Saturday, 17 September 2016
Tuesday, 13 September 2016
Friday, 9 September 2016
the lovers take flight
to passions well-known, well worn.
Kisses became a marriage of
lips with lips
flesh with flesh
heat with heat
until nothing but the passion,
and the shoes,
Monday, 5 September 2016
Thursday, 1 September 2016
Monday, 29 August 2016
Thursday, 25 August 2016
or so the stories say
but I say no to religious folly
and do not bend the knee to the moralist’s way.
The children of the future
by my hand
shall be born of the bodies of the past
recycled for reforming humanity.
I am god
watch me birth the new world
Monday, 22 August 2016
The taste of cheap wine, strong and dry in my mouth
the sound of music, loud and catchy
a couple in the corner, tongues waggling and
their hands grasping at each other, furiously
You are the drugs the raver hands around
the ecstasy on my tongue, exploding
colours melding together, lights and neons,
You are the splash of sick in the toilet water
the sobs of the drunkest girl, retching alone.
Blood on the bedsheets from the wrong first time
come on the bedsheets where the guy got lucky
in another room.
You are the crash of the door and the sound of sirens
the footsteps of us running away
across the wet lawn and over the fence.
You are a party gone bad
like always, I suppose.
Thursday, 18 August 2016
You thought I was easy, but really?
It was you who was the easy one.
A simple trip was all it took,
It was only a fall.
It was my shoe collection laid out
by the stairs, thrown around in a passion,
But you saw them,
it wasn’t my hands
Monday, 15 August 2016
the hope of a pleasant day.
Candle-flame flickers dangerously, the orange glow
as it touches the empty walls.
Daylight struggles, gasping for air as sunset
the remains of the day, and it is welcome to
Thursday, 11 August 2016
Monday, 8 August 2016
Outlined by rythmic pulses.
Heartbeat, drumbeat, bassline and heartbreak,
Common experiences framed by the same style of tempo.
Singular notes piercing the backdrop of harmonic unity,
Watch the mass of activity burn bright with activity.
The tempo is breaking up, beats lost in the wild,
Help me save the melody,
lest the pulse stops
Thursday, 4 August 2016
Always for her.
Her, her, her.
Corrupt me more, my lover my goddess,
more more more.
Sunday, 31 July 2016
Thursday, 28 July 2016
Would I smile when stern faces attempt to discover me in plain sight, remains to be seen.
Could I remain innocent when the pointing fingers turn to gropes and grabs, when I am guilty? Yes, but I may cry.
Bless be, Christian, bless be and bless me.
Monday, 25 July 2016
Wednesday, 20 July 2016
Wednesday, 13 July 2016
I am Cathy. Watch me run.
Cold winds, colder expectations looming over my very soul, icicles clinging to my nose and my hopes. Tables turned, I dare speak to your ghost that remains a false companion through these apocalyptic nights, the horror lurking behind me and my cracking sheet of resolve.
Forgive me, forgive me.
Sunday, 3 July 2016
Sunday, 26 June 2016
Aphrodite’s open legs,
and the diver, hunting pearls.
River and ocean, kissing on the mouth,
rivers of blood, at war’s end.
Good harvest, good fight,
healthy baby born.
Cuts and scratches across your face,
bloody feet after a long night out.
Everything, and yet nothing,
forever infinite potential.
as I sing myself to sleep
and defend me from the monsters
be them real or deep within.
A lullabye to pass the time
perhaps you could do that?
or fluff my pillow and fix the bed
as I swim amongst the dreams.
What about a cup of cocoa
for when I wake up scared
of mythical things and reality’s threats
perhaps you'll help me then.
Saturday, 25 June 2016
Her doubts proved right, and the man hadn’t chased her, letting her relax enough to think as she entered the small terrace house she called home. The man looked like he’d just been spat out of the 90s, complete with that frankly starved look, and he’d seemed sluggish in his movement. Was he a druggie? Maybe, but there was something....predatory about how he looked and acted; hitting a random girl by a graveyard wasn’t something druggies were known for. He was strange, stranger than most of the oddities she’d grown to seeing in the town, and it creeped her out.
But now was not the time for fretting over random men attacking her in graveyards, she had to catch some sleep and get ready for her night shift tomorrow. She did the normal going to bed ritual, and drifted off to sleep with hopes for a peaceful rest. Instead her dreams were surreal, full of nasty-looking people leering at her and grabbing her, pulling her this way and that. It wasn’t until she woke up some six hours later sweating that something about the dream-people hit her; they were the Midnight Lot, or at least the dream-faces were their’s. Tonight was going to be hard, four hour shift be damned.
Said shift was boring. Yasmin spent the first hour tending to the bar whilst her manager, a short fat man in his late thirties called Geoff, sorted out the delivery. Tonight it was only the alcoholics present, and it was past the time most of the Midnight Lot arrived. After serving ale to everyone in the pub, she started to think back to the night before, specifically to that man. Now she was stood in the awkward comfort of the Drowned Maid, Yasmin realised exactly what made him so creepy; he was so pale he was also translucent, even in the early morning’s light, when everything had that pinkish glow. Worse, it was the same sort of pallor the pub lights gave the Midnight Lot, but it felt more real, if that made sense. She automatically looked at the faces dotted around the pub, only to come to a more unsettling revelation; nobody looked like that under those same lights. Their faces looked flushed or pale in the normal sense, not that mystical kind of pale she’d seen the night before in both the Midnight Lot or the graveyard guy. So what caused that look for them? Were some of them ill or tired, or something? It just made no sense to her.
Things that night were only to get stranger, though, because who walked into the Drowned Maid that very moment but the graveyard guy. He looked better now, with his cheeks looking a little fuller and his clothes almost seemed to fit him better. He also looked less angry or strange, but that strange pallor was still there, but had grown fainter and more like a glow. Graveyard guy made a double take at seeing Yasmin stood expectantly at the bar, as if he didn’t know she was here; he hadn’t followed her from the pub last night, at least. What followed next was the strangest thing of all. He walked up to the bar, took of his sunglasses, and just said “I’m so sorry”.
“I, uh, sorry?” Yasmin spluttered. This was a shock, to have a man who’d hit her on her way home at half six in the morning suddenly apologising for just that.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, “for what happened yesterday, uh, today. I wasn’t myself.”
“Um, okay, I guess,” this was unbelievable, “it’s okay?”
Graveyard guy relaxed at that, letting his shoulders sag so that he looked like a mopey teenager rather than a grown man. Now he was stood in front of him, Yasmin realised he probably wasn’t much older than her; there was a shadow of facial hair, and he had a spot between his eyebrows that his sunglasses just managed to cover. He looked normal under that luminescent glow, and it made hating him hard.
“What’s your name?” She asked, hoping to break the ice now.
“Nice name. Suits you.
“Thanks.” Seemingly satisfied with this much conversation, he asked for a pint of cloudy cider and sat down at a nearby table, immediately whipping out a phone from his flannel shirt’s pocket, no doubt to text someone or go on his social media. After the strangeness of last night, Yasmin was glad to see such normalcy at this pub. She could probably get used to these moments, she thought idly.
Thursday, 16 June 2016
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Yasmin knew she was going to be working at an odd pub, but she didn’t understand just how odd it could really be. The Drowned Maid stood awkwardly near the cliff’s edge, overlooking the sea confidently whilst straddling the thankfully-solid ground that had recently been declared safe from coastal erosion. Still, it was a weird place to choose to drink at, with it’s creaky bar stools and thick, musty curtains draped all over the place. I felt like it could have once been a fancy house, at least it could’ve 500 years ago. It served the oddballs of Pennie-upon-Sea, from the town drunks to the strangely-active goth scene. And then there were to nighttime drinkers. The Midnight Lot, Yasmin’s new manager had offhandedly called them, who trickled in after dark and stayed until just before sunrise. Yasmin had joked that they sounded like vampires after she heard about them. Oh boy.
Her first shift had been a midday one, simple enough with no trouble, and her second shift was to be the late night shift. Why the Drowned Maid bothered to stay open until 5 in the morning was beyond her; it just seemed so unnecessary. She learnt soon enough that the late shift was the busy one, however, with a couple of dozen people happy to sit in and drink until just before closing time. These were the Midnight Lot, a bunch of seemingly-random people who would meet most nights for a few drinks and joke about old times and recent happenings. They ranged from an old man with a monk’s bowl cut to a girl no older than eighteen dressed like a French fashionista. The only thing they all seemed to have in common was a sort of glow. Not like a light bulb glow or a tanned glow, but a sort of luminescence that clung to their skins. Yasmin suspected the lights did that at night, but it still felt somewhat off. Throughout her shift, the occasional head would turn to look her way, someone’s eyes would stare at her back, and she got a sense of being preyed on by the drinkers in the large group. By closing time, however, the only thing they had said to her was drink orders.
She began to reflect on the nature of the Midnight Lot whilst she wiped down the bar top with the standard-issue wet cloth. Some of them looked normal enough, if a little broody or secretive-looking, but others appeared to have plucked from different points of history, especially that one with the monk’s haircut. It made no sense to her; why would such a random group of people come here most nights? Were they a cult or something? A wiccan coven? She knew there was a coven in the area because of the fliers seen posted on the town’s community board, but they never met here - they were based in the leisure centre on early evenings, not a pub at nighttime. The cult idea seemed nonsensical too; cults were supposed to spend their time praying to unknown gods and doing other weird things, not drinking and chatting like old friends. The more Yasmin tried to explain the Midnight Lot, the more her head hurt. It just made no damn sense to her.
Resigned, she finished cleaning the bar and closed up the pub. Sleep would help, it always did when these moments of confusion took her. The walk home wasn’t the longest one, but it was one that took her past the graveyard and old church, which frankly disturbed her. The graveyard was rarely used anymore, it was that full up with centuries-old pots and crypts, and the only people who ever went there were goths, tourists, and history buffs. For a barmaid on the late shift, it was nothing short of scary, even with the first rays of the sun casting the entire place in a soft orange glow. Some of the graves were said to be from the witch hunts, something long-forgotten by the town and its coven, but the rumour was there, spread by the Pennie-upon-Sea Historical Society (who were no doubt desperate to make their home more interesting). Another rumour, more mysterious in its source, was that the ghosts of the witches would stalk the place on a full moon, forming magick circles and casting spells on anyone who disturbed them at their sorcery. It was a dumb story to Yasmin, probably made to hide a secret drug ring or something, or perhaps just the tales children made up to make their time in the town more fun. In the end, though, nobody dared to expose the truth of the graveyard, often scared off by stray dogs or loud wind. But here, after her strange shift, Yasmin began to feel like there was something wrong with the place, and it didn’t take the fresh handprints on the dusty crypt door by the edge of the graveyard to tell her that. Something was here with her now, and it was probably angry.
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
candy floss fever dream, I see
you float above me, no cares,
no anxiety, unlike me. Cruel clouds
your softness subsides my worries,
your endearing embraces a miracle cure
such as your friend the moon, distant,
unfazed by life or the echoes of us
humans who live meaningless lives,
much as you float languidly, clouds
ceaselessly beautiful indeed.
Tuesday, 31 May 2016
Behind glass, behind reality,
Still as stone, frozen like fine art
against a darkened backdrop,
Surrounded, or not,
Darkness consuming, coldness embalming,
I become a jigsaw of skin
and bone, my thorax, my throat,
constrained, clogged by darkness, by glass,
Like stone I crumble,
Like glass I am smashed,
My body is seized up but
broken, in pieces,
Stuck in time, I stand
Thursday, 26 May 2016
Monday, 9 May 2016
Maybe it’s just like that.
Maybe it’s just a pot of paint knocked over by a giddy dog in a squeaky clean new house, watch the paint seep through the upstairs floorboards and down the downstairs walls, watch it stain that new magnolia carpet in the lounge a brilliant yellow, bright and jolly like a sunflower on a hot summer’s day, prideful canary shade.
Maybe it’s just the dropping of a freshly-made freshly-bought ice cream, with cream slinking away from its source, leaving the cone all alone and confused. Watch the cream run away into the waiting arms of a grate, the remnants staining your new blue shoes a sickly sticky vanilla hue. Watch it stain. Watch it run.
Maybe that’s creativity.
Sunday, 13 March 2016
Friday, 19 February 2016
I left the bathroom with goosebumps and chattery teeth, as if the revelation had turned me into ice itself. Rich noticed immediately, but I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t tell anyone. Would anyone even believe me? It had taken me some six hours to realise the gravity of what I had discovered myself, and even then I was trying madly to disbelieve it, to make it nothing but a misheard conversation or the idle daydream of a bored worker. I desperately wanted to confess this knowledge to Rich as he wrapped a blanket around me and led me to the bed, but the words were lumped together in my throat. He would talk to me and all I could do was choke out the occasional word. No. Fine. Tired. In the end, he swore to himself and announced he would ring the doctor the next day. I had to be ill, caught a chill perhaps. I gave him a weak nod, the sort of nod someone who is sick or sleepy or shocked would give. We went to sleep.
My dreams were far from pleasant. I dreamt of faceless surgeons peeling away parts of my skin, mumbling away and pointing to something with their scalpels. At one point, feeling came to my limbs, and the agony of being dissected came to me. I screamed and tried to thrash about, but my body was held by some invisible straps. I kept screaming, letting my voice pierce the general silence of the operating theatre, until a hand came to cover my mouth. Eventually, I stopped, letting Rich’s voice wake me up from the experience. He cradled me tenderly, telling me everything would be okay, that I just had a bad dream. His caress brought me to tears, and we spent the rest of the night like that, right until the rising sun turned our room a faint orange.
That morning Rich took me to a doctor, who claimed I had nothing more than a simple chill, told me to rest and shooed me out of his barren excuse of an office. Rich was annoyed. "Doctors nowadays," he grumbled, "nothing more than a bunch of unfeeling bastards." I made a pathetic laugh in response, but I understood the doctor's lack of sympathy. I knew I was well, at least physically; my mind felt broken, torn and bruised by that secret I should never have known. At least I got the day off. I'd called in first thing to say I was ill, and they believed me as if it were so obviously normal. They knew, they had to. Someone had told them that I knew about their dirty little secret and they were getting ready to take me away like anyone else like me, who had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rich spied me as I sat by the phone shaking, but brushed it off as the start of a fever or something, if his half-assed shrug was any indication.
Later on, after Rich had gone to work at the bank, I took it upon myself to walk to the shop for some basic foodstuffs. It was comforting to feel the rain on my face. It felt like the only real thing I knew. The faces I walked past all appeared a blur to me, the only detail being the same layer of water dripping off their noses and chins as they rushed around. It was something of a blessing, being around anonymous people. I had just exited the shop when I saw the red haired man walk past. It was him, the same one who had been talking to my head manager yesterday, the one who worked on that forbidden project. He inclined his head my way and his dark brown eyes bore on me. He knew. He knew. Oh my God, he knew. I spun on my heel and began to walk down the street at an increasingly frantic pace, my breath shallow. As I approached the corner, I twisted my head to find him gone, vanished into the rain as if he was never there.
Monday, 8 February 2016
Kia knew her life would end today. The drive to the border was long and laborious, the anonymous man driving the jeep silent except for the odd grunt when he made a sharp turn or got caught in traffic. Of course, the windows were darkened both inside and out, so she could not know where her chaffeur was taking her. Kia checked her nails, dirty and broken, as the vehicle moved on; inside, her heart beat like a drum, fast and hard. Thoughts ran around her mind. Will it be firing squad? A quick bullet from behind? Or something worse? Such thoughts distracted her from the abrupt end to the journey, and it wasn’t until the door was opened that she realised her end was near. The man was different now, tall and muscular with a dark goatee as his only form of decoration. Goatee seemed hesitant about dragging her out of the jeep, and ended up pulling her by the hand instead of the usual grab at the elbow. He walked slowly, almost as if he was matching Kia’s stumble. A last act of kindness, perhaps. When the disorientation faded, she gandered the bridge looming ahead of her. A thin layer of fog made the end invisible, possibly for the better, and the guards posted at the sides of the bridge watched Kia with suspicion. She wondered which one was to be her executioner, or if they lay in wait beyond the fog. Goatee in particular eyes her up with steely eyes and a matching grimace, before looking towards the fog and leading her towards it. No, no. Leave me here. Just put me out of my misery where I stand.
The walk across the bridge seemed to last a lifetime, giving Kia time to pray for her soul. As the fog cleared, two men could be seen walking towards them. One looked to have his arms thrust in front of him whilst the other one, the fatter one, held him by the shoulder. The closer they got, the clear it became. The thinner man was in handcuffs, the fat one in a suit, a british flag neatly pinned to his breast. What? Goatee brought her to stand face-to-face with the shackled man, who looked upon her with some sort of empathy. They spoke, half of it in Queen’s english, the rest in broken english. Next she knew, Goatee flung her towards the suited gent, and the shackled man was uncuffed and gently pushed towards Goatee, who said something to him and lead him to his side of the bridge. What just happened? She asked the suited man, and he just grumbled “exchange”. Kia was confused, still convinced she was to die. Suit turned and walked back to the side of the bridge he came from, Kia’s hand in his gloved one. Was this a trick? The closer to the other end of the bridge she got, the closer to the big Union Jack flag she got, the more paranoid she became.
Wednesday, 20 January 2016
It was midwinter now, and the night stretched on for what felt like forever. The oversized plastic clock said nine, but Charlotte was too busy watching her dramas and sipping her overly-sweet tea to care about the time. The baby talker stood proudly by her mug, it’s silence making her feel completely at ease. From behind the striped cream and beige curtains, the wind howled like a rabid wolf, and snow was no doubt forcing itself on the cracked pavement outside her home. Frankly, she didn’t care. She was warm and snug at home, with her child sleeping peacefully upstairs and the TV playing exactly what she wanted to watch.
The peace was disturbed by the baby talker. Behind the layer of static, Beau’s little cry could be heard, a single, high-pitched sound that forced her out of her reverie. Immediately, Charlotte was up and making her way to his room. She didn’t bother turning on the light in the hallway, so everything appeared dark and tinted blue. From beyond the large wall mirror, a ghost stared back at her, and followed her up the stairs. Each step creaked quietly, the fourth step being louder than the others however, and she was forced to grope her way up for fear of falling. Towards the top of the stairs was a tall window, covered only by a vintage lace blind, which cast strange designs into the simple walls, both intricate and disturbingly vague. It was colder up here, despite the heating being on as high as she could afford. She shivered. The TV became quieter with each step, until it was nothing more than a faint buzz, like a wasp flying behind her. Above her was only the quiet and the dark. She gave the space behind her a glance and saw only a void, quickly becoming deeper, darker and more silent the closer she came to Beau’s room.
Charlotte paused at the threshold of her baby’s room. The silence seemed to extend to there as well. She wondered if he had fallen back asleep, having had a bad dream or a bit of a cough. She was taking no chances. She pushed the door open, letting it creak open slowly, and entered the room, where an eerie sense of stillness hung. Watching over the crib was a doll, quite lifelike in appearance but ultimately frozen in place; a stray shadow was cast over it, giving the little boy doll a sinister look with its face painted to look like anger instead of its usual blank expression. The mobile, normally of cute dinosaurs, looked more similar to the hounds of hell and black cats stood proudly above the ghostly crib. The room smelled no different, with talcum powder and violet still dominating the air, but the surrealness of the nursery turned those scents into something stranger. At this point, the only light came from the hallway window’s blue glow, making almost everything invisible to Charlotte. But she persisted.
She approached the crib slowly, the stillness of it all making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and her causing her breath to become hitched. It was too quiet. She quickly felt for the music box on the chest of drawers, desperate for sound, and soon the therapeutic melody of a lullabye began. She had just put it down and turned away from it when it slowed down and stopped, as if it had been forced to a stop, but she did not return to rewind it. Everything felt wrong, and she knew it. Fear came to her, like an unwelcome demon, it’s talons reaching for her and its fangs bared. Charlotte inhaled deeply. She came up to the crib and peeled back the layer of powder blue lace canopy that covered it, her hand trembling.
Somewhere in the snow-covered town, a scream rang through the streets.