I opened my eyes onto red brick. Long since I had opened them onto anything more. I pulled myself upright, which was somewhat difficult and stared across the road at galvanised steel. Nothing. A spider with a body like a tiny black pin prick whispered across the grey, concrete step and disappeared into a hole. … Continue reading Shadow Lives
Wanted to write a story about difficult topic. Tried a few times, couldn't get it right. Hopefully now have. Needs facing. All these things do. The Sea
On February the 11th 1963, the poet and novelist, Sylvia Plath took her own life. Her two children, Frieda and Nicholas were upstairs in their beds, as downstairs, their beloved mother put her head in the oven and removed herself forever from their lives. We know Plath struggled with mental illness, perhaps none more so … Continue reading Let’s Talk About Suicide.
Life has its own rhythms, its own cadence, its own poetic beat. It could be Larkin, it could be Whitman, we may go Shakespearean or find the Albion of William Blake. We might discover tranquillity or dazzlingly riotous splendour or find life monotonous and an utter bore. We can lose ourselves in its texture, in … Continue reading Blossoming Paws
She shrank away, down grey blighted streets, where the red-bricked terraces shrank back in surprise; and all the signs on shops looked aged and faded. Leaves ushered assorted admonishments; trees stood dismissive and unearthed; a shopkeeper raised his criss-cross brow: for where do we go after birth? She lay in her abandoned place, memory tight … Continue reading The Fallen Woman
I loved stilton, cut with a speared knife, placed on paper napkin, eaten, down by the river, where the blue tits flitter, and the sky has a buttermilk sheen, and I loved Roquefort, and mellow Shropshire Blue, with a whole load of plum chutney, and an oat cracker or two. I loved sausages, fiery skinned … Continue reading An Ode to Stilton.
Bob Lightfoot held the large, shiny packet in his hand. It contained exactly 150 grams. He tore it open and removed the contents one by one. Piled them on top of the wooden table in front of him. A table full of dirty pots and pans, an opened jar of Strawberry Jam, a loaf of … Continue reading Bob Lightfoot.
It’s been seven hours and fifteen days, since you took your love away. That is not strictly true, it has been three thousand, eight hundred and sixty four hours. Does that amount of time even register with you? Do you even care? It’s not like I even know where you are. You threw most of … Continue reading It’s been seven hours and fifteen days, since you took your love away.
Warning: Description of a sexual act and unorthodox practices. Bruce pulls her close, sheds a tear as he buries his head in her neck, long, slender, the sort of neck men want to caress, even with these bruises. The silence is strange but she had always been quiet, reserved, a little anxious perhaps. Fingers searching … Continue reading Desire!