A Scribblers Dream

30/03/2026

The Wait

The clock on the wall has developed a louder tick,
measuring out a day that belongs to someone else.
I am a prisoner of my own hallway,
tethered to the sound of a distant engine
that always seems to turn the corner into another street.

I stand by the glass,
as if the intensity of my gaze
could pull a van out of the horizon by sheer force of will.
Every white flash in the distance
is a false start,
a heartbeat that settles back into a dull ache
when the vehicle passes by without slowing.

The tracking screen is a static lie,
offering no map, no name, no comfort—
just a void where a human should be.
The "any minute now" has stretched into hours,
stealing the rhythm of my afternoon,
turning a simple task into a heavy anchor.

I listen for the sharp rap of knuckles on wood,
the herald of my freedom,
so I can finally stop looking out,
and start living in my house again.

30/03/2026

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30/03/2026

The Unburdening
A seed was planted in my youth:

To be mindful of the space I occupy,

To keep my eyes open for the needs of others.

That root grew deep,

Turning my hands into tools of constant help.

But the seasons have shifted.

The daily chores, once light as breath,

Now carry the weight of iron and stone.

I have carried them long enough.

I step back from the labor.

I take my bow before an audience of memories.

Now, I reclaim the oxygen of simply living.

I find the quiet electricity in giving—

Not out of debt, but out of an overflowing heart.

I greet each hour like a stranger

Who might have a story worth hearing.

Let me keep my wit sharp.

Let me work the logic of the world,

Solving the sums and the puzzles of the day,

While my spirit stays untethered

From the heavy lifting of before.

30/03/2026

a scribblers dream is here for all, poetry and stories to make your day just a little more bearable

30/03/2026

30/03/2026

The Parallel Lines
The lamp is on, the kettle whistles low,
We move in patterns practiced years ago.
A "how was work?" met with a "fine, and you?"
The script is worn, the dialogue is through.
We sit together on the velvet blue,
But I am miles away—and so are you.

The glow of glass reflects against your eyes,
As digital horizons start to rise.
You’re scrolling through a world of neon light,
While I am drifting in the living night.
It’s not a lack of love that keeps us still,
But the heavy weight of knowing every hill,
Every valley, every story told—
The newness gone, the silver turned to gold.

We’re compatible as clockwork, gear to gear,
Yet silence is the only thing I hear.
The TV hums to fill the empty space,
Between the glances at a well-known face.
To know a soul so well the mystery dies,
Can leave a hollow where the spirit sighs;
For presence isn’t just a chair that’s filled,
It’s the spark of wonder that the years have stilled.

You do not have to be alone to drift,
To feel the tectonic plates of spirit shift.
We live, we breathe, we share a common floor,
Two ships at anchor, longing for the shore.

30/03/2026

The Uninvited Guest
I’m scrolling for a recipe, or news of local plays,
But the ghosts within the machine are stuck in morbid ways.
A pop-up for a casket, a brochure for a plot—
They’re selling me a "final rest" when resting I am not.

I’ve miles left in my dancing shoes, I’ve gardens still to sow,
My pulse is strong, my spirit’s bright, I’ve places left to go.
I’m seventy and sturdy, with a clear and vibrant mind,
Yet the algorithm’s narrowed eyes are clinically unkind.

It sees a number on a page and thinks it knows the rest,
Ignoring that I’m thriving, currently at my best.
It trades in grief and polished wood, in silence and in stone,
While I am busy living life—could you leave me well alone?

Dear Silicon, take notice: your math has gone awry,
I’m not a target market for the day I’m meant to die.
Filter out the funeral plumes, the somber suits and lace,
And find some ads for hiking boots to keep up with my pace.

29/03/2026

The wheel of time turns 'round with heavy tread,
Across the years of hardship and of change;
Through every word that wiser souls have said,
In worlds that now feel distant, fast, and strange.
They knew the weight of rebuilding from the dust,
Of finding strength when all the lights were dim;
A quiet grit, a deep and steady trust,
That wasn't born of fashion or of whim.

It isn't that the olden days were gold,
Or that the "short ride" then was always sweet;
But certain values never should grow old,
Like loyalty and walking on honest feet.
Respect for neighbors, work that’s done with pride,
And looking out for those who fall behind;
The principles that served as a steady guide,
In every heart and every weathered mind.

We build the future on a shaking ground,
If we forget the lessons bought with years;
For progress is a hollow, empty sound,
If we ignore the wisdom and the tears.
Keep what truly matters in your sight,
The kindness and the strength that stood the test;
Then move toward the coming morning light,
With ancient virtues beating in your chest.

28/03/2026

The Year of the Great Correction began not with a bang, but with a heavy, laminated binder. It was whispered that the "Management" had finally moved from the kitchen table to the Houses of Parliament, and the results were, quite frankly, a bit parky for everyone involved.

The new statutes were cemented into the law with a finality that made a GCE exam look like a coloring book. On the first day, the "Smile Wardens" patrolled the streets. It was strictly forbidden to turn the corners of one's mouth upward; any unauthorized glimmer of joy was met with the immediate command: "I will wipe that smile off your face."

Humor was the next to go. To joke, to tell jokes, or even to "take the p**s" became a high-tier felony. The local pubs, once filled with the clinking of glasses and the roar of laughter, were now silent libraries of sobriety. Wine and beer were poured into the gutters, replaced by lukewarm water—provided only upon polite request.

Transportation changed overnight. No one was allowed to drive a car; the roads were reserved for the "bloody stuff" that needed moving from one warehouse to another. If you wanted to get anywhere, you walked, but never alone. Going out alone was seen as a sign of "doing one's own head in," and therefore a risk to the state.

But the most strictly enforced laws were the ones concerning the elements. Every citizen stood at their front door at 8:00 AM, waiting for the overhead speakers to crackle.

"It’s parky out!" the voice of the Great Controller would bark. "Put your coat on, it’s cold!"

It didn't matter if the sun was cracking the flags or if you were sweating buckets; the law stated you were not going out like that. To argue was to "give lip," and giving lip was an express ticket to a place where they really would "give you something to cry about."

Swearing was scrubbed from the lexicon, replaced by a dull, grey silence. If a man stubbed his toe on a piece of street furniture, he was expected to say "Never mind" and move on with a stoic, joyless expression.

The world became a very quiet morning that never ended. There were no "firsts or seconds," no soul mates whispering in the dark—just a clean, hoovered reality where everyone was safe, miserable, and very, very warm in their mandatory overcoats.

Deep down, however, in the shadows of the valleys where the sun didn't reach, people began to whisper. They whispered about a time when a man named Del sold sun tan lotion in a blizzard, and they dreamt of a day when they could finally look at the government in a "certain tone of voice" and get away with it.

28/03/2026

A Memory for some of us.

The kitchen smelled of floor polish and Sunday roast, a territory governed by a person who spoke in a language of riddles, warnings, and absolute certainties.

"I am what I am," she’d say, snapping a tea towel with the precision of a marksman, "and to be or not to be isn't the question—the question is why you're still standing there with your mouth open."

Life in that house was a masterclass in survival. If you tripped over your own feet while mucking about, there was no soft shoulder to lean on. "Don't come crying to me if you break your leg," she’d warn, peering over her spectacles, "I told you that 'bloody stuff' was in the way." And if you dared to smirk at the absurdity of it all? "I will wipe that smile off your face," she’d promise, though her own eyes occasionally betrayed a hidden glint of wit.

We learned early on that certain phrases were conversational dead ends. If you asked about a mysterious "she," the answer was always the same: "Who's she? The cat's mother!" It was a verbal wall, tall and unscalable. If a tantrum brewed, the counter-strike was swift and legendary: "I will give you something to cry about if you don't belt up."

When the energy in the room got too high, the sentence was exile. "Go out and play, you’re doing my head in! Shut up and get some fresh air!" But as you reached the door, the contradiction of care hit you like a physical force. "Put your coat on, it’s cold! And you are not going out like that—look at the state of you!"

You’d turn back, perhaps to argue, perhaps to roll your eyes, but she’d catch you before a word even left your lips. "Don't look at me in that tone of voice!" she’d bark, somehow hearing the attitude in your silent stare.

It was a world of hard edges and "never mind," where love wasn't always a hug, but a coat zipped up to your chin and a sharp command to go and be a part of the world, whether you liked it or not.

28/03/2026

To those who walked a crooked, bitter line,
And thought my silence meant I did not see;
You drank the joy that rightfully was mine,
And left the dregs of heavy grief for me.
The clock may tick until my time is spent,
And I am lost to earth and sky and light,
But do not think my spirit will relent,
Or vanish softly in the quiet night.

For when the house is hushed and shadows grow,
And you are certain that you sit alone;
A sudden chill across the floor will blow,
A cold reminder of the seeds you’ve sown.
The keys you lose, the creak upon the stair,
Will let you know that I am standing there.

The "bloody stuff" you thought was put away,
Will find its path back to the middle floor;
I’ll be the fog that turns your morning gray,
The rattling ghost behind the bolted door.
So sleep with one eye open, if you can,
For I have quite a long and haunting plan.

28/03/2026

In the quaint village of Luton, nestled peacefully on the banks of the River Medway, resided a young girl named Sarah. Now, Sarah was no ordinary seven-year-old. You might say she was a rebel, a spirited soul who often bucked the trends, a lone wolf with a mischievous glint in her eye. Her childhood was marked by the bittersweet echo of her parents' divorce, leaving her with a yearning for adventure and a touch of defiance in her heart. Despite the cracks in her family's foundation, Sarah possessed a captivating smile that could illuminate the darkest of rooms, a beacon of warmth and infectious joy.
In stark contrast to her vivacious sister, Sally was a bookworm extraordinaire. Her love for the written word blossomed early, blossoming into a voracious appetite for stories by the tender age of five. Now at nine, Sally stood as a pillar of support for her younger sister, a wise and gentle guardian. Their days were a vibrant tapestry woven with the threads of schooling and shared laughter, a symphony of childhood innocence.
Weekends were a cherished escape, a time for joyful reunions with their father. These visits were a haven of warmth and affection, a time for cherished memories and playful adventures. Their father, ever the doting parent, showered them with love and attention, ensuring their weekends were filled with laughter and unforgettable experiences.
The weekends, though filled with joy, were sometimes fleeting. Their father, often burdened with work responsibilities, couldn't always spare time for leisurely outings. Their grandparents, cherished figures in their lives, were growing frail, their health no longer permitting them to care for the children alone.

taken from Broken by Edith Murrey on sale now