We’d argue until the early hours of the morning.
I’d sit in the 6am rain with a cigarette and a glass of water, spitting blood onto your patio.
The neighbours must have become concerned
for the crying girl in her Calvin Klein’s.
I told my mum I’d fallen.
I told my friend it was ‘a funny story’.
Your forearm would pin my neck against the wall
whilst your tear-stained lips told me
how much you loved me, you’d die without me.
Your forearm would envelope my chest
in a furtive attempt at hiding my assets from prying eyes.
Your lips would brush my ear
People are looking, you would say
People are looking, put them away.
Why did I stay?
Four years later you asked to see me and you cried the entire time.
Thick, salted tears that stained my clothes.
You’d been a block of ice in my life for so long
but that day I breathed my summer sunshine on you
and you melted.
rewrite of my poem Naïve.
Is it the heels over my head
or the hammering of my heart
that’s keeping me awake tonight?
I begin to yearn and wonder
cry and pry
deep into the depths of
a troubled mind;
Why can’t I be the rock in the river
that’s standing strong when
the world around is shifting?
‘There’s T-shirts! We get T-shirts!’ Kaitlyn’s excitable squeals rose above the chatter as we emptied the contents of the box onto our assigned table. She held the emerald T to her front, admiring the stitching of the golden logo on the chest. University of Winchester Foundation Music, with a shining treble-clef and the words MUSIC MAKER on the back, in the same shimmering thread.
‘Oh, it’s gorgeous. We’ll take it in turns to change, I’ll be back in a minute.’ And with that, she flew out the door, practically tugging off her clothing as she went.
Kaitlyn and I had both been asked to represent FM at the Applicant’s Open Day that Saturday morning, and had arranged to meet at reception to retrieve the box of leaflets and instructions for the day. I arrived at six minutes to nine, bleary eyed and yawning, expecting to have a couple of minutes to grab a cup of strong tea from the machines; living in student digs means being kept up until 2am by the flat upstairs playing beer-pong or deciding to hoover their room above your head in the early hours of the morning. To my surprise, Kaitlyn bounded towards me with the box already clutched in her hands and a large grey bag, much like one that carries golf clubs, slung over her shoulder.
‘Are you excited?’
‘I am. Come on, you can carry this.’ Continue reading “Mother Knows Best”
This piece of writing stemmed from a guided-write that I participated in during the second semester of my Creative Writing degree. We were played a selection of songs and each one inspired where the story would be taken. Two songs that jump out in this piece are Hall & Oates’ You Make My Dreams and David Bowie’s Life on Mars.
Really interesting and inspiring technique for those struggling with writer’s block! Enjoy…
Continue reading “The One Night Stand”
When I was younger, my favourite toy was a cardboard box. If I was faced with a Barbie, a remote controlled car, a bear and a box, I’d choose the box. I once made a cash machine with individual cardboard debit cards for each member of my family, their little faces painstakingly biro-d on as if they were also ID cards. I made paper bank notes and advice slips, which read somewhere along the lines of ‘eat more greens’ and ‘trim your toenails’.
I would slip my cardboard creation over my head and sit inside with a torch and all my paper ready. Each slot I’d cut had a post-it on the inside telling me which one needed money, an advice slip or a returned card pushed through. I’d wait for my mum’s card to be slid into the wonkily cut line marked
INSERT CARD HERE
My tiny robotic voice would ask for a pin and my mum would make beep boop noises as she tapped four numbers onto my carefully drawn pin pad. When my dad said he didn’t want an advice slip, my robot voice replied ‘No daddy, you have to take an advice slip!’ He laughed when I pushed trim your beard through the gap.
Another time I made an oven. I didn’t need no Eazy-Bake, I had my cardboard box. There was a car and a boat, a television and a laptop, complete with a cardboard mouse on a string and little paper screens that I would interchange, depending on whether I was playing ‘important business lady’ or ‘kid on Miniclip’.
Here I am, 21 years old and stood in my kitchen, confronted with a cardboard box. My initial thought was to flatten it, crush it down into the recycling bin and wait for the bin-men to decide its destiny. But before I’d pulled the tape from the first seam, I stopped. I remembered my ATM and my oven with its opening door and extractor fan. I smiled at the creative I used to be.
So, here I am now, 21 years old and sat on my kitchen floor with a cardboard guitar in my lap, smiling at the creative that I have grown into.
I had that dream last night –
My fingers were long and twisted
My mouth bruised and blistered
I bow my head and spit my teeth into my shaking palm
They land like shining white pearls
Perfectly imperfect in their warm bath of blood
I spot her across the chapel, oozing confidence as she converses with ease, throwing her head back with glee as her laugh chimes above the chatter. The room smells of oak and buzzes with excitement as our choir rises from its pews, the first rehearsal adrenaline pulsing through our veins. I watch her glide through the space, the heel of her boots echoing to the ceiling, her lips brushing the cheek of each old friend she passes.
Her name is Miriam. Her clipped, blonde hair sits in a perfectly straight line across her shoulders, parted in the centre to frame her face. Her wide smile brightens her blue eyes. A pair of thick-rimmed glasses are perched atop her head, ready to slide down as soon as music is placed in front of her.
She’s from a city called Tallinn in Estonia – her friends have taken to calling her the Estonian Princess – but years of living in New York has given her a sultry American lull. Having a diplomat for a mother meant that, at the tender age of sixteen, she moved to the Big Apple for her mom’s assignment, where she began studying at the United Nations International School. ‘I graduated high school,’ she makes air quotes with her polished fingers, ‘which is really the International Baccalaureate Diploma programme.’ She flicks a tendril of hair from her face and flutters her lashes at me. She’s an intriguing woman; wide set eyes and a strong jaw line, stunningly beautiful in an almost alien manner. Continue reading “Miriam”
She stood straight and stretched her arms to the sides, letting the heavy camera hanging from her neck rest on her stomach. God, this place is beautiful. Perching on a nearby rock, she appreciated the sea breeze on her cheeks as she flicked through her findings on the small screen in her hands.
She squinted through the summer sun, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose as she awaited a burst of inspiration. She’d scrutinized the shoreline; studied the pebbles at her feet, drawing pictures in her mind; glorified over the golden ratio. She sucked in another blast of salty air and heaved her aching body to her feet – she wasn’t leaving without the perfect shot.
‘Do you love her?’
I stopped dead in my tracks, my heart leaping to my throat, a deer in headlights.
‘You heard me.’ He said it with more force this time, adopting a stern, fatherly tone; ‘do you love her?’
An eerie silence fell between them and I leaned my head against the cool wall of the hall way, my suddenly sandy tongue plastering itself to the roof of my mouth. What do I do? Do I stay where I am, unmoving and unheard? Or do I creep away, risking the floorboards giving away my position, my unlawful eavesdropping?
I imagined him leaning against the marble kitchen counter, hands deep in jean pockets, head lowered, eyes cast to the floor. There came a sigh, from which man I will never know. Slippered feet shuffled on the kitchen tiles.
I closed my eyes and bit hard on my trembling lip. My mind conjured images of his father’s stern eyes, calloused hands resting on generous hips and a brow raised. My imagination mustn’t have been running too wild, as there came an exasperated sigh.
‘I haven’t even had this conversation with her yet, let alone you! I love her, Dad. I do. And I’m scared.’
I thought of his rough hands, like father like son, being pulled over his face and through his thick, dark hair. Another sigh was forced through pursed lips. Why are you scared? I pinched the bridge of my nose and concentrated on the scuffed skirting board, noticing for the first time the line of Thomas the Tank Engine stickers that paraded the edge meeting the laminate floorboards. I thought of the other fragments of vandalism around the house from his childhood; the crayoned characters behind the door of the cupboard under the stairs, the broken photo frame still parading the smiling faces of his grandparents, the paint on the face of the well-loved rabbit of his infancy that was still proudly perched atop his wardrobe. I let a smile creep across my still shaking lips. Continue reading “Eavesdropping”