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Livid Lunacy

A learned lunacy juggles
with the template of the self,
examining its imperfections
with a glazed look of contemplation.
Those few who have forfeited
existence, now isolated
on an uncharted archipelago,
with me at the stern of the corvette
navigating the inland passages
towards the bastard destination.
Schemed into the offices
of unfair dismissal, I have longed
for great workmanship,
but am instead granted
hard labor at the expense
of my grovelling frame.
Is this a deliberate ploy
to keep me out of their classless
empire perhaps? To have me run
amok across halfwit desires,
or is this a life bequeathed
by my soul upon myself
until the true destination is revealed?

I am not entirely sure what I am illustrating in this poem. A couple of lines came to me, and when writing, the rest simply fell into place. Thanks for reading!

Where in the World is Kevin Brophy?

A reading of this poem can be found at the following link: http://youtu.be/X7LTKTmmRXM

An endless effigy of infinite romanticism
which is promised to endure the constraints of over a thousand years
is encased within poetic stanzas evermore,
for what a poet can teach you in life,
their poetry can teach you in death, the truthful touch
of their agenda holding sway long after their bodies have succumb
to the bludgeoning of a long forgotten millennia.
Even when all who once loved them with a great allotment of endearing passion
have disappeared into the boundaries of death’s universe,
the name of the one who put pen to paper
to express a symphony of regretful love and opinionated torment
continue to be remembered, their voice coming through
from across the divide as though they never really left at all.

But then there are others, I especially,
whose memory shall barely be held onto after the shroud of death
takes my hand in hers. Much unlike the talented poetic legionnaires
of our society, whose professionalism has been passed ever so continuously
from reincarnation time and time again, similarly to the cat
who has crossed the road for the ninth time, the receiving
of another rejection letter sends me into an inescapable delirium
of unwanted anguish. In this hour I am supposed to be victorious
in my pursuit of the perfect poetic piece, the bitter taste of defeat
is all that falls upon my tongue, despite the humbled beginnings
offered at the orchestration of this passage writ.

To ensure the moment after the final stanza falls upon the ears of many
is not one of total embarrassment, treachery and theft
may well become the desperate measures of a man
wanting more than he has been offered by the conveyer of our fates,
and when I do disappear from the realm of the living spirit,
I wish for there to be tears that fall like hail,
rather than the total lack of any actual memory.
To die sad, alone and afraid between the covers of a poetry anthology
50 years out of print is not going to be my end, and with the exception
of becoming a ventriloquist doll in the hopes of having someone
more intelligent than I, commandeer this mouth of mine
to make certain a word of beauty does fall from between my teeth,
I study the works of others to better understand the role I wish to play.

There’s a poet I know in Arizona, who with but one word
can captivate enthrallingly the attention of even the weariest soul.
There’s a poet I know in New York who refuses to use full stops,
and by the time you have finished reading, you are lying on the ground
unconscious. There’s a poet I know in Florida
who refuses to read the work of others,
for she thinks her ears, which are ever so delicate, are a precious commodity
not to be risked on work she considers below par.
There’s a poet I know in Canada who expressly writes about his daughter,
so if tragedy should strike its chord and she be left alone,
never will it cross her mind that she was ever without love.
There’s a poet I know in the Philippines
who only ever writes pieces about heartbreak,
and yet, for a broken heart to happen there must have originally been love,
but never is such an emotion spoken of.
There are poets I know in England who write only about depression,
and who obviously need a recalibration of their repertoire.

But for all I think I know, the knowledge I hold within me
is little more than nothing, for I read once only the old,
renown for serving in poetry wars long forgotten to time,
who are naturally mummified by skin so ancient
it is pulled taught across their defeated frames,
continue to give a little more of themselves
each day to the enduring poetic art,
in the hopes it may outlive the celebrity that is Chappell Corby.
It is then that I hear of a well aged white wine which goes by the name
Kevin Brophy, and if I were to grow on him like a wart
and steal his unfinished masterpiece before it fills a canvas
whole, I could call it my own and receive the love of many.
For this to reach the epicentre of fruition, I shall become
the chalk to his cheese; the Hyde to his Jekyll; the asp to his Cleopatra.

Once this has happened, and I have been brought
the mind of Kevin Brophy, I will come to poetic readings,
not to hear the words that once paraded inside the minds
of those within a community far more intelligent than I,
but to find vixen’s whose beauty is beyond the apex
of my desire, so I may write a poem of their lustrous features
and encapsulate and immortalise this gorgeousness
for the world to still acknowledge a thousand years from now,
and tonight, my poem shall be written about you.

Above all else however, I will write so poem hating zealots,
who dare to criticise what they cannot control;
who are fuelled by the bleeding heart of literature,
as they drown their inebriated ignorant existences
in Molotov cocktails, are forcibly flogged
by a metaphorical chain, comprised from the bones
of unforgotten poets who died to have their words
read by legions in futures that were at the time
yet to be conceived, so they hear the better work of others
like a bout of tinnitus, and if I were a woman,
I would be an Amazon, and I would rip their hearts
out from between their barren bones and show it to their face,
so they might know the words of beauty
which were to be injected into the palpitating muscles
by a poet’s thoughts, which have now been replaced
by the utmost fucking torture of damnation forevermore.

This ability I would always secretly owe to Kevin Brophy,
whose adept creativity I plucked like the virginity
of a fair angel. But when this day arrives, where in the world
would he be; this man who would, and I am certain of this,
be late even for his own obituary, where we would recite how he,
like many a manipulator of the written word,
fell foolishly for poetry, like all who are here now.

Promoting a Poetry Competition, Volunteer Positions and Career Advice

Often I write only poetry (and occasionally prose) on my blog, but today I am going to be posting something a little different.

First, I will like to announce the Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS) international mental health poetry competition is still accepting submissions until April 20th.

Be afraid be beary afraid advert

To submit, send up to three pieces in .doc or .docx format to: gmbscompetition@gmail.com

Each piece needs to have pertinence towards mental health; needs to be 1.5cm spaced and can be up to 100 lines in length.

Prizes for winning entries include the opportunity to be published in a GMBS anthology or on the GMBS website; books of previously published poems; and certificates.

Moreover, GMBS is still looking for people willing to volunteer their time to assist with this online organization. If you are interested, please send an e-mail to: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com, and explain why mental health matters to you and what ideas you have to further promote the organization. On another note, if you are interested in working as a moderator for the GMBS forum, be sure to express your interest in the e-mail. The forum can be found at the following link: http://gmbs.freeforums.net/

Lastly, for university students in Australia (although there are similar opportunities in other countries), Universum, an organization dedicated to helping students find the right career, is still hosting their short Wet Feet Career Test.

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Trying to find the right career is never easy, and yet it is one of the single most important moments of a person’s life. This particular test is designed to make this decision easier by showcasing jobs that share your interests, values and ideas. Participants also have the opportunity to win prizes! So be sure to check it out at the following link:

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If you find any of these opportunities interesting, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors!

New Opportunities Available with Good Morning Bedtime Story

Hello Ladies and Gentlemen

Good Morning Bedtime Story, an international online organization dedicated to building an awareness of mental health through writing, poetry, art and music has a number of new prospects that are coming alive in 2014.

The first is the announcement of a forum, where people will be able to discuss issues they are having whilst dealing with their mental illness, talk about their survival stories and offer advice to others who are suffering. We hope it will become an area of the internet where those suffering depression, bipolar, schizophrenia or any other form of mental illness will be able to congregate and safely discuss their lives, challenges and feelings.

Additionally on the forum, emerging artists will be able to showcase aspects of their artistic creations and acquire feedback in order to help become published. This will assist artists with becoming creative contributors in Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS) anthologies.

To help manage the forum, GMBS will require moderators to look at the conversations taking place to ensure that none begin to show racism, hatred, derogatory comments or excessive violence.

Moreover, GMBS still has a number of openings available for volunteers. Jobs will include updating social media pages; posting calls for submissions to anthologies; marketing any new ventures the organization is undertaking, and creating ideas to advantageously benefit the organizational cause.

GMBS is always open for online submissions, which will be posted on the website. Volunteers too are able to contribute with submissions, and those who volunteer their services have the opportunity to receive a recommendation for their resume.

If anyone is interested in becoming involved with GMBS, you can e-mail them at: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com

In the e-mail, explain why mental health matters to you, what ideas you have to help further promote the organization, and also outline whether you are interested in working as a forum moderator. Only successful applicants will be contacted.

If you ever want to submit work to GMBS, you may submit poetry, writing (both fictional and memoir), music and images relating to mental health to: gmbssubmissions@gmail.com

You are able to post under a pseudonym if you wish, and all published work remains copyright of the original creators. Be sure to include the word ‘submission’ in the title of the e-mail.

Thank you for reading and I hope you consider submitting work and contributing to the organization.

Submissions are open and Volunteer Positions are Available!

I thought that instead of posting a poem here today, I would talk about an opportunity to submit work and contribute to an online organization.

For the past few weeks I have been working as a volunteer with online mental health awareness group Good Morning Bedtime Story, and would like to notify the general public about the organization.

Good Morning Bedtime Story (GMBS for short) uses the creative arts, including poetry, short story, memoir, images and music to advocate mental health. With this in mind, the website is always open to submissions.
People are also able to submit under a pseudonym, as GMBS understands that pieces on mental health are often written from personal experience and can be quite painful to discuss. To submit, send your work to:

gmbssubmissions@gmail.com

Additional information on submitting can be found at this here link:

http://goodmorningbedtimestory.org/submissions/

Moreover, the organization is currently looking for volunteers passionate about building an awareness about mental health. For more information and on how to apply, please follow the below link:

http://goodmorningbedtimestory.org/2013/10/25/we-are-hiring/

You are also welcome to follow GMBS on Facebook here:

https://www.facebook.com/GoodMorningBedtimeStory

And on Twitter: @GMBS1

Thank you for reading.

If I dream of thee

Hey guys! This particular poem is one for a university class of mine. Thought I might run it by you guys first before giving it over to my class mates and tutor to look over. I am using a bit of an experiential design here. The piece is meant to be reminiscent of place and space, ‘space’ in this aspect being my opinion of a place, or, in the case of the poem, a person. Please feel free to comment if you believe that there is something wrong with either the consistency or any other aspect!
I appreciate you taking the time to read.
Also, there are a couple of sexual references and some profanity in the piece. Thought I should mention that in case I receive some very young viewers!  😀

Waiting I was for twenty six years to find her,
and wonder I do when I think
together four years was not enough.
Is it greed that floods my sensors,
or is it more of something different
that is yet to be mentioned here?

General Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo
proclaimed that he be worthy
when fell upon his sword he did.
An answer I am yet to find
when question I do my worthiness
to hold onto the memory
of the woman I called my home,
for every day her voice I hear
on moments when soundlessness be not abandoned.

‘When we lay our heads down upon plush pillows,
our hearts begin to beat slower.
We succumb to the tiring sensation
that runs throughout our systems,
and as we close our eyes and let sleep take us,
promise me, my darling,
in the quiet of your fantasies,
you will have hallucinations
of my undying embrace.

This imprisonment is necessary,
for in our dreams we shall meet,
as we sleep under the cover of darkness
that has drowned out the day,
the dead of night rapping at our windows
as we soundlessly dream.
Although we are separated
by the immense oceans of time
that stretch out across the universe,
the nexus between us is most strongest
when our consciousness has been denied.

In this world we are bound not
by the limitations of the living,
who be impaired by lack of vision.
During our dream state we can see ourselves
for who we truly are in the land of the ancient spirits.
Lead you I will, through your sleep
until the two of us are together,
right where we eternally belong.

When around you I’m not,
let love be your guide.
I am in the weather that surrounds you;
my feelings are the winds
drifting across your features;
my thoughts are in the rain that hangs in the air,
and by the end you shall be mine,
as destined you are to be.

Every time you close your eyes it’s me you glimmer
because, in your memories I am alive,
for love like ours lasts more than forever,
it is time itself, and when meet again we do tonight
in your unconscious mind,
you have my permission to run your sweet
fingers through every strand of my hair.

Kiss me with your lips
that be stained with eternal love,
from which I have digested greatly
the affection of my paramour,
and happily drink your love I will,
just as you have drunk mine.

Eat your fill of my feelings
prepared on this platter,
for like numbers, my passion is never ending,
and just when you cannot stomach no more
I will kiss you awake
and tomorrow we can begin anew.’

Spoken are these words few
across the veil of serene passing,
and listen do I to the garrulous tongue
of my beloved as her whisper hangs on the wind,
for love that be true can be halted not
by even the dispersions of sacrilege.
Bound is fidelity’s chalice of mine
that points towards true north,
and when cometh my end does
meet her, my lady, shall I
in the city of angels that floats on the wings
of faith, truth and love.

A time there was once though
when different her emotions were,
and it was I who sacrificed his affection
in order to ensnare the complete attention
of the future residence my heart
longed to live within.

No problem have I ever with saying ‘I love you’
when such words are meant, although I believe
she did once resent such terminology.
Beneath her bench she did keep a voodoo doll
in the shape of any man who charmed her heart,
and stab the thing repeatedly she would
with a needle of solid silver
until a man fell out of fixation with her.

This attitude of hers was an unnecessary one;
a burden upon my soul that seldom feels rejection.
Resent these tactics I did,
knowing how not I would be felled
by such malicious crimes against my romance,
and as I whispered into her ‘all will be alright’,
her bated breath was then released
and she did simply breathe again
in unison with the beating of my palpitating heart.

So if I dream of thee this night,
waketh me not from slumber,
for the elements of but brick and timber
represent not the corporeal visage
of my heart’s desire,
and my one affliction.

My mortal coils bound
by the elixir of her good fortune
offers a defensive reprieve
from the bed of loneliness,
wishing not to sleep beneath the duvet
of such misfortune.

But sometimes this be not enough,
and the phone I ring to have a conversation
with the unforgotten dead.
The ghost of my one true love
is recorded on a loop,
that shall proceed to play for an infinitude,
for the immortal carrier of her voice time is.
I listen with an empowered intent,
to hear my heart’s home say the last goodbye
we were eternally denied.

Shall not shed a tear I will,
but joy instead will be that which erupts
across my features,
for the unwritten tale of our affection
is a story worth consideration
in the halls of unequalled passion.

Not is my permanent place of residence
my home. Protection it does indeed provide,
like a barrier between worlds,
but love and warmth is given not
by the walls of this establishment.
My homesickness felt is not for this construction,
but the home that hath occupy
this residence once with me.

The home that which contains
my palpitating muscle
of passionate throes
alas is a stationary object not,
but a ravishing creature
of independence
who hath captured me
with an unending ease.

Inanimate is not my home,
her roof that which shelters me
being not a mass of tiles
but hair, each strand belonging
in its own place upon
the herbal scented features
of her head, burning
like an out of control grass fire
that rampages across the land.

Cement and brick her flesh is not,
but gentle to the touch
of my fine fingers as I caress
a form of physical magnificence
quite like no other,
my home having taken legitimately
the crown of purest gorgeousness
from the head of Aphrodite,
being bestowed this grateful honour
on the orders of a winged angel,
the Goddess of love and beauty
having for the first time
to stand in the shadows
of my beloved’s figure.

Like a painting hung upon the wall,
her body be the canvas
of such fruitful expenditure.
A rose that be as dark as night
is etched upon her shoulder left,
whilst a sentence strung from words writ
beneath the surface of her flesh
is accumulated on the opposing side;
Je n’ai l’amour de soi et j’adore ca.

A symbol of nefarious intent
in the form of a religious cross
that be hung inappropriately,
drawn in the darkest colour imaginable
that be thick like it is filthy
is painted ever so delicately
across the sumptuous design of her back.

The opposite to this artwork
is, ironically, on the other side,
a slender angel in an ink of blue
hangs like a chandelier
between the ample peaks of her chest,
the wings of this here blessed creature
resting upon thy lady’s bosom’s mantel.

An artist, who must have perspired dangerously
during the birth of the snake
that worms its way around my lady’s lower regions
would have begun the piece of work
where the tail lies beneath the button
in her body’s centre.
Its form slithers towards that which
shall not be mentioned yet,
the tongue of this venomous reptile
resting but an inch above Venus’s mound.

A fire breathing serpent,
quite unlike the creature writ
in the stanza prior,
rests its inflamed features
upon the leg of the woman I call home,
a ring of fire burning
around the body of this wretched beast.

Felt not is pain by a house that is built,
but when born, a different story this is,
however, never ought a tale such as this
be written upon the page again.
A tear, crystalline in appearance
will roll across the flawless features
of the woman I have here regaled,
when consumed with bereavement
her gorgeous soul unfortunately suffers
once the deliverance of offensive villainy
unto her life of beauty is betided.

But she be strong in contrast
with what may be believed,
and if flirt too much did a man
unworthy of her consideration,
apply she would mascara to his angry eyes
and to his chapped lips would be gloss
as she proclaimed with a smile
‘now you be my little bitch!’

If, like a volcano, a commotion did erupt,
and enter did I the room where explode the violence had,
only to find one such person beaten up upon the floor,
‘what the fuck have happen here?’
would be the words bestowed from me,
before being told, simplistically;
‘like this it did happen –
started it he did, and it be I who ended it.’

The lights that illuminate
dark passages on a cold winter’s night
are her cayenne flavoured eyes, shining brighter
than the stars orbiting our atmosphere
that need not switching on,
for always do they exceed
all else that radiates this world
in glowing fixtures.

The chimney is connected not
atop her frame, but to her mouth,
the slender stick of smouldering ash
permeating the world around her
with its obnoxious fumes.
The repugnant flavour of the smoke,
once cycled through her lungs,
has become a scent so sweet,
one could not imagine it was ever so brutal to behold.

Like oxygen is this fragranced cloud
to her, the scented smoke
bringing a smile to those lips that be reminiscent
of the flames she bathes in.
Her cigarette could spontaneously erupt
and paint the effigy of a blazing inferno
that spans her entire body,
and she would shrug and say with bated breath,
‘had to happen sometime.’

Unlike a house belonging
to the land, rooted in place
and grown from the imagination
of workmen’s fingers,
like the seedling of a growing flower,
who speakth only with the
creaking of wood
hanging above me in the ceiling,
its choice in words
reaching my ears on nights
when the wind blows thickest,
different is the speech postulated
from the lips of my humble home.

Opinionated is she,
with an intellect that defies
all known comprehension,
the sounds that roll off her tongue
being not sounds at all,
but words, that need not deciphering
as I listen with an avid ear
to the harmonic gestures
of a musical score
that ought never to be unheard.

The words that fall from thy mouth
match those which be produced
by the lady from my dreams incarnate,
whose words, spoken in an accent untraceable
are concocted by rosy lips of a pink hue
which long, like a flower in the meadow
to be plucked, oh so courteously.

‘You’re the air I breathe,
you’re the sword I seethe,
you’re everything I know.
You’re the destination I will go
to hold onto you my king.’
‘You’re my diamond ring,
you’re my lighthouse in the harbour.
You are the future mother
of my children, my loving queen,
the only one who makes me feel like a human being.’

Although not is meaning lost to thy words spoken,
come a time does on occasion
when what be said fails to clarify
the feelings found within,
and it is on rare occasion such as this
that the touch of flesh against flesh
will say more than what could ever be spoken aloud.

An entryway there be not of conventional design
to touch the soul within her castle’s keep,
for there be no moat to cross
and there be no palace guard.
But permission is ever only granted
to those deserving of her patronage,
the fire that burns within touched only
by the hands of those with just merit
who hath captivated her unruly passion.

Ease not my way through the front door
for there be no knob to turn,
but a buckle that needs undoing
to reveal a pathway to a dungeon
of incomprehensible delights,
the likes of which I cannot help
but lust to plunder.

Upon the first time of this moment transpiring
I remember what sprang to mind, the thoughts,
and I said to myself with gusto great;
‘I shall not shield my eyes,
for the morbid curiosity of mine
is a boundless ocean,
that longs to explore the farthest reaches
of my destined home,
with regions contained across all surfaces
yet to be named by man,
and if I may be so bold
to ask the owner of this here promise land
a question, with regards to whether
I can be the explorer to put a name
to these areas of lustrous pleasure
and great beauty, when exploring
not just her lower most features,
but the mountain ranges of her torso.’

Now, that it be time for a conclusion
to be writ upon the page,
it can be said with a heart, heavy with burden,
that ‘death is when the darkness takes you,
belittled by the black of night.
I don’t want to feel this first before I die,
I want to feel you instead,
for you are oh so hot like a burning bush,
the embers of your effigy
captivating me with a raw ecstasy of emotion
unlike any that I have inhaled before,
and known it should throughout the land
that separate we shall not,
for, unequivocally, there be no death in love.’

The Group Photo

The group photo
is in fact not
a group photo
at all, for I,
a member of
said group am not
present during
such proceedings.
I was not however
occupied with plans that
were unbreakable, nor
was I the victim of an
undefinable illness.
Simply put, I had not
been considered for an
invitation in
the first place, and
like the loner
that I am, I
stood apart from
the others as
the flash of the
camera consumed
the image of their
happiness, which
would not have been
stretched so thinly
across their features
if an involuntary
invite had been slipped
beneath my door.
Although, with this
writ, the title
‘group photo’ is
placed above the image,
permanently entrenched
upon the paper,
much like the smiling
faces that would in
fact be frowning
if I had shown
up that day. I
guess my not being
a part of the
group means that every
single person was
indeed present for
this event, even
though, deep down, every-
one knows this is a lie.

The Man That Can’t Be Moved

SYNOPSIS: Jimmy, a student attempting to do a research project on the mysterious town of Gransnapia discovers a story about a statue of a man that is placed on a cliff overlooking the ocean, and why he will never leave.

Jimmy rode timidly upon his bike, the immaculate town of Gransnapia located around the bend, the entire town looking considerably bleak and dark, a shadow of its former self. He had never been present during its glory days, but had heard stories of its brilliance, which is why he had decided to do his assignment on the town. The teacher requested they write on something fantastical, and this was it. Jimmy however never imagined the town would be so frightening to behold, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as he rode into town. A dense cover of fog emerged from the confines of small broken town houses and spiraled around him like ghosts, eager to accept him as one of their own.
Jimmy began to feel his decision to come was a mistake, slowly turning his bike around before slipping to the ground,  gravel digging into his skin, the fog appearing to laugh at his own inconvenience.  Making his way to his feet, Jimmy noticed an old man standing a few metres away, his clothes ragged and dirty. The man turned his head to look directly at him, causing a shudder to crawl along Jimmy’s spine. Taking a deep breath, Jimmy summoned all the courage he could muster before asking ‘do you know any interesting stories about this town mister?’
‘Depends’ stated the man, taking a step forward. ‘Do you want to hear a story’ he asked, ‘or do you want to hear a story?’
‘Which one is which?’ asked Jimmy.
‘The latter is far more fanciful’ stated the old man. He pointed up at a statue of a man placed atop of a cliff edge overlooking the entire town. The statue appeared sad and alone, the body posture signaling the man had lost something significantly dear to him, his head bowed in a silence that could never be broken. ‘I can tell you a story about the man that can’t be moved and the story of his Juliette for all eternity’ he said, before beginning to tell the tale.

The town of Gransnapia was traditionally inviting. Bright and beautiful, lights flourished across the city at night making the small civilisation stand out like a beacon.  However, what Gransnapia was most famous for, were its apples. Gransnapian apples were sold for twelve dollars per kilogram, visualised as one of the most succulent and addictive forms of fruit ever conceived. This world renowned delight was what made the town so famous, comprised of many wealthy industrialists who had made a living of extravagance and luxury for themselves.
However, nobody ever distinguished the true nature of the townsfolk. They were, each of them pretentious, egotistical and presumptuous, having a great amount of prejudice towards outsiders. If they were not a part of their society then they were simply seen as misfits, the scum of the Earth whom they believed needed to be swept clean.
The townsfolk wore luxurious and exquisite outfits, dining at the only restaurants they had ever known, incredible arenas which were crafted specifically for the kings and queens of industry.
This behaviour was clearly represented the day the new shipments of parts for their hydro-electric dam were sent over by ship from the far side of Australia. The vessel was black in colour, looking like a beast on the horizon as it docked in port. The gargantuan containers were removed from the ship, and in addition there was one passenger.  Nathaniel Buck was his name. His costume certainly wasn’t extravagant, appearing dirty and ragged from his trip at sea, his face unwashed and covered in hair. The townsfolk looked down at him as though he was a weed, one which needed to be destroyed quickly before any harm could be done to their Garden of Eden.
Nathaniel immediately had trouble attempting to be accommodated into a room at the local hotel, and the next morning found it even more trying when nobody wished to offer him a job, instantly being deported to the docks to ensure the area would be kept immaculate.
Whilst working there however, he couldn’t help but notice the comings and goings of an extraordinarily beautiful young woman. Virginia Copperfield was her name, daughter of Harvey, one of three men who had founded the Gransnapian apple trade.  Her blonde hair flew out behind her as she rolled by in a luxurious gold trimmed carriage, her attire being a blossoming gown made from the finest silk imaginable.
Nathaniel was told by fellow workers he was crazy for having any romanticised thoughts over such a person. But the dock master liked the work that Nathaniel had accomplished, providing him with a larger economical cash flow, and as he built up his savings, Nathaniel made himself more presentable.
Even after Nathaniel had dined with the best of the town however they still failed to provide him with any respect, especially Harvey, who had noticed the stranger looking at his daughter on countless occasions. He needn’t have worried however. The stranger was never able to sum up the courage to communicate to such an attractive young woman, believing, like the town did, that he was a creature no woman of such brilliance could ever have feelings for.
One night after watching an adventurous piece of dramatic art about a couple of travelers and their escapades, Nathaniel had actually met Virginia in the booth above the stage whilst he was making his way towards the exit. The both of them had stopped what they had been previously doing and looked at one another for a second. Nathaniel had attempted to form words, but had ultimately failed, instead, tipping his hat in the presence of the beautiful young woman and departing from sight.
Although he was still disliked by the locals, Nathaniel did indeed begin to have additional occupations opened to him. Through these he was able to pull off many endeavours the entrepreneurs wished to have accomplished, from moving something from one place to another, to helping to advertise for bigger business. The most attractive feature of such occupational occurrences was the payment, which added to the luxurious lifestyle Nathaniel wished to concoct for himself. He had come to believe such wealth would make him appear to be quite the gentlemen in the eyes of Virginia, nothing apart from his self esteem been able to stop him from achieving his dream of finally being able to ask her to spend an evening with him.   
When Nathaniel realised Virginia was being sent by ship to Europe a couple of weeks later under the machinations of her father he felt his entire body begin to shut down in grief. As the luxuriously gargantuan vessel pulled out from the harbour, Nathaniel stood atop of a cliff edge overlooking the vast ocean, and for a moment, just one, he could have sworn he noticed Virginia look up at him. It was almost as though she too had wanted him to approach all this time, and in one split second all opportunities were vanquished.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months, and months inevitably turned to years as Nathaniel continued to wait on the cliff edge for his beloved to return, to tell her exactly how he felt and pray he was not too late to be with her for all eternity.
But never did the ship return. Nathaniel continued to wait after the ship and all of its crew were reported missing, and after a period of seven long years the constant brutality of the sun caused Nathaniel’s skin to crumble into rock, until he became a part of the cliff itself.
A few months later it was reported the vessel had been attacked by enemy troops invading Europe, no survivors ever being reported after the ship had being razed into the depths of the ocean.

Jimmy took a few steps back, his mouth open in shock, unable to say anything to properly establish the way he currently felt. ‘Wow’ he managed to say in awe.
‘Yes’ nodded the elderly man. ‘Virginia and Nathaniel were the best of all those who ever entered the town, and without them Gransnapia inevitably destroyed itself through wrong doing.’
Jimmy looked at his watch before shouting ‘gee, thanks mister, but I really must go now’, quickly leaping onto his bike and beginning to ride out of the town. He turned around suddenly and looked up at the statue one last time, instantly recognising the resemblance. The old man was the ghost of Nathaniel, trapped for an eternity away from his true love, the two of them cursed to forever be apart.