to tell you that I have been doing some thinking, and I believe it was the sudden realisation that some love for him still lingers inside you that stung the most. After a year of recovery: forgetting his name, quelling the desire for his touch and erasing all memory of the feelings he provoked within you. But alas, just one look dismantled all the barriers, all the walls you spent so long building around your heart to protect you from people like him. You feel like this is what love does, this is how love behaves? Well, lucky for you I do all the thinking and it’s a bitter shame. A bitter shame that you mistake a dagger for a rose, every time. A bitter shame that despite all the pain he has caused you feel like something that is within you is drawn to something that is within him. And this paralyses you with fear. What will become of these feelings? I am here to remind you of the last time you opened up to him. Remember how that felt? How he turned your courageous efforts of making something lasting and true into a whirlwind of anxiety and dismay. I will not let that happen to you again no matter what feelings you, mere Heart, think you have. I will be your guard. Always.

With my deepest concern,



Dearest Mind, 

I offer you my deepest and truest apology for all the agony and despair I have made us endure at times, but I feel like in spite of everything it will be worth it. He awoke some things inside of me that I thought were dead, things, heeding your advice, I tried to kill. But as you can see, despite all our efforts, merely his presence alone ignited something in me. I used to think that this made me weak but now I believe that this all simply confirms something we’ve been trying to deny. I’m in love. Who knew it would feel like this? How does love arrive so quickly, so unexpectedly? These are questions you can not answer, Mind, because this love did not come from you. It was not thought up, no matter how many times you would tell me so, to alleviate the pain. It feels too real to deny … to simply ignore. It feels brand new, as if our past was purely preparing us for that very moment – the moment we realised our love for each other at the same exact time. Maybe I do not know what will become of these feelings but do not disparage my honesty. Try to understand, do not judge me when I tell you that to deny my feelings at this very moment would be to deny something I believe to be monumental. A pivotal moment in my life that will shape and colour all things proceeding. Your warning has simply reminded me of his unquestionable influence, how I will forever feel tied to him. Our fates are intertwined and this is something logic can never truly fathom. My only desire is for you to enjoy the splendour love brings with me, without reservation. This is what it means to be alive.

With love,


‘Mentis Inn’ Commentary


John McGregor’s “We Were Just Driving Around” is where I initially drew inspiration from for my short story, where speech is used as the main indicator of the character’s personality, age and gender. The speech also leads the reader towards making particular assumptions about the character and what kind of situation they are in. “Mentis Inn” explores the psychological state of a mentally unstable character who suffers from a range of mental health conditions that distort her perceptions of reality. The mental institution she inhibits “Mentis Inn” is initially described as a hotel, purposefully misleading the reader from the offset. This allows the reader, through indications in speech, to decipher that Bertha is psychotic, and that Mentis Inn is not in fact a hotel. Just as John McGregor, I chose the narrative technique of in media res to give the reader a sample of an ongoing narrative that goes beyond the perimeters of my short story.

Specific details about the character’s personality in “We were just driving around” were revealed indirectly through certain idiosyncratic speech patterns. Mannerisms, such as the repetition of “like” and “basically” in a particularly colloquial syntax, reveal to the reader that John McGregor’s character is a teenager in an informal setting. The mental instability of my character is depicted through language and syntax; the fragmented sentences mirror Bertha’s fractured and unstable mental state, which is expressed in her speech, as she takes various unexpected pauses. My character’s sudden rise and fall of voice volume “BUT YOU MUSTN’T. Speak. So loud” is used to convey that Bertha is bi-polar. Her mood changes at a flip of a coin, stressing the need for her to be in a strait jacket to restrain her potential violent outbursts. The intended purpose of specific diction choices, such as “Shh. Shh. Hush now.” was to create a sense of panic and derangement to convey Bertha’s internal conflict as she struggles to maintain control. This picture of derangement is furthered through descriptive detail, such as “matted silver hair”, which is an external representation of Bertha’s internal torment as her hair is “matted”, highlighting her decline in self-care. I mirror Bertha’s internal decline with her external deterioration to ensure the reader can envision Bertha’s regression in two dimensions.

I chose to leave my ancillary character nameless to highlight the character’s purpose as a tool that is used to illuminate the reader’s understanding of Bertha. This character helps to reveal the reality of Bertha’s situation. The reader is initially lead to believe that the secondary character is simply delivering the room service at the hotel; however, as the plot develops the reader discovers this character is actually one of the workers at the mental institution that takes care of Bertha. This can be compared to McGregor’s “The Chicken and The Egg”, where the subject of the egg was just a device used to subtly unravel the wider reality. Bertha has an obsession with her illusory reality as a result of her psychosis that prevents her from confronting the truth of her situation. To a similar degree, the persona in “The Chicken and The Egg” has a fixation with an egg and projects their fear of finding out about their unfaithful partner on to the egg. Similarly, John McGregor and I drop subtle hints that our personas are actually subconsciously aware of the reality but chose to supress it “and that harsh light. WHY is there, nowhere for me to call room service?” My persona becomes aware of certain truths that threaten the foundations of her illusion and it is through the suppression that my character’s psychosis is perpetuated.

Names are vastly significant in my short story, “mentis” is the Latin word for mental, which gives my title an ambiguous quality through the way “Mentis Inn” can be seen as a double entendre. I chose the name “Bertha” for my protagonist as it is the name of the mentally deranged first wife of Mr Rochester in “Jane Eyre” and as they have similar mental disorders I made my character her namesake. “Bert”, who is Bertha’s imaginary friend, is the male equivalent of Bertha. The lack of imagination portrayed by this name choice conveys that Bertha created this imaginary friend at a young age, so to have a companion that is connected to her by sharing similar names. This imaginary friend has followed her into her senior years “stands of matted silver hair”. Bert is an aspect of her schizophrenia; a voice that was derived from her lonely youth that has driven her to commit heinous crimes. His identity is concealed to propagate the feeling mystery through blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. My story explores the power of psychosis and how reality is shaped through the mind.

Short Story: “Mentis Inn”


“I’ve been in this hotel for… for… how long has it been dear? Forever, it seems like. So I know a thing.  Or two. About this place. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Bertha said, as she sat up, straining her neck as she did so.

“No, no. Don’t bother asking ol’ Bert over here. Shh. Shh. Hush now. I know you’ve been here as long as me. BUT YOU MUSTN’T! Speak. SO LOUD! Okay, right. Back to you then.”

She tried to away the strands of matted silver hair that had fallen on her eyelids, as she bellowed. Failing to do so in her first attempt, she began rolling her head in the shape of a half-moon allowing the strands of hair to successfully flick to the back of her head. Crimson veins pulsed vibrantly on her neck from the continual strain placed on it. She redirected her focus on me.

“Blasted Bert, always wanting a say. Yet always disappearing away. Here Bert. There Bert. Everywhere there’s Bert. Bert. And then, he is nowhere. And THAT is why I get so mad at you, sweetie pie.”

She paused, glancing at the plate on the ground beside her.

“I WAS PROMISED 5 STAR DINING! One, two, three, four, five, four, three, two, one. I give this zero. Not on quality. No, but on quantity. Incompetence. HOW MANY TIMES MUST I TELL YOU! One plate won’t be enough. For me and Bert, hun. And I am “forbidden from ever starving myself again.”

She recited this last part in a voice that was not her own, and closed her eyes as she spoke, in such a way as if she was recalling the voice from a memory. Her eyes reopened to reveal a gleaming grey window, glazed with tears that she would not permit to fall.


Frantically she looked from the left to the right, then up and down alternately; then glared at me.

“See! Look what you’ve gone and done. Bert has disappeared. Again. He’s gone because he felt forgotten. Again. Neglected. AGAIN. But I guess. Beggars can’t be choosers. I’M not paying for this place. I’M being treated. By mummy dearest. Reparations. That is what I see all this as. Reparations for the years of… BERT!”

She jumped up onto her feet and stared at the ceiling, stretching her neck out and tilting her head forward in an accusatory fashion.

“HOW ON EARTH did you get up there. Come down from there, this instant. Bert. You’ll HURT yourself. Again. See, he never listens.”

She sighed. She sighed in such a way that her whole body seemed to deflate during the slow exhalation. Her very aura revealed the torment her soul endured, the battles she continued to fight within herself were draining. Consuming. She floated back down to the ground beside me.

“NO FURNISHINGS! There. Another fault with this place. And that harsh light. WHY is there, nowhere for me to call room service? You come and you go. As you please. LIKE BERT OVER HERE! But that’s okay, because my mummy should be coming for me now. Or did she say soon? How soon is now? When is soon? I’ve been waiting. And waiting. AND THIS PLACE! Is not worth whatever she’s paying. But oh well…”

There was a pause – I used this as an opportunity to attempt my task and I began to draw near to her. Clocking on and realising my intentions she began to struggle, thrusting her body back and forth in a frustrated panic and collapsed on the ground; yelling and sobbing as she did so.

“I WON’T, I WON’T, I WON’T! LEAVE ME ALONE BERT! But please don’t go, I don’t want to BE alone. Just left alone. But only when you’re like this. I CAN’T HURT HIM, I WON’T! THAT’S NOT ME ANYMORE! Mummy I’m sorry, Bert told me too. He MADE me. I’m trying mummy, I’m sorry. I promise to get the blood out of the carpet.”

She whimpered, suffocating in her tears; screaming helplessly in-between large intakes of breath and then suddenly all was silent. Sedated and manageable I was finally able to tighten the strips on her white jacket, that wrap her arms crossed around her, completely preventing their movement.

Can’t have her escaping again.