Poetry

I've never shared any of my poetry outside of my OU course groups and tutors before, so I'm posting some here now in an attempt to motivate myself to write some more. These are the ones I've posted on my two Creative Writing courses that got the best feedback.



I left my umbrella behind (villanelle)

It hits my face and bites my skin,
the rain that lands upon me here
a dose of freezing medicine.

The dark clouds of its origin
are filling up the atmosphere.
It hits my face and bites my skin.

I'm running on adrenaline.
I've woken up, my mind is clear.
A dose of freezing medicine.

I feel it trickle down my chin,
a little river like a tear.
It hits my face and bites my skin.

The rain falls harder, cold as sin.
Now coming faster, more severe,
a dose of freezing medicine.

More slanting sheets of rain roll in.
The path ahead becomes unclear.
It hits my face and bites my skin,
a dose of freezing medicine.



The Cemetery (free verse)

The trees are living, but look dead
As I am, draped in shrouds of red
And gold, the mist a haunted haze
That chills each empty flowerbed.

The holly bushes are ablaze
With berries, burning through the greys
And greens and graves of Arnos Vale
Where I will always spend my days.

A hundred years ago, my tale
Was told, my song was sung; a veil
Was laid across my face, and I
Was laid to rest. But I prevail

And watch the people going by.
I very seldom see them cry.
They wander through, admire the view
Of monuments where people lie.

These tombs have been neglected through
The years, forgotten, and we who
Reside in them from year to year
Are choked by ivy, drowned in dew.

But now there is a woman here.
She passes by my grave. A tear
Runs down her cheek. She places flowers
Upon the grave of Mary Weir.

An empty longing overpowers
My years and months and days and hours.
Somebody grieves for Mary still.
Nobody mourns me. Time devours

All life, and those who knew me will
Be lying now upon the hill
At Arnos Vale, where leaves are red
And blood is dead, and bones are still.



Happy Pills (pantoum)

The happy pills will make you smile,
they told me. Take them and you can
replace the darkness for a while.
Feel like before all this began.

They told me: take them. And you can
see how I feel. I really don't
feel like before all this began,
and honestly, I really won't.

See how I feel. I really don't
stop thinking about every scar,
and honestly, I really won't
find happiness inside a jar.

Stop thinking about every scar.
Replace the darkness for a while.
Find happiness inside a jar.
The happy pills will make you smile.

2012

I was on LiveJournal for years, until I finally got bored with it a year or so ago. I mention it because every year about this time, I used to do a quiz on there about the year that had just gone. The first question was "What did you do in 20XX that you'd never done before?" I liked that question, so I'm reviving it here. 2012 has been a significant year for me in ways I never could have predicted on New Year's Eve, standing outside the Crown watching K trying to break up a fight between his friend's brother and a homeless guy (I'm hopeful that this NYE will be a lot more fun). I did the following things in 2012 that I had never done before:

- Got engaged
- Had a broken engagement
- Finally got my ears pierced, and liked it so much that I got them pierced again a few months later. Next step: tattoo
- Travelled outside of Europe (I <3 NY!)
- Went abroad on my own
- Tried online dating
- Wrote a screenplay (okay, I'm only about 1/3 of the way through it so far, but it still counts dammit)
- A couple of other things that I don't want to mention on a public blog. I'll just say that this time last year my number was 4, and now it isn't.

I also feel that this year I've grown closer to a lot of my friends. We've had fun together, and helped each other through the unpleasant stuff. I feel very lucky to be part of such an awesome group of people.

Here's to 2013. I do have some resolutions, but I'll wait until January to post about them. Not ready to start thinking about self-improvement just yet.

When the timeline shatters

It was our bed. Now it's my bed. It was our flat. Now it's my flat. It was our life. Now it's my life. And I'm okay.

I've been trying to write this post for months, and I think I'm finally in a position to do so. The short version of the past six months is that my fiance left me, I was sad for a while, and now I'm not sad any more.

When it happened, it completely blindsided me, and sent me spinning off into confusion. I had no idea it was coming, at all. Looking back, that was particular idiocy on my part, because it had obviously been coming for months, even before we got engaged. We were keeping up the act, but the relationship was dying. I would never have been the one to pull the plug, because I was so totally oblivious. I don't envy him what he had to do. I know it hurt him almost as much as it hurt me. But at least he had the advantage of knowing it was coming - I didn't, and it sent me into shock.

When something like that happens, something that shakes you down to your bones, you have to re-evaluate such a lot. I had a timeline in my head. It was a timeline I'd had to adjust over the years due to my various failures and disappointments, but I thought I'd finally got it right. Kris and I would get married in 2013, 2014 at the latest, so that I'd make it down the aisle by thirty. Around my thirtieth birthday, I would finally get my damn degree, and embark on my teaching career as a happily married woman. We'd get a nice little house, a couple of cats (and a dog, if he insisted), and be happy. But then, with one blow, all of that was shattered. Not just my relationship with K, but the whole future I'd built up in my head. It isn't easy to pick up the pieces of your future, because it hasn't even happened yet. Still, I tried. I told myself, "if I meet someone wonderful next year, I can still be married by thirty-two"; "I don't need a partner to have a house and cats, I can probably manage that by thirty-five, if I get a really good teaching job". And so on. I thought those things every day for months, worrying about who I was, and who I was going to become. It was exhausting.

But you know what? I'm over it. Maybe I won't get married by thirty, or thirty-five, or forty. Maybe I won't get married at all. Maybe it doesn't matter. Being married won't make me a better person, happier or more confident or more successful. I can do all of that by myself, thank you very much. All I have to worry about is other people judging me for being a 'spinster' in my thirties, but I have two words for those people, and one of them is 'off'. And does it matter if I never buy a house? I'm getting on fine in rented accommodation. It would be nice to have my own place, but I don't need to build my life around it, and I don't need to judge myself either way.

I'm starting to accept that the timeline never really existed. It was just something I invented to comfort myself. Now that it's gone, my future is uncertain, but then it was never certain to begin with. If the last six months have taught me anything, it's that life can change in unexpected ways. You have to be ready. But whatever happens, I'm starting to accept that I'm not a bad person - in fact, I'm pretty great. My confidence has been building so much recently, and it's all thanks to the people who have helped me get through this difficult time in my life. My counsellor, my family, and my friends. You know who you are, and I love you more than I can say.

I've changed, and I think it's for the better. Six months ago, I would never have travelled to another continent by myself. But guess who's going to New York at the end of the month?

I'm okay. It feels so good to finally say that and mean it.

Playing with words

I love my Open University creative writing module. I really do. It doesn't feel like I'm studying for a degree, because I'm having so much fun. It's a shame we only get two face-to-face tutorials for this module, because my tutor is exactly what you want in someone whose job it is to bring out and help shape your creativity - as a performance poet, she's full of creativity herself, has the technical knowledge, and gives honest feedback. She doesn't sugar coat her comments, which is good, because sugar coating is the last thing you need when you're trying to learn how to become a better writer.

The best technique I've picked up from this course so far is freewriting. Before, it never would have occurred to me to write for fifteen minutes non-stop on the first things that came into my head, because I would have assumed it would all be crap. Turns out, there's often usable material within the crap, and one of my recent freewrites turned into a series of three freewrites, which then turned into a poem.

I wasn't looking forward to the poetry section of this module as much as the other sections. I haven't really written poetry since my angst-filled teenage years, and that stuff is kept at the bottom of a box somewhere, hopefully never to be seen again. But by using the freewriting technique, combined with form, metre and rhyme schemes, I'm beginning to discover a poetic side to myself that I didn't know existed. I've always thought that the short story, or possibly the novel, would be the main outlet for my creativity, but now that I've started exploring poetry, my thinking has shifted. I write because I love words, and poetry gives me a chance to play with words in a different way, and express myself more imaginatively and succinctly than with prose. I'm not saying my poetry is any good, but with practice, maybe it could be. I've bought 'The Ode Less Travelled' by Stephen Fry for my Kindle, and I'm doing his exercises alongside my course work. I've become a swotty nerd all over again, and it's great.

If I get good marks for my poetry assignment, I'll share my poems here. If I don't, they'll never see the light of day again. Fingers crossed!

In the words of Staind, it's been a while

I didn't mean to leave this blog inactive for so long, but I didn't get much writing done over the summer (too busy trying to get rowdy Italian teenagers to shut up and learn English), and then my inspiration dried up a bit. I've started a new creative writing module for my degree now, though, and my writing is (gradually) picking back up again. I have a couple of things to post. First, here's my latest creative writing assignment. It got a score of 75, which is a good pass, but room for improvement. Anyway, here it is, in all its written-under-the-influence-of-too-much-caffeine glory:


The Escape

I saw Olivia walking down the corridor towards me, and I stumbled. I gathered myself, and tried to walk on, but my legs became stone. All I could do was watch as she came towards me. I tasted coppery blood on my tongue, and realised I'd bitten through the inside of my cheek. I swallowed. The taste of my own blood made me want to be sick. I still couldn't move.
I'll always remember how she looked that day. I'd never really got a good look at her before. At school, I tried not to look at anyone. I wanted to make myself small, and hide away, like a field mouse crouching low to avoid being caught in the blades of a combine harvester. I wasn't as lucky as that field mouse. No matter what I did, they always found a way to reach me, to hurt me. The poisonous notes slipped into my locker at lunch time. The whispers, the rumours, the giggles – the giggles, those were the worst, laughter sharp enough to pierce my skin. Olivia was the leader. Everybody loved her, including the teachers, who were deluded enough to believe that the school had a successful anti-bullying policy. As she walked towards me that day, I could almost understand why everybody loved her so much. Her face was a mask of purity and goodness. Her blonde hair framed it in a perfect halo. As she came closer, my face began to grow hot, and I knew that even if I could force my legs to move now, it was too late.
'Gina. Can I have a word?'
The world became smaller. The walls of the corridor began to push into me, crushing my lungs.
'Please,' I said, looking Olivia in the eyes – her eyes were a startling ice blue. 'Just leave me alone.'
Olivia snorted. 'Are you going to run to your mummy?'
Her eyebrows were raised, and she had one hand on her hip. All I could do was shake my head, and look down at my shoes. I could hear the sound of birds outside the window, a thousand miles away. I longed for wings.
Olivia took a step closer to me. The cotton of her shirt sleeve brushed against mine, and I shuddered, and took a step backwards. I managed to drag my voice from where it was hiding in the back of my throat. 'What do you want from me?'
'Like I said, I want a word.'
She took another step towards me, and I took another step back. I could feel the hard stone of the wall pressing into my back through my thin cotton shirt. I gulped down a mouthful of cold saliva, and began to chew on the raised flesh on the inside of my cheek.
'People are concerned, Gina.' The tone of Olivia's voice made me shiver, and I looked her in the eyes again. The ice blue froze me. 'We're worried you're going off the rails,' she continued. 'Not that it matters what happens to you. I mean, if you want to slash yourself, that's very much your problem. But we're worried you might snap completely. Attack someone. We couldn't have that, could we?'
I turned cold all over. Tears formed in my eyes, and I tried to blink them away before Olivia could see. 'I wouldn't hurt anybody else,' I said, my voice coming out weak and crippled. 'Honestly, that's not how it works at all. I only hurt myself.' I became very aware of the feel of my sleeves against my skin, concealing the marks I had made. Olivia had no right to know something so personal.
She was smiling now. She was always most dangerous when she was smiling. 'We can't rely on your word, though, can we? You're mental. And the other thing is, you love girls.'
'Shut up.' I shocked myself with my defiance, which was born of fear.
'It's true, Gina. Don't bother denying it. I saw you with that girl in town last week.'
I chewed at my cheek until I could taste blood again. The pain couldn't block Olivia out, but it was the only distraction I had.
Olivia was so close now that I was almost trapped against the wall. The smell of her expensive perfume made me dizzy. 'Anyway,' she said, 'we're worried. What'll happen if you fall in love with one of us, and we don't feel the same? Will you lash out? Do you understand why some of the girls are uncomfortable around you?'
'You know you're just imagining all of this,' I said. 'You know it would never actually happen.' I looked up at Olivia through blurry eyes. There was no escaping the tears now.
'So what you're saying is, you didn't choose to come to an all-girls school so you could have gay sex?'
The triumph in Olivia's voice was what dragged me out of my terrified stupor. 'What the Hell? No! I came to this school when I was eleven years old, Olivia.' I pushed her away from me, and turned in the other direction.
Olivia grabbed my arm, and pushed me back against the wall. 'We think you should leave the school as soon as possible,' she said. Her face was right up against mine now. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and peppermints. This wasn't just a suggestion. It was a threat.
'I'm not leaving just because you say so.' I willed myself to be strong as I looked her in the eye for one last time. 'Now, let go of me.'
Olivia tightened her grip on my arm. I pushed her away again, harder this time. She stumbled, then looked up at me. All the triumph and mirth were gone from her face.
'You bruised my arm!' She said. 'Oh, you'll pay for that, you little bitch.'
'Make me.'
Something was rising up inside me. I saw things more brightly, more clearly, and in a way that made me want to break the whole world into pieces. I slapped Olivia hard across the face.
Olivia didn't move or speak for a couple of seconds. Nor did I. We just looked at each other until she broke the silence.
'Oh, you did not just do that to me.'
'I did,' I said. 'You had it coming.'
'Shut up, you psychotic lesbian freak.'
I took a deep breath to steady myself. 'I'm not ashamed of who I am, Olivia, but you should be.'
That was the point when my world changed forever. If I'd turned and walked away at that moment, my life might have carried on as it had before, but I waited just a second too long. Olivia shoved me back into the wall again. This time, I retaliated, shoving her as hard as my strength would allow me.
When she fell, I didn't register what had happened for a while. Olivia was out of sight. She'd been standing near the top of a stairwell, the one I used to go down every day on my way from the form room to lunch. I waited, expecting her to emerge from the stairwell within seconds. When she didn't, I felt myself turn cold, and began chewing on my cheek again.
'O-Olivia?'
No response.
I peered down into the stairwell. Olivia was lying near the bottom, her limbs in unnatural positions. Feeling cold saliva pour into my mouth, I placed my hand on the cold railing of the stairwell, and began to walk down, taking my time on each step, wanting to slow down the moment, knowing that after this everything would be different.
The pool of blood spreading out from the back of Olivia's skull reflected the strip lights in the ceiling, giving it an unreal quality, as if this were happening in a film. My mind swirled, and I vomited on the floor, then spat, to rid my mouth of the taste of bile. Another heave, then another. The dark red pool of Olivia's blood was expanding slowly. If the cuts on my arms had been tiny streams, her blood was becoming a lake.
The walls began to close in on me again.
They ruled Olivia's death an accident. I gave evidence at the inquest, because I was the one who found the body. I never told anybody the truth about what happened.

The room where I wake up every morning has a window that overlooks a large garden. I like to look out of it first thing in the morning. The view is very calming. A sweeping green lawn, surrounded by evergreen trees. I like to imagine that I can float up into the sky.
Some mornings are harder than others. Most nights I have the same dream, but sometimes it isn't very vivid. It was vivid last night. Her face was looming up at me from the pool of blood, that face with its angelic mask, lit up like a full moon. She was looking into my eyes. I woke up shaking, but I tried not to cry. If I cry, a nurse will come in, and I don't like to see them during the night. At night, everything feels like a dream, and the nurses are like ghosts.
It's easier during the day. The routine is always the same. I have breakfast, take my medication, and then go for a walk – supervised, of course, but I don't mind that. I like to walk beside the evergreen trees and inhale the spicy smell of the pine needles. After lunch, some days I have free time, and some days I see my therapist.
I saw him this afternoon. He smiled at me as I came into his office, and sat down on the faded salmon pink chair. I looked around at the familiar pictures on the walls, and felt the anxiety starting to flow away from me.
'Good afternoon, Gina,' Dr Stevens said. 'How are you feeling today?'
'Much the same.'
'Is that good or bad?'
I sat in the chair and said nothing for quite a long time. I looked out of the window at the far end of the office, looked at the pictures on the walls again, ran my tongue along the ridges on the inside of my mouth. The silence was comfortable.
'I think it's good,' I said at last.
More silence.
'I had the dream again,' I said.
'The one about Olivia?'
'Yes.' My heart quickened, but I looked at the pictures, looked out the window, and it started to slow again. 'But I didn't cry this time.' I almost felt as if I was back at primary school, asking for a gold star.
Yet again, we worked through my trauma, with the aim of helping me to find coping strategies. The professionals here at the hospital are insistent that I shouldn't feel any shame about what happened to Olivia. After all, it wasn't my fault that she died. I was just unfortunate enough to be the one who found her. None of them knows the truth, and nobody ever will. I keep it locked inside of me like a treasure, and I'll never part with it. If they found out the truth, they might send me away.
I don't want to leave this place. My day is controlled, my every movement is monitored, but that doesn't hurt me at all. It doesn't hurt like years of torment at the hands of my peers. It doesn't hurt like feeling trapped five days a week, shrinking and hiding away from a pack of girls who could be around any corner, down any corridor, ruining my life with notes and giggles and whispers. Here, I can be myself. I can wake up in the morning knowing that nobody will try to hurt me. It's true that I still see Olivia almost every night in my sleep, and sometimes during the day as well, but it isn't really her. The real Olivia is gone, and she can never hurt me again. Even when I wake up shaking and weeping in the middle of the night, I look over to my bedroom window, think of the evergreen tress, and know that I'm safe. This is where I'm supposed to be. No taunting, no threats, no walls closing in. It won't matter if I'm here for the rest of my life.
Sometimes I lie back on my bed with my eyes closed, listen to the birds outside, and think about how lucky I am. I'm happy here. I've escaped. I've found my wings.

Short Story - Basket Case

"Ladies and gentlemen, gather round, please. Can you find it in your hearts to help my poor brother?"

The children had already gathered round the trailer containing the amputee, and were staring at him in horrified fascination. The amputee tried not to notice when the children started whispering amongst themselves about what might have happened to him. Whatever they might speculate, he had no voice to correct them.

The children's parents directed their questions at the man in the hat, who had pulled the man in the trailer through to their part of the city, looking for donations.

"Whatever happened to the poor man?" Asked a timid young woman in a scullery maid's cap.

The man in the hat appeared close to tears as he answered. "My brother lost both arms and legs during the Great War," he said. "Blown up by a German land mine. The army doctors never thought he would survive,so it's a miracle that he's here at all. But I have to look after him now, and I would greatly appreciate any small donation that you could give, to pay for his upkeep."

The scullery maid's face fell, but from the pocket of her apron she produced a shilling. "This is all I have," she said, "but your poor, poor brother clearly needs it more than I do. God bless you both."

The man in the hat thanked her kindly, and one by one, the other men and women began to come forward and place coins into the bag he was holding. The amputee said nothing, just looked up from his trailer, ignoring the children and wishing that he could die. This was no kind of life.

That night, after the trailer had been dragged through several more neighbourhoods, the two brother returned home. Their home, such as it was, could be found in the darkest, dingiest part of the city, close to the river where the rats nested and multiplied. The man in the hat dragged his brother through the door, and threw the heavy bag of donations onto the table.

"We made plenty of money today," he said. "Now I suppose you'll want feeding."

The amputee felt the hot soup running over his partial tongue as his brother spoon-fed him clumsily, not really looking what he was doing. "Sometimes I don't know why I even bother with this," the man in the hat muttered. "It's like having to raise a fucking baby."

The amputee felt a surge of anger inside of him, and he spat a mouthful of hot soup into his brother's face.

The man in the hat wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and threw the soup bowl down. "You've obviously had enough," he said.

The amputee could only sit and watch as the man in the hat picked up the bag of money from the table. Tonight, as every night, his brother would come back drunk, and the bag would come back empty.

Just before he went out of the door, the man in the hat turned, and looked his brother in the eye.

"If you ever, ever spit your food at me again," he said, his voice low, "then the next thing I cut off will be your head."


THE END

Short Story - Different

This was my entry for this year's Bristol Short Story Prize. Unfortunately it didn't make the cut, but the good news is that I can now post it here. Enjoy!

Different


We haven't heard a siren in over a week. I can't say whether this is a good or a bad sign. Perhaps it means that the danger is over - or perhaps it means that everyone else is dead, and we're the only ones left. There's no way to say for sure unless we leave the house, and neither of us is willing to take that risk.

It's been a month since the Invasion, and in all that time, Veronica has been my only companion. She happened to be visiting that day, and we were watching Eastenders when the TV screen flickered and suddenly we were watching bombs falling all over the globe, sent by an unknown alien race. Veronica turned to me. "I can't believe this," she said. "Why have they interrupted Eastenders for this sci-fi rubbish? I want to know what happens to Phil!"

"Shh," I replied, listening intently to the broadcast. Something in the newsreader's tone told me that this wasn't a joke.

The bombs continued to fall for the next three weeks, each one filled with toxic chemicals that could wipe out a whole town, each one announced by a loud siren. But now, the sirens have gone quiet.

The world is different now. I don't need to leave the house to understand that much. The taps don't run. The toilet doesn't flush. There's no electricity. I could use my laptop for a while, until the battery ran out - seeing the date and time in the bottom right hand corner gave me a comforting sense of normality - but the internet is gone. No TV, no radio, no way to find out if the human race has even managed to survive, beyond Veronica and me.

Veronica is beautiful. I've always thought so. Even now, although she's pale and scared and thin from lack of food, the features that first drew me to her - her face, her hair, her eyes - still seem as lovely as ever. I've never told her how I feel, of course. She wouldn't understand. But now - now that everything is different, maybe it won't matter any more. Maybe this is my last chance.

Slowly, I walk from my room to hers. I can feel myself getting weaker. Eventually we're going to have to risk the toxicity in the atmosphere to go and look for food - but not yet.

Veronica is lying so still that I think she might be dead, and my breath catches in my throat. Then she whimpers in her sleep, and rolls over. Relieved, I sit down on the bed beside her. I place my hand on her arm. "Veronica," I say, quietly.

Veronica's eyes flick open. "What's wrong, Marie?" She asks, her voice struggling to get above a whisper. Veronica always used to be loud and bolshy, talking constantly and making jokes. She's different now. I haven't heard her laugh since all of this began.

"Nothing's wrong," I say. "Well, nothing more than the usual. I just wanted to talk, that's all."

With great effort, Veronica hauls herself up into a sitting position, and looks me in the eyes. "You sound serious," she says. "Are you sure nothing's up? You sound like you've come to tell me you're dying."

I always knew that this conversation, if it ever happened, would be difficult. Up until a month ago, however, I hadn't imagined we'd be having the conversation all alone in a post-apocalyptic world.

"It's not that, I promise. It's just that I've got something to say, and it's not easy for me - I've actually been wanting to tell you since, well, before."

Veronica doesn't respond this time. Her eyes are half closed, but I know she's still listening to me intently.

"I wanted to tell you I love you," I say, deciding to get it over with. "As, um more than friends."

Veronica still doesn't respond, but there's no turning back now, so I continue to babble.

"And um, as we're the only ones left, maybe, I thought, well, it doesn't matter what people think any more, right? We could be together. Just until, you know - until we're not."

My jumbled sentence pours out of me like vomit, and when I've said it, I feel ashamed and stupid. I look at the floor, and wait to hear what she'll say, if she says anything at all.

"I don't feel the same way," She says.

Her voice is too weak for any emotion, so I can't tell if she's sad, or angry, or sorry. But that doesn't really matter. Tears prick my eyes. I nod, and get up off the bed.

"Sorry to disturb you, love. You can go back to sleep now."

The world is ending, and yet somehow that doesn't matter any more. The sense of rejection fills me so completely that it doesn't leave room for anything else. I lie face down on the living room sofa, and I have just about enough energy to weep.

Things are different now. But some things will never change.