The car ride to the coach depot was a dark one. Michael couldn’t believe he left his art portfolio on the bus. Cocteau Twins played in the background, the sweeping glissandos and airy guitar noises seeming as if they weren’t from an electric guitar, but sampled from the winds of Victoria Land itself. They made…
Creative Writing
The Christmas my uncle came back
On Christmas morning I awoke, and emptied my stocking. Out poured the Horrible Histories annual, the gifts from Hawkins Bazaar, the Beano, the Toblerone, the mini Lego kit, the Maltesers box, the fruit pastilles, and then the satsuma at the very bottom. I ate that orange ball of vitamins first. Two hours later, at 8am,…
Arts, Venue
“Art is not just in the Sainsbury Centre”
I don’t think I need to tell you that the lake here is beautiful. Nor do I need to tell you that it looks spectacular when the light is low; or when the camera captures the sun’s rays peeking through the bare branches; or when it turns the weeping willow leaves into translucent emeralds; or…
Arts, Venue
Bacon and Munch’s depiction of horror
There is more horror to be found in life and reality than there is in a painting depicting blood, monsters or ghosts. There is something more worrying about an image that is frozen, immovable, and unable to be removed from your mind’s eye, than there is in a scene that may soon progress to a…
Creative Writing
Milk and Alcohol
I still remember the very first song I played as I put up the art postcards in my bedroom at uni. The tinkling piano notes played as a marimba to Kate Bush’s warbling voice, crying out over Wuthering Heights, as I began the first row of Marlene Dumas paintings. The window overlooked green grass, and…
Creative Writing
Hide and Seek
There is a lot of shouting outside. But Mummy told me to stay in here. Don’t come out, she said. Under any sir-come-stan-says. I am okay. I have Moonlight with me. I am hugging him now. He feels fluffy and nice. Smells of fresh air. It is dark in here. Moonlight is looking at me…
Creative Writing
Déjà Vu (with thanks to Samuel Beckett)
A baby like me always had nightmares. Dreams of lift-the-flap books where I opened the bonnet of a car, and static flames burst out in crude red-and-yellow flames. Spot the dog staring at me with his mouth agape, his black dot eyes unblinking, before an empty white background. Hector the dog sawing at a tree branch,…
Creative Writing
The Wave
How am I going to get out of this? Cold from the neck down, nothing beneath my feet, the sky above is dark. I tread the substance, cycling still. I’m breathing. And I’m alone. What else is there? All I know is now. What happened to the joy? The misery? The unrelenting anger? All is…
Creative Writing, Venue
Peace
Everyone was waiting for the silence. They stood in the Square, middle-aged men wearing blue Barbour jackets, and groups of students carrying rucksacks, holding green coffee cups in their hands, as the golden rays of the bleak November sun shimmered over the concrete buildings. Timothy smiled at seeing all these people stand together. He imagined…
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