All works seen in this blog were written by and belong to Emma-Louise Carroll and should not be taken, edited or distributed unless otherwise stated. Thank you for your co-operation.

Friday, 30 October 2009


He sits back straight and not looking at anyone, as if looking might make them explode or worse. He's sat at least two seats away from everyone else, pretending that he doesn't notice them. He's frowning as he watches his world go round, all of his belongings in that one metal tub. He's not how he looks, he's not anything you've ever seen before. But you wouldn't know it, you'll never know it, because you simply don't notice him.

Tuesday, 27 October 2009


There's a stillness in this room, not the sort of stillness that you'd want or enjoy - not peace. It's the stillness you'd find in an unlife, an existence with nothing but that mechanical movement which all are destined to perform. It is not life.

This stillness sits at the back, writhing and infecting all, even if they do not perceive it. In this room you wouldn't notice. Words are spoken, fade away and are never heard nor spoken of again. This room, it seems, is a stop in time, a place where moments move slower and you leave feeling like you've lost more than you've gained.

The stillness does its job and is smug in its victory, watching as you're being made its puppet for that slow hour-and-a-half drawl. With the lights low and no sound but the labourous scratiching of reluctant pens and the talking, which you don't really hear, that you begin to notice the stillness as it creeps around the room.

It would eye you, if it were a thing with eyes, wink and then move forward to spread the ailment and enforce it so that you couldn't slip out of it if you tried. Thinking becomes slow, dizzy, hazy and incoherent until you cannot think at all.

But if you could think you might find that you realise that it is not the stillness at all but the being at the front who paces back and forth and says words that no one remembers.

Sunday, 25 October 2009


Sunday is evident in this house, there's barely any noise and what noise there is is lazy and slow. It floats, sweeping past doors and making sure that any action that might have been planned is changed to resonant inaction, you might want to do it, you might have planned to do it with every detail spoken for and no room for error. But, Sunday is here. You're not going to do it.

Some are lucky, Sunday cannot change your mind if someone else, not in the house where Sunday currently haunts, has decided your plan of action then Sunday cannot stop you. Her ethereal features move to a frown when she realises she cannot keep you. She doesn't like it, not at all. The thought of her toys leaving her well-preseved play area is not one she enjoys or expects. When you do leave it, through your own will, she lets out a wail hoping that it will stop you in your tracks and bring you back. But it doesn't.

There are noises, getting louder as the time speeds past. Sunday begins to panic, the house is no longer sleepy, it is alive and moving. She's running out of time, soon she'll have to move on and find another house and more people to keep sleeping and calm and unproductive.

She closes her eyes, a frown still on her face and a pout on her lips, turns to the door and slips through, as if she were never there at all.

Wednesday, 21 October 2009


There are no stars here, the world is dark and the clouds take a purplish hue. It's different here, things have different meanings. The world is topsy-turvy and there are no stars.

It's more evident up here, that feeling. It's more powerful, more pure. There's a longing there too deep not to notice and too deep to take hold of and set free to the wind. But there are no stars here.

It's different here, feelings change, surface and drift like leaves in a breeze. They'd go unnoticed if they could but up here, up here it's strange and there are no stars.

Tuesday, 20 October 2009


Leaves fall in showers and Autumn moves faster - your instrument of change a walking stick with a hooked end. You talk of fate, control and life itself. You cleave the leaves from trees, weeds, plants and they fall, feather-light, to the floor.

You walk in circles, always circles with your words circling themselves, over and over. The speaking never stops it's eternal hum of questions, only questions.

It spins, swipes and falls to the ground with a wooden clatter. You look up, curse, then start the cycle once more. Leaves, fate, control, leaves, circles, questions, leaves, fate, control...

Sunday, 18 October 2009


The growling subsided but we've not moved. We've stayed still, stopping in our hunched places. Only our hands moving from time to time, eyes flickering and dancing across the room we sit in. All is quiet, save for the few feral grunts and yellings and the gasps, which come from none of us. We're observers in this.

The voices change, low, old, slow. Each breath, like the wind through dead trees. When the rage comes, the slowness sinks away and the pace becomes almost lethal. It doesn't seem possible. In fact, it's not. It's not happening, not really. But still, we make no noise. Only our hands move from time to time and our eyes flicker less.

A Book made of Buttons

Hello, Other Blog. How are you feeling now that you exist? It's strange to think that, earlier on today, you hadn't even been thought of, let alone written in and planned. So quickly life is created, though, you're not strictly alive are you? No. You're only alive when I write in you. It must be a sad existence, even if it is new. It must already be sad, living only when someone else wants you to. But we mustn't dwell on sad things.

If you were a book, I'd imagine you to be completely covered in buttons, sewn onto your cover precisely and delicately. You'd be purple, of course, and though you wouldn't see it for the buttons, you'd be made of a nice material, something soft and smooth to the touch. Your pages would have that antique feel, smell. That crusty too-old but still living sense that old books have. You'd be a paradox in yourself, a new-old book and I'd write in you with a feather quill and purple ink. You'd seem like some sort of magic, to me anyway with my imagination tying itself in knots just to understand you. But I wouldn't. You're too complex. But you're loyal, I could see that from the moment you were made - if I were to write my secrets in you they would simply dissolve into nothing and reappear again if I wanted to see them.

It's nice, isn't it? Imagining what you could be like, if you were not caught in the web of the cyberspider, which we all bow down to daily. One day, I will make you, for real and I will write a new entry, just like this one just for you. No one else, it will be our little secret.

Hello, Other Blog. How are you feeling now that you exist?