Category Archives: Prose

The Death of Coleridge

Stefanie looked out from the large rock she stood high on. Everything was grey. The sea didn’t shine sapphire but glooped together liked liquid steel, instead of an azure sky above, the clouds gathered ashen, the stone, once warm and smooth, now seemed cold and sharp as sediment gathered in the cracks.
“Coleridge.”
“Hmm?” Stefanie turned around to see Continue reading

I remember Nelson Mandela

I was eighteen years old, when on the 6th May 2010, I walked with my Grandma to the voting booth in our village. “To exercise our right to vote,” she said, “is to exercise our freedom. A freedom that many people still don’t have.” Continue reading

Silent Music between Strangers

Feeling the vibrations running down the rivets of my chords, I drum this smile into my thighs. Continue reading

Just another student room

Fingers lightly brushing feel the fights this door has dramatized. Denting the wall with angry exits, shaking the frame with poignant slams. Even the floor beneath has felt the strain, with letters pushed under and words pleaded through the locked gap. The walls themselves could tell a tale or two. Impregnated with the smell of sweet thick freedom, sweat, hot food and spilt drink. Feeling warm naked flesh pushed up against cool green paint by another, Continue reading

Tsunami ‘Survivor’

I sat in the tiny one bedroom apartment staring out at a world that was not mine. The curtains were a continental blue, the checked pattern matching that of the green synthetic sheets on the bed. The walls were a custard cream melting into the dirty floor. The Land Lady had said, “Now you can decorate the room to your heart’s content dear, do whatever you like with it!” But what could I do? I had no photos to document my life along the walls by. No ornaments or objects of personal value. Nothing. Nothing to prove that I had existed anywhere at any time other than here. This was it. Not a fresh start, but a life time snatched away by the cracks and fragmentation of the Earth, Continue reading

Anxiety Attack

Like flesh to bone, these things belong to this room. Mapping their way into its structure, they contribute to the strength of the supporting walls. Like a wave of fresh cold salty surf, anxiety, you descend upon me. Seeping into my veins, as I peel posters like flakes of skin off the walls and into cardboard tubes, I can feel the panic threading through my system. Seizing the ends of my nerves, it twists my sensory perception into a convoluted cave of despair. These things were not made for cardboard cottages, Continue reading

My First Journey

Too young for words I can just remember feeling. How the torment of separation lurched in my stomach. Strapped in the double buggy, Claire was pushing me away from our Red Front Door along the pavement. Straining to twist and turn around, all I wanted to do was check on Joggy. From the first moment I had set eyes on him, I had developed an affinity to the life sized Golliwog. Continue reading

The Little Bath Tub Girl

Based on the fairy tale ‘The Little Matchstick Girl’ by Hans Christian Anderson.

The fresh smell of dust, wood and food that so many people take for granted in their homes, was the stuff Sabine’s dreams were made of. The mephitic vapours of fags and booze every morning made the cold water she splashed on her face feel like slime.

Descending the stairs Sabine’s delicate frame glittered in the morning light. Sometimes on a good day, when her mum would shine too with that morning light, she would place her hand on Sabine’s cheek smiling and say “Skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, my heart for you my child is filled with the deepest love.” But this was no fairy tale, and Sabine did not kid herself that such happy spells would last.

Continue reading

Ladybird Killer

Your tiny red wings glinted in the sunlight as you scuttled around behind our garden bench, exploring the depths of the gaps and cracks in our patio. Attired in my pants, T-shirt, floppy hat and green welly boots, I was on a search to quench my thirst for knowledge. Armed with my blue spade and bucket I would explore, like you, every gap and crack that I could fit into. Continue reading

Girl in the Red Coat

Monday 13th April
I’ve decided I’m going to keep a journal of every morning when I see you. I want to record my devotion to you. I want you to one day read this.

Tuesday 14th April
I have just seen you, Girl in the Red Coat. The rain spitting down on your scarlet hood running down in snakes over the plastic of your coat.

Wednesday 15th April
A scarlet ribbon in the breeze. That is how I have painted you after seeing you walk by today. I did one in water colour and one in acrylic. The paint is still drying and I am yet to add the finishing touches, but I am sure they will meet your high standards upon completion. Continue reading