Ginge Reads

'Cinderella' by William Creswell via Wikimedia For as long as we have been able to talk and interact, man has told stories. We tried to explain the mysteries of the world, the marvels of the universe through spoken word and illustrations that depicted both history and man’s own imagination. Tales of myths, religious pretexts, and man's relationship to the flora and fauna can be dated back to as early as 40,000 BC. As humanity has evolved, so have the stories: cave paintings turned into domestic tales of everyday life, and sacred narratives transformed into pieces of both myth and history, embellished with the fantastic and the strange whilst retaining a sense of magic. This is what we know today as a fairy tale: a story with a seemingly impossible plot, centred on human life and its interaction with mystical creatures.  Despite this interesting heritage, fairy tales and stories of the like are still stereotyped by many as being intrinsically childish and there

 Markus Zusak (2013) Photo by Page Thirteen  via Wikimedia Commons There are many books that stick out from the endless pages of black on white. Books which delight, books which scare, books which bewilder, and which make a person reflect on their own humanity. But very few have had such an impact on myself as with Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief .   “ I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right." Narrated by Death himself, Zusak tells the story of Liesel, a German girl sent to live with foster parents just before the outbreak of World War II. After her brother’s death on the journey to her new home, Liesel’s life is changed when she picks up a single object, partially hidden in the snow – The Gravedigger’s Handbook . Though she cannot yet read, this first act of thievery sparks a love affair with books and words that is nurtured further by her accordion-playing foster father, Hans. As war closes in and rationing and air raids comm

Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash Starry skies and gentle song Turns the cold heart sweet, While blackened skies and misty eyes Flash headlights in the street.   The dark can lend you romance,  A borrowed jacket when it's cold, Heart skips a beat, lie chest to cheek, Into his arms enfold.   Light reflecting off the moon, Like torch through paper thin, Lashes blink as glasses clink, A fire burns within.   A subtle glance and rosy face From whispers softly sung, Candle light in the black of night A billion stars among.   Colours light the canvas sky That can't be seen in day, A firework show sets you aglow And takes your breath away.   Elsewhere shadowed faces lurk And slash at all four tyres. Your vision fades and rain cascades, Against you they conspire.   Darkness covers up the sins And hides the guilty face, The drunk that crashed, the girl abashed The star that meets disgrace.   The laughter's all but silenced And we fear wh

You never think it’ll happen to you… until it does. Pine needles pierce my swollen feet as I race through the forest maze. I see my breath roll out in front of me, condensing in the bitter winter frost. My heart is deafening in my ears, and for a moment I am disorientated, the sound of my pursuers concealed by the rapid thumping. There’s three of them. No, four. I can hear their shouts now, and they bark just the same as the hounds that lead them. Shit, they’re close. The thick forestry is enough to dampen the sound of my frozen footsteps, but nothing will cover my scent. They thrive too much on the acrid smell of fear for it to go unnoticed… My pace quickens. Photo by Deglee Degi  on Unsplash I glance back, licking my cracked lips with a dry tongue. My foot buckles beneath me as it catches on a small pile of rock and dirt, and I collapse deadweight into a nearby tree. Falling forwards, I grasp desperately at the thicker branches, using its solid bark to steady me.

A masterpiece of the city’s own making, the art of the common man, An artist’s pride, youth's expression, in the hands of a simple spray can. Layers of history, each covering the last with cracks on peeling brick, The city’s homemade gallery, fifty long years thick. Its here they share their inner selves, both dark and light the same, Expressions made in colourful thought, concrete that’s been reclaimed. A palimpsest of people’s lives, hiding truth and love and folly, The city’s homemade gallery, the canvas of a dark back alley. A blur of voices turns to white noise, a patchwork full of mystery, Worldly woes forgotten fast as paint conceals their history. The people’s words and portraits become lost against the crowd, The city’s homemade gallery, a collage sketched aloud. How a simple swipe of paint can make a city sing, Make run-down buildings into art and make the artist king. Statements of a generation, a melange of their art, The city’s homemade gallery, dire