Feb 13
Fiona Ella's picture

ink deity

they tell me to separate the artist
from the art
to better take criticism. 

get distance,
they tell me,
you are not your writing. 

but you don't understand
i tell them as i unzip
my skin,

i am. 

and i let them see
that the only thing flowing in my veins is ink
and garbled music. 

let them see my heart pumping too fast,
spitting words out to my arteries
and fueling the great typewriter of my mind.  

let them see my lungs compressed 
a printing press which has forgotten its job. 

let them see that all i am is words. 

let them look for some kind of a glimmer of a person hiding
underneath the words
let them look behind my eyes
but they find only a cinema where my retinas should be
translating the experiences my body passes through
into grainy oversimple
Feb 04
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my face

i do not wear this face
because society wants me to. 
if anything, 
i persist in wearing the face i do
because society did not ask me to. 
i do not wear this face because i think it makes me more beautiful. 
i wear this face because it makes me striking, 
and slightly off-kilter. 
i wear this face because it affects how the world sees me
and i like the way they treat me
i wear this face because it brings me confidence. 
i wear this face because it is distinctive. 
i wear this face because it reflects me better,
i think, 
than any other face would. 
but i do not know if this face reflects who i am. 
i do not know if it should. 
i do not know if it is even possible to. 
i know that it reflects me better 
than layers and layers of eyeshadow almost the precise color of my skin
to make my eyes look bigger 
to change me into the model
Jan 28
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i am not a nostalgic person. 
i generally accept that i was embarrassing in the past
and that some things were better and some things were worse
because that's the way time works. 
i am not a nostalgic person. 
but today i read over my old texts 
and i found some from someone i text infrequently enough
that i could scroll all the way back to the ones i sent this summer. 
pictures of the view out my window over the courtyard in london, 
speckled with raindrops but still open a crack
because the heat was so unseasonable. 
photographs from london pride, 
my first ever pride event
and quite possibly the largest one i'll ever go to. 
i used phrases like "piccadilly circus" and "the tube" 
as if they actually meant something. 
i expressed anguish over my sunburn
and the fact that english drug stores don't sell real aloe, 
just scented and watered-down stuff. 
Jan 23
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unseelie teaser

This is the pre-credits scene of my TV Pilot that I've been working. I put up a pitch bible for it a while back, you can find it here if you want to get some background on this as a project. The pilot is long enough that I didn't want to put it up unsolicited but if this sparks interest for anyone, let me know and I'll find a manageable way to post the rest! (reformatting is a pain so it would probably be a link to a pdf)


The River Foyle on the Lifford-Strabane border, drizzling greyish rain.

Ashes are falling into it from above. Ashes from a small ceremonial urn--someone's been cremated.
Jan 20
Fiona Ella's picture

why i dislike ghost stories

i realized
at about the same time i was old enough to appreciate a horror story
why they appeal to us so much. 
what it is that frightens us so much. 
obviously it's complicated--
the psychology of fearing ghosts,
for instance,
is a complicated interaction of our reservations about the time after death, 
the things we once failed to understand about the natural world
and the human fear of the unknown. 
but why is that slowly creaking open door in a house no one is supposed to be in
the notion that that statue might have blinked while you weren't looking
so much more frightening
than the ten foot tall fire breathing lizard monster? 
after all, 
one is a lot likelier than the other to actually kill you. 
what i think 
is that the creaking doorways and blinking statues
cater to our fear of the unknown. 
we fear what we don't understand. 
Jan 06
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Does Anyone Else Hear Screaming from the Culvert?

so: long story short, a friend of mine told me about a strange post a friend of hers saw on facebook and i decided to run with it and use it as a writing prompt. the end result was some kind of twisted love child of edgar allan poe and welcome to night vale and i'm hoping to record it and add sound affects at some point considering those influences. even i don't fully understand what i've written but here it is.
Dec 31
Fiona Ella's picture


i thought of this while stretching yesterday, hence the unusual subject matter, and it's a kind of half-formed idea so if it's weird...

there's different kinds of pain. 
there's the kind when you stretch out a muscle
that you haven't used in a while. 
the pain of being unaccustomed
but jumping back in. 
it hurts in the moment
but when the pain stops, 
you're stronger. 
the kind of pain you get when you're crying over a movie
or a song
because these emotions are so much simpler
because the music and the actors
and the contrived situation designed to pull your heartstrings
lets your emotions loose from their cage in a way you can accept. 
there's the pain of peeling off a scab,
because it means you've healed. 
the melancholy
of sitting alone on a rainy day
in silence except for the drumming rain--
that's hardly sadness, hardly pain--
just peace. 
Dec 29
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Live Reading

I made all these characters, 
wrote their words, 
choreographed their actions, 
molded their cores, 
and set them loose on the page. 
I forced them to face their demons, 
twisted them into situations they'd never have imagined
and let them take up residence in my head. 
They live there now, 
whispering to me their outlook on life, 
offering me refuge when I can't handle the real world, 
waiting to be let back into life. 
I live all of their lives 
just a little bit
as I'm living mine,
and they frequently live mine with me. 
But today, 
gathered around a coffee table,
they became something more. 
Not with actors, 
or people from the right country,
or right age group, 
but with my friends and family, 
they stepped off the page and spoke directly. 
Not to me,
not in the safety of my head, 
Dec 25
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in the past, 
it was just a thing to say. 
a quirk, 
or on lazy summer weeks full of other people being on vacation, 
a superpower. 
i just don't feel social urges strongly.
this was the first time
i'd ever been made to feel
like it was a defect. 
i think some people see me as off-putting. 
i have the mother of all resting bitch faces,
i tend to wear black, 
and i have been known to be considered socially awkward. 
i don't usually initiate conversations with people
when i don't want to.
and i often don't want to.
none of those things
hurt me. 
i have friends,
friends who didn't care that my resting facial expression was a little off-putting
or i wasn't very good at seeming like i liked them
when we met. 
i do smile,
a lot. 
just not in pictures. 
i am funny, 
when i want to be. 
i don't greet people i barely know
Dec 25
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unseelie show bible

this is the show bible for the longterm writing project i've been working on for the past two-odd years. for those of you who don't know, a television bible/pitch bible is a thing which you write in order to pitch a television show, with overview of the future, themes, etc. this is a semi-rough draft, the second version i've written. if this sparks interest for anyone i've also written a pilot script, but it's almost 80 pages so i didn't want to put it up unsolicited. also if anyone has an idea for a snazzier title than 'Unseelie', please tell me, because the current one's kinda outdated. also: pronunciation guide at the bottom for those of you not well-up in the wonderfully insane world of irish spelling. thanks

Logline: After her impulsive actions result in an ordinary, somewhat incapable woman being designated a goddess of death, the world falls into chaos and the woman in question grapples with an existential crisis of cosmic proportions.
Nov 03
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i've had anxiety for years. 
my jumpy heart's been beating overtime
since i was twelve. 
and even before then--
when in as in first grade,
the school called in a psychiatrist
hoping to slap a diagnosis on me
and make me someone else's problem. 
he said i was just anxious too. 
my heart beats too fast,
there's never enough air in the room
and i can't crack my ribs open wide enough
to hold all the air it takes
to calm my racing thoughts. 
my brain runs in circles
and the room starts spinning and 
drifts away into another universe i can't quite
get to. 
my stomach starts churning
and i'm afraid i'm going to throw up. 
my chest flutters,
there's a buzzing in my head and i think
i'm dying. 
i always know i'm not, 
but there's that little sliver of doubt. 
my brain has been capitalizing on that sliver of doubt
for as long as i can remember
Oct 14
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twelve years

i heard today
that they're saying there's only twelve years left
before global warming goes too far. 
twelve years. 
i'll only be twenty-seven. 
i don't want the world to end
when i'm twenty-seven. 
and i honestly don't know what to think. 
there's nothing so beguiling
as the power of denial. 
nothing like wrapping yourself up
in your won problems 
and consoling yourself with the thought
that twelve years is a long time. 
and indeed, 
there's nothing else i can do. 
i can do nothing to change this. 
i can recycle,
and walk more, 
and think optimistic thoughts
but the only thing that that bolsters is my ego, 
my sense that i'm helping the world. 
i already do the first two of those things. 
it makes no difference. 
the people who could actually change this
or don't do enough, 
or maybe it's just too late. 
Oct 09
Fiona Ella's picture

onion of pretension

i get upset. 
everyone does. 
sometimes my emotions get all complicated--
angry at myself, 
guilty of something
i don't even know what,
scared on some existential level. 
sad i can deal with
sad i even sometimes
it's all these other things. 
my thoughts start racing
and i start shutting them down. 
you'd be amazed how fast i can think
and how much faster i can judge. 
these thoughts start racing around my head
and i can't say what i feel
because i can't finish experiencing a feeling
without trivializing it
peeling it away. 
some corner of my mind watches from a distance 
detched and reasonable
and utterly inaccessible.
it's worse when i can talk to someone--
when i'm supposed to have words, 
supposed to make sense. 
better when i'm alone
and i can turn my music up loud
and wait for the storm to pass. 
Oct 08
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my internal landscape
changes every time the weather grows colder.
it's been true for years--
fall sets in, 
cold weather,
long pants, 
all those lovely jackets. 
changing leaves
mean groans about the inevitable onset of the leafpeepers. 
and emotionally, i...
my mind hones in on something--
my writing, 
someone else's story, 
anything to keep me interested. 
i called it a cycle of obsession
when i was younger and in its clutches
looking out and knowing how preposterous i was
but powerless to stop it. 
i love the cold. 
snow is beautiful, 
and i like sunrises, 
so waking up at a time when i'm able to witness them
should be a good sign. 
it comes upon me slowly, 
enough that i never notice
until winter is here
and everything is grey
and i 
am clinical and deep within obsession. 
i only notice
Sep 17
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when i went to formby point it was a cloudy day
chilly even though it was july. 
another girl and i took the train out all alone
into the town. 
we bought sandwiches and kinder surprise eggs at waitrose
then asked the lady in the bakery for directions
and then we walked. 
we had no idea where we were going
or how far away the train station was from here. 
we must've walked several miles all told, 
past fancy houses with names like
'greystoke hall'
and places that looked just like those places only a little cleaner
where rich american tourists could stay. 
eventually we reached the point. 
we slid through behind the cars into the nature conservatory
hoping that we wouldn't need passes and, 
if we did, 
that no one would notice. 
and then we walked some more. 
this time, through forests. 
i picked up a magpie feather from the ground.