A wiki of just some of my poetry/novel/ shorts extractions.
Bear in mind these are the un-edited versions.

I hope you like them, as much I enjoy writing them.
ABeautyReincarnate Four NEW poems!
CreepingMoss A first chapter of a short story. Philophosical horror.
AsthemistclearsPandora A published first short story I ever wrote. Un-edited version.

You Are the Petals of the Reincarnation

They love me
They love me not
Tried to influence,
Forgave and forgot.
From the bulb to the tower,
roots upwards through the stem,
The petals of the pinnacles,
They are you, because you are them.
A flower grows to sunlight,
No matter which cloud does form,
Forever pollinating,
For the maternal womb is warm
Yet when the bee has spread the pollen,
And the flower feels overused,
It still remains a beautiful icon,
Though its petals feel abused.
But the flower readdressed its cause,
And realised attraction lies inside,
The golden centre of its glowing heart,
Where true beauty cannot hide.
It continues the journey upwards,
Craving fresh pure air to breathe,
Yet looking inward to the roots for growth,
Seeking a bud to superscede.
Then the floral metaphor realises,
That its pollen children are well and fed,
And feels redundant from maternity,
Upon the flowerbed,
Awaken to the hum of carriers,
For your pollen still is ripe,
Still more time to influence,
Through the sternum that is your pipe.
Start again to spread the nectar,
And spread the wisdom you have gained,
To the younger generations,
Each action, words and pain.
The wisom you have harvested,
Will carry downward to the ground,
No matter where the bee will hover,
Th ehumming will remain so sound.
So, in true carnation style,
A photosynthesis craving light,
You will stand in beauty reincarnated.




© 2004


The Withered Rose

This garden that I see
With its splendour and beauty
Calls out to me
In foreign tongues of secrecy
Entice a weak mind to gape

If a rose you pluck
Then beware
With coiled snake roots
They come for you,
With golden shoots

They bound and tether
The hapless spectator , sever
From maiden flowers of exquisite binds
Bewitching the eye
So beware! That rose plucked

Will wither and die
Intoxicating , while you lie
On fields of poppies
Enslaving fools
Upon carpets of jewels

Mirrored reflections of the sky
Drowning out thought
That all things must die here
Time suspends for an eternity
In this garden of peace and serenity 


©2005 -2007 Elle Atkinson All Rights Reserved.

AstheRavenFlies-Philophisical Horror.- *Caution, there MAY be one or two scenes in here which are slightly disturbing, to some.* Most of my work generally is suitable for all ages.

MomentsofDeepReflection-Essays
AHydroxyofEmotion-Essays

A small part.


A symphony of angels

You could almost hear the gathering crescendo of wings beyond the walls of Avylon..A massacre of the heart was about to take place, a death to be imminent. Lanthor, Keeper of the Souls was watching, waiting, head bowed , shedding a single tear for Druscilla, Queen Of Ayyre, and Princess of Avylon.
Beauty diminished in a single stroke of the axe, Lucifer smiled. His work completed, satisfied at a job well-done.

Elle Atkinson

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Shattered illusions

Tangled deep within a stunted youth
Frittered away the truth
That you once believed
Bring forth the pain
When a fragile mind is stung
A Soul so sweet, rendered numb 
A heart so strong
But furious all along
He searched all day
He had searched all night
To find the one thing
He thought he’d lost
The one who’d shaped his identity
Why indeed, her very being
Had kissed life into those tired veins
And caressed away those angered pains
Of an embittered past, and aching hopes

Elle Atkinson-2000


                Pandora’s Rebirth.
     


  Light floods in the open window. The creature opens its jaw wide, exposing rows of jagged , white, teeth, its jowls trembling as it shakes its mighty head, lazily swatting flies with its mammoth tail. The woman in the huge four-poster bed stirs, but does not wake. Hair splayed out on the pillow like a pool of shimmering gold, face and features porcelain in contrast to the decor in the exquisite room.
        The woman was beautiful, enhanced by a strange halo around her head, engulfed by the pristine sheets arranged systematically in and around her body, creating a cocoon around her fragile little body. 
        A knock at the door awoke the sleeping woman and she yawned, first startled at the beautiful room she was in, and then the realisation that this was not the modest flat in London that she was used to.
        And then leapt from her bed in sheer fright at the sight of this frightening, albeit beautiful, Indian Tiger, its stripes striking against the bright orange of its downy fur.
The tiger snarled, lips drawn back, menacingly, although it made no attempt to move toward her.
By the bed, on a silver table with a glass top, lay a small, red book.
        She reached for the book, picking it up gingerly, as if the very book was made of glass itself.
        On the front was a single letter. She wondered what the 'P' stood for but she couldn’t think, still aware of the oppressive creature just yards away from her, licking its fur and stretching lazily.
But wait-hadn’t the tiger been a traditional Indian Tiger, that being of a deep orange and wide, black stripes?
The animal stretched out nonchalantly was now the shape of a Puma, its fur a sleek glossy finish, its tail twitching as if beckoning the woman to approach it, perhaps stroke it.
         How could that be? She wondered aloud to herself, still clutching the curious book close to her chest as if a small child in need of her protection.
As if in answer to her question, the Puma got up, in one fluid movement, snarling at her, perhaps challenging her, edging forward toward the bed.
         Whatever she was going to do she had to do now. She pushed herself slowly off the side of the bed, letting her feet dangle over the side of the bed, slowly creeping her way towards the door, hugging the wall, breathing slow and deliberate.
The Puma does nothing but watches, then circles once and retreats to the floor, a graceful loser.

       The woman let herself out onto the landing, being careful to close the door behind her.




© Elle Louise Atkinson 2004

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Aphrodite’s Revelation. (As with a fair few of my stories, there is a poem that goes with this) I don't know why I like to write poems with them.. Perhaps it makes them feel that bit more personal to me.

A work in Progress...


Her dreams enveloped her within the inky- blackness of the night.
 An inter-stellar correlation of starts,
Each one making up the many contours of her troubled , effervescent soul.
 
   A Sky dweller, she lived amongst the clouds and the and the sunset, looking down on the world below, ever watchful of her people, making sure her people always got the sun needed to live. How ever, when she was sad, the clouds would swell and pour down on to the earth below, washing the earth with her tears.

 Lately, she had been rather sad, and she knew why.
Growing increasingly alarmed at the destructive role mankind tend to play upon each other, she never ceased to wonder. Could not even begin to understand why some people needed to kill and destroy the very sacred thing that we call life, just in order to ’be heard’.

 It sickened her how children were often caught up in the crossfire between religions bent on spreading their clouding word and beliefs.

 And she knew that one day, and one day soon, the clouds would open up for the last time, and would weep tears of blood, smearing down the landscape, and that she would never stop.

 The earth would become a river of blood, a symbol of mankind’s destruction. And the world would be consumed, every living, breathing thing. This was to be Mother Nature’s revenge upon the destructive and negative forces. The good would survive.. Evil however, would be utterly destroyed, and a new Utopia would be born.


Elle Louise Atkinson