Vixie's stories

A Poem a Day (749): You on repeat

2026-07-14T23:19:13.920+01:00

You on repeat

You were supposed to turn up on time.
You were meant to end each line with a rhyme.

You were fated to turn tomorrow upside down.
You were meant to greet each day without a frown.

You shifted the energy when you walked in a room.
You swept up the dark with the back of a broom.

You were the one to joke and wear glitter.
You were the one who trained to get fitter.

You were the one the other kids looked up to.
You were the only one the older kids knew.

You were always telling the tallest stories.
You were the answer to everyone’s worries.

You got older, drove too fast, lived a little too wild.
You never wore a sword, never needed a shield.

You forgot the names of your fans you met.
You met me, but my face was one you’d forget.

You were the artist, the writer, the talker.
You were the beginning, the end, the Faulkner.

You acted in this lifetime like you were out of tune.
You’d already lived nine lives before the strike of noon.

You enjoyed it all too much to protect your own hide.
You forgot to click your belt for that daring last ride.

You held the globe in your hand for an endless time.
You didn’t know the world would make you pay a fine.

You held up a mirror for others to discern their flaw.
You noticed not everyone liked what they saw.

You were meant to leave quietly, unnoticed.
You weren’t meant to leave a note that grimaced.

You were the one everyone wanted to be.
You weren’t meant to be the one that couldn’t see.

You lost your way trying to find how everything gels.
You forgot you can’t save yourself and everyone else.

Vickie Johnstone, July 14, 2026

A Poem a Day (748): I on repeat

2026-07-14T22:35:43.211+01:00

I on repeat

I spend a lifetime searching for the imperfect perfect muse.
I treasure everything as if each something I’m fated to lose.

I consume as if this could be my final meal.
I am oblivious to the agenda behind any deal.

I sleep as if sleeping is an Olympic sport.
I pay all the bills, secure my space in my living fort.

I read with a microscope digging for inspiration.
I walk in fine rain feeling a washed-in elation.

I turn up early as if it will make a difference.
I cry at every ending and then hope to bounce.

I read menus a dozen times before choosing.
I hold on too long because I’m too scared of losing.

I worry I might regret choosing the wrong thing.
I greet everyone with the same shy, lopsided grin.

I end up picking the same thing every time I order.
I live in uncluttered spaces, try not to be a hoarder.

I pluck stray hairs as if anyone notices anything so small.
I live it, love it, want it to last forever, but forget it all.

I collect empty boxes because oxygen is the most precious thing.
I buy simple things, avoiding the loud, too glossy and bling.

I breathe deeply, inhale slowly, blink three times for luck.
I wish I could relive every earthmoving, heartbreaking f-ck.

I sit in the shade in case the sun burns away truth.
I rethink, re-evaluate seeking the undeniable proof.

I colour outside the edges to feel more free.
I wonder at our struggle to be what we want to be.

I count the stars just because it’s impossible.
I know my failure to make time last is laughable.

I rule the 3mm space around my own contours.
I learn from closure and look out for held-open doors.

I bed down to keep the chaos and noise at bay.
I listen to silence because it has the most to say.

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, July 14, 2026

Read Tirips Shade, my supernatural detective novel, for free here

2026-07-09T22:21:27.209+01:00

My Victorian detective novel with a supernatural and steampunk edge, Tirips Shade, is free to read here - https://drive.google.com/file/d/1mxugIivOPyKdjq4rp4ejeKhzuReWVLpt/view?usp=drive_link

Victorian London’s finest detective, Tirips Shade, 33, hunts a serial killer while investigating his own murder, assisted by his closest friend, Harold Walker.

Whether alive or in spirit, Victorian London is a thrilling but dangerous place for everyone.

With a serial killer on the loose, Sarah Ann Bartley, who runs a safehouse for former prostitutes and fights for women’s rights, asks Tirips to help stop the man before more women are murdered.

Tomas Malachide, the owner of the steam-powered Museum of Machinations, finds himself the toast of the city, but the real passion of his life is his fiancé, Elsa, a flower seller.

In the spirit world, a young boy finds himself alone on the city streets, but he just might find a friend in a streetwise girl. Cynical Willie Lynch is given the job of guide for the newly dead, while an older guide, Angelina, has her own sad secrets.

Who is the mysterious Abraham Askew whom nearly every spirit seems to fear and what other perils loiter in Victorian London’s graveyards?

I started writing it on a writing course in 2016, where we spent a lot of time on the opening page and paragraph one. Lots of rewrites!

REVIEWS

By Keithtj on April 26, 2023

"Ms Johnson has a wonderful way of describing situations and times, indeed she paints with words. Managing to evoke images and the atmosphere of the time. The characters are believable to the point you care what happens to them, and the story line is suitably gripping and nicely twisted, catching you out, just when you think you have worked it who the baddie is. A thoroughly wonderful and entertaining read more of Tirips and his world please!"

By Ed Drury on April 8, 2023

"I've followed Vickie Johnson's books since I stumbled on the Kiwi books. I've watched her effortlessly shift between genres and styles, but she's kept me a loyal reader the entire time, primarily because of her excellent storytelling and fascinating characters. This book reaffirmed my confidence in her to deliver a compelling story with beautiful characters. With this one, I think she has all the ingredients for another successful series of books, and I will undoubtedly read them all. I would recommend it to readers of young adults, paranormal, and cozy mysteries without reservation. It does have some edgy scenes, but it is, in my opinion, done within the context of the story and not the least bit gratuitous."