For the last few weeks, I've been coming to Jacqueline’s for lunch and when I say lunch I mean a diet coke and cream tea - English breakfast. It's my favourite tea room with its assorted table cloths, dark wood and 1940s crockery adorning every shelf and up-cycled trunk screwed to the wall. A gramophone … Continue reading City Boy
Reading a book in the window seat. Glass of water, carrots, cabbage and mince. I wrote this poem, if you can even call it that, in a restaurant at lunch time. This restaurant is cosy, small but always busy; a place for families, friends and young couples. Therefore, it was a surprise to watch as … Continue reading The Usual Jenny
The world was muted by an encroaching darkness. A blackness peeling off the surrounding walls; tarnishing my edges, sinking into my clammy pores. No light. No life. Impaired by the depths of apparent emptiness, my fingertips met concrete. Fingertips left indelibly in this forsaken place. I continued to teeter forward, on a tightrope of fright. … Continue reading The No Cliché Zombie.
Submissions wanted! This writing project, The Milk of Human Kindness, which seeks to reclaim what makes us human is a week old. We have already had one wonderful guest post, but we would love some more, to showcase the wide and wondrous variety of perspectives, thoughts and feelings on the world we live in. Pieces … Continue reading Project MHK: Submissions wanted.
I know now, I wouldn’t stumble on your name. The phonemes would slip, unrequited perhaps, from my mouth in an exasperation of air if you walked through the door. All because I truly cannot remember the last time I saw you outside of my mind; a palace and prison. I do not think my heart … Continue reading Widowed (Pt.2 of 2)
There is always one. One you must write about to forget. One who on most days has retired in solitary confinement somewhere in your temporal lobe. Until a scent, sight or song draws them out; their face perfectly clear as if bathed in sunlight. Eyes sparkling, your knees trembling. Yet the more I write about … Continue reading Widowed (Pt.1 of 2)
A response to Katherine Mansfield’s ‘A Married Man’s Story’ (1923). You perch at your writing desk, fingertips barely connecting with the polished wood. Every night, you assume I cannot feel you, beady eyed and silent, watching me, instead of writing. You assume with babe in arm and a sideboard of dishes, I couldn’t possibly know … Continue reading Autumn
“What is the centre?” She croaked. White coats, chains and cuffs steamrolled her calm, invaded her prison and got her heart racing. Sarah was in a blue trench coat, heels and laughing behind her eyes at poor Her, croaking with dilated pupils. “The centre is the place where you will recover." White coats, chains and … Continue reading The Centre
25th December 2000 The bells on her nightdress jingled and shook as she, a little girl, kicked in her sleep; Santa was on his way, and little girl Lucy couldn’t sleep still. The clock ticked and the air was still, the only bells heard were those ringing in Lucy’s pink, alert ears – time passed, … Continue reading White Christmas