Oct 11
Fiona Ella's picture

symbolic ostriching

when my head is stuck deep in the cavern of art i feel safe. 
with music in my ears 
and imaginary people living their lives in front of my faces. 
then i quit ostriching
and pull my head out into the sun
and suddenly life seems bleak. 
i can think i'm feeling all right, 
music spiraling through the air and blocking out anything that might hurt,
then the music stops 
and i remember. 
i'm miserable. 
and i love art, 
but i don't want to live my life
like a symbolic ostrich
who can't bear having her head out of the sand.
Oct 10
poem, audio 4 comments challenge: Fear
Fiona Ella's picture


(Editor's note: This is one of the featured pieces in this month's The Voice. Check out the other content: http://thevoice.youngwritersproject.org)

i think a lot about fear
and about death, 
and i've come to the conclusion
that i'm not afraid of death. 
after all, death is nothing. 
and there's no point being afraid of nothing, 
since you can't exactly do anything about it, 
can you? 
as much as i dislike the idea
of sliding away into oblivion 
and never thinking again, 
that's not the bit that frightens me. 
what frightens me, 
what really frightens me, 
is growing old. 
not arthritis and needing hip replacements, 
although that's sure to be unpleasant, 
and not even just slowly losing my mind. 
Audio download:
Oct 09
Fiona Ella's picture

lifford act 3

next 10 pages, approximately 


The library is large, old, mildewing.

Scarlett follows Samuel through the shelves.

Hey, that man back there—

Samuel pulls a book off the shelves and deposits in her arms. It’s heavier than it looks. Scarlett winces.

Was he talking about an honest-to-goodness ghost?

They’re rarely honest and there’s not much goodness about it.

He drops another book, then another, into her arms.

But, a real ghost?

Of course.

Another book added to the pile.

That’s what you lot do? Track down evil ghosts?

On occasion.

Another book. Scarlett’s struggling to see over the pile by now.

Is it dangerous?

Parts of it.
Oct 05
Fiona Ella's picture

lifford act 2

more of the thing i put up like a week ago. act 2, about the next 10 pages. 


Scarlett goes tentatively up to the door. She knocks.

There’s a pause. The door is opened, but not by Howard: by SAMUEL ASHBURNHAM, in his 30s, British, who looks just as surprised by Scarlett as she is by him.

Is there a new doorman?

I’m sorry? Oh, Howard. He’s ... off somewhere. Come in.

Scarlett tentatively follows him.


Orla is behind the desk again. Davison is leaning on the side of it. They both perk up when Scarlett comes in.

Oh, she’s here! Thanks, Samuel.

Scarlett frowns. She looks around.

Um, sorry if this is a rude question, but ... how many of you are there? How many people work here?
Oct 02
Fiona Ella's picture

what on earth happened to productivity?

i keep clicking on the write button
and then staring at this blank screen for a few minutes
waiting for my braingears
to click into action. 
they never do. 
maybe because i'm not having writeable experiences, 
or ... something like that
but then i just wonder
whether this campaign of mine
use your time better, 
get your work done, 
be less stressed 

is even doing me any good
because i don't want to prioritize schoolwork
over my writing
but it seems like doing the inverse
just makes me more stressed
and god knows i don't need any more stress
than what i create in my head for myself already.
i've got this cold, 
scraped-out feeling in my head
and my eyelids feel all droopy--
only one more block left
til the end of the day
Sep 30
Fiona Ella's picture

'nother screenplay i've been working on

this is kind of like a tv pilot type thing in my head. it might be terrible, but it's a thing i've been working on for a while so i wanted some feedback. this is approximately the first act (4-act structure). also, a friend helped me come up with the idea, so it's not one hundred percent my brainage. the writing is mine, though. 
also, the lady thing is based off an irish ghost story i found on the internet. i can't remember from where now but it is not my original idea and i don't mean to steal credit. 



A BANKER sits at his desk. Across from him is a very nervous SCARLETT MONAHAN, mid-to-late 20s, frazzled.

Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you more but you just aren’t qualified to work here.

Scarlett bites her lip.

Maybe if you went in for a degree?

Scarlett gets up to go.

Sep 24
Fiona Ella's picture

rock cycle

i discreetly wrote this in science class, constantly looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was prowling around, ready to pounce on me for being off-task, which is why it's so short. if anyone was wondering. 

weathering doesn't happen quckly, 
you can't wear a mountain down to a speck in a day. 
it takes a long long time, 
centuries of raindrops streaking the surface, 
centuries of gusty winds whipping at a raw nose, 
hours and hours of awkward stares
of plaguing thoughts
i'm wrong, i'm stupid, 
i am being judged

people talk about flames going out
but a flame is snuffed in seconds. 
and it takes ages to wear a person down. 
so i say, 
i'm a mountain. 
buffetted by wind
someone else's tears washing away my face. 
making a brave last stand
that's slowly making me
disappear into

into specks of
specks of
Sep 20
Fiona Ella's picture

is this society?

i sit
pressed in between the two of them. 
they're in hysterics, 
tapping their phone screens
to airdrop memes back and forth. 
if i'm not mistaken, 
these are all things they have all already seen. 
are they hilarious just because airdropping...
automatically makes things funnier? 
my parents used to look out at my brother and his friends
as they sat side by side on the porch
phones to their faces
and make exclamations of disgust
that phones had replaced face-to-face communication. 
and as much as i may think
that adults are a little bit phobic about technology, 
this seems sad. 
to come all this way
to lunch break
away from class
and to see people you sometimes don't see at all
the whole rest of the day
just to sit here staring at your phone
airdropping memes. 
and it feels awfully...
Sep 19
Fiona Ella's picture

and the less coherent part of my mind comes to the forefront...

i'm starting to think there should be a genre of poetry in my honor called "leaky brain overwrought spills" or something. does that already exist?

i don't know why i titled this soup
maybe life feels soupy right now
whatever the hell soupy feels like
i think for some reason i've come to call soup
synonymous with confusion. 
it's like a confusion 
that's less actively not knowing
and more wailing, swimming thoguhts
they drown sometimes
that don't make any sense. 
like how
you know those moments when you get so tired of being you?
they tell you to be yourself
it'll make you feel better
but myself is stagnant. 
is there a myself? 
i come to  think of myself
as more an empty walking head
full of characters in stories
like i'm just a character in my own
boring story
except i'm the kind you don't care about
and my egotism