Some sisters like to giggle and share, spilling all of their secrets whilst braiding their hair,
We pulled pigtails and stole each other’s clothes, from t-shirts to scrunchies to underwear!
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We are made from the stuff of stars, powered by electrical sparks fabricated in the only organ to have named itself.
Possibilities are endless
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Red flags and stomach pangs,
Listening to friends, quietened that.
My heart was still recovering…
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It started with a stranger in a world that's broken
He appeared as the sun sank into the sea, while I watched the dolphins play in the surf, waiting for life to resume without my sister in it. I was frozen and lost. Angry and sad. Dead and alive.
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This is the first of Sean’s 50 word short stories!
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The front door no longer looms over me, the brass knocker now dull in the fading afternoon light, yet I still feel like an intruder.
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Now, Miss Tyne knew something was amiss. She was certain she’d remember hearing such an unusual name shouted across the playground. Surely, the child did not go to this school. Now more serious questions had to be answered and all of this was becoming more difficult to rationalise.
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This is the final part of the Ataxia series. To read part six, click here.
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Apart from the constant tick tock of the clock,
The silence wraps around me like a blanket.
The thoughts in my head are my only chattering companions
How did it get to this?
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To be frank, all through my life, as a child, teenager and adult, I was abused. Most of that abuse was from men, and from female enablers who stood by and did nothing. I write songs as it’s the only voice I have.
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A self-professed womanising drunk, Bukowski relied on a range of vices in order to fuel his creativity, “Drink, fuck, and smoke plenty of cigarettes.” His dark sense of humour lingers in his writing.
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This is part six of the Ataxia series. To read part five, click here … Ataxia Part Six: The Walk
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The rolling waves remind me that everything can be reborn. That is the beauty of the beach - every tide brings with it something new. A shell washed up becomes a treasure for someone else.
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There is sound everywhere you turn, a constant buzz that never ceases to quieten, even in the middle of the night. It swells and flows throughout the day, meandering through the throngs of people all in a rush to be some place else.
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There is something the poem can tell us about the body and something the body can tell us about the poem.
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This is part five of the Ataxia series. To read part four, click here
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I wrote ‘Owed Summer’ to remember what a Summer free of restrictions feels like, and how our generation is missing these shared experiences. It is also about how we grow, after living for so long without these experiences; touching friends, seeing live music, the pull of a communal pool of people.
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I wrote a similar poem years ago, called Another Generation. It was about a friend who was upset at herself for overspending on make up while in debt; that poem is embarrassingly outdated now, so I have re written it and changed it. This one adds in my recent efforts for minimising my life, both digitally and physically.
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Rick paused, his hand on the doorknob, breathing in a slow, deep and deliberate breath. He knew, just knew, the way you sometimes do, deep in your guts, that the next few minutes were going to have an immense bearing on the rest of his life.
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