Ms Cheryl Diane Parkinson

Writer


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Being Merry

Today, as I was working on my presentation on Dissociative Identity Disorder, the muse nudged me to be more creative. The creative piece I am working on at the moment, is called, Being Merry. Now to be fair, I shall probably not use any of this material for the end piece, but at the moment, I am proud of what I have written and so thought I would showcase it here. What follow is an introduction to Merry’s life, who has Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), or what is more commonly known as Multiple Personality Disorder. She is a duel-heritage character who experiences the world through her duality – always being a half of something, rather than a whole. And so, her makeup exasperates her mental condition. The voices from her past become confused with the voices from her present – it’s all confusing! (But that’s the point.)

Any comments would be gratefully appreciated.

Meredith Fairweather

The more I learn, the less I know. The harder I search, the louder the truth trumpets in my ears: that I have lived many lives, spanning hundreds of years, across continents.
Retracing my steps to search for something that was once lost is futile. I know this. Yet I am compelled to search by a force I do not understand. What am I searching for? My sanity; my sense of self. The further along I go along in this journey, the more I wonder whether I had it to begin with.
I am the full stop, the black finality at the end of an exclamation mark; the last at the end of a line spanning back hundreds of years. I am a symbol; a representation; an idea: the product of my environment.
And as I strive to define myself, to become myself, being partly of Caribbean descent, the exact opposite happens. I am losing myself in my blood drenched history. The hands that claw to save themselves are pulling me down into the black abyss. The voices ring out in my head, crashing and careening in a cacophony of noise, and I can no longer differentiate their voices from mine.

I am lost.

I am splintered. The fissures run deep. Within the cracks the pieces have developed into minds of their own – a village full of people with the potential to multiply into a small country. I see the world through fractured, frosted glass.
Sometimes letting the Devil know you’re defiant is all the spirit will allow. Even if you don’t have the fundamental tools to fight him, you are calm in the knowledge that you do fight.

And in the dank darkness, He sharpens his teeth.


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Would you take a walk through the Old Wily Woods?

Would you take a walk through the Old Wily Wood?

Would you take a walk through the Old Wily Wood?
Where the Ambergris Grimm is up to no good?
Would you take a stroll through the deep if you could?
Knobbly limbs, lobes and probes, trunks awkwardly stood.

The moon riding high casting an eerie glow,
Distorting the shadows that flick two and fro,
Stretching and haunting the nooks, crooks and low,
Ghostly shadows in the brush, eyes red a-glow.

The place where things vanish, dissolve in thin air.
Gossamer-thin ghosts float free, without a care.
A live beating heart in the dim quite is rare.
Breath misting the shadows distorting the air.

A quiver, a shiver, shudders up your spine,
A soft moaning wind, whines around through the pines,
Shadows and ghostly figures, glide and entwine,
The trees, reaching branches, snag, scrape: so malign.

Flaunting the haunting, the wood loses your steps,
Stumbling and fumbling through the darkness and wet,
The rain in cahoots, drizzles cold wet and frets,
As the wind whips up the pace, your fate is set.

Leaves floating free tumble and cover your tracks,
Whispers and flutters round your ear and your back,
Changing, evolving the wood stops your backtrack,
The wild wily wood’s laughter, rings live through the black.

Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?
Heart hammers in fear, could you burn firewood?
Knowing the thick trunks and branches where they stood,
Could rip up their roots, move, betraying deadwood.

Would you take a walk through the dead of the night?
Shadows seeping, creeping and curling in sight,
The moon riding high, lonely, pale and in fright
The freaky whispers, pluming breath fragile-white.

The Old Wily Wood is alive with mischief,
Will whisper and twist til you beg for relief
Whispy, ghostly spectres will make you believe,
And fear for your life from the beast in the trees!

Rough knobbly fingers rip and tear at your hair,
Not for the faint hearted, so better beware!
Red eyes in the undergrowth, tread with a care!
Moaning winds, yawning mouths, beware the beast’s lair!

Would you take a walk through the Old Wiley Wood?
Knowing that the trees there were up to no good?
Would you take a stroll through the dark if you could?
Knobbly limbs, lobes and probes, trunks awkwardly stood.
wily woods