Creative Writing / 22/09/2020 A Walk on the Beach

The beach is my haven, where I can go to remember. I go when my home becomes too full of melancholy memories. Usually they build up slowly, but today the thoughts are unrelenting. Because they’re the impossible ones. The if-only’s, continually questioning me.    I stare at the rectangular box in my hand, the engagement photo...

Creative Writing / 22/09/2020 A Pier Outstretched into an Ocean

Reached through the ocean, ran through the reef – stopped where the waters turned dark, into the unknowable. We were just kids then: five-, ten-, twelve-year-olds; fingers grasped around the chilled silver railings in front. The wind brought clouds of tortuous form inwards, with full bellies and colours that cracked this spurious visage. We could...

Creative Writing / 04/08/2020 A modern house built on grey clouds

Old hoping thing Go gently now On those dark nights, Where rats huddle in the garden’s compost heap To hide with empty thoughts. Billowing across the street, a black hand demanding answers clutching on to the houses. Trying to rip the windows out of their frames, To leave them choking in a watery mess on...

Creative Writing, Venue / 04/08/2020 Hectic

Hectic. That’s the only word I have for today. Sure, it’s been in the works for months – I signed the agreement weeks ago – but nothing can prepare you for the moment the once empty, internet-trapped room becomes your castle.  Billy cried this morning. He – and I quote – wanted to know why...

Creative Writing, Venue / 04/08/2020 My Illness Has Teeth

  Debby asked me to keep a tally for the number of cups of coffee I drink per day. I keep the tally in my mind. Three so far today, I think. If decaf counts, then maybe four or five more. If strawberry infused green tea counts, then five or six. Maybe seven. Pushing eight...

#BLM, Creative Writing, Venue / 30/06/2020 Just Platonic?

There are relationships doomed to suffer, and relationships that make suffering. Like a cop who kisses his gun at night and lays it under his pillow. The only Black he dares to touch is the butt of his precinct-funded revolver; he tends her like a prized cow raised for slaughter, cocking his perverse killing machine....

Creative Writing

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Flicker

I’m not Hindu. In fact, I’m not religious. I’ve said it before, mildly delivered, with just the slightest inflection at the end to indicate this is not a question, but a statement. As I stand inside Kapaleeshwarar temple, it whispers a statement of its own: you don’t have to be religious to see religion’s beauty….

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: The Truth of the Moth

If I were called in to construct a religion, I should make use of light.   I would worship at the peak of the day, Basking and glorying on some hilltop made divine by the sun, My offering a half-hour of sapped-strength lazing. I would not sequester my faith in dusty shadows, Chiaroscuroing my faith…

Arts, Creative Writing, OldVenue

In the Mind of A Creative Writing Student

Interviewing a Creative Writing student is probably one of the easiest interviews anyone has ever had to do. Why? Because they all but write the article for you. Clear, concise and refreshingly brilliant, Venue catches up with UEA Creative Writer Harriet Avery, comfortably seated on one of the sofa’s at Unio Cafe. In fluffy socks,…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

The Night

The night brings buzzing little insects that burrow into ears and crawl across flesh They surface when it’s quiet and dark They don’t exist until the plague   The Moths descend in drones, watch with silent faces from the window Crickets laugh, rubbing legs raw The night’s sticky skin bursts open, and they pour in…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

The Dream of Writing

The first word came out on a limb, its meaning perforating the paper like a hiss, the letters written in a drunken haze. The first word was not like the first stroke of a painter, who already has a vision of reality in their mind like a biologist buttoning on their coat to begin the…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

The Cemetery Cat

The grass was cut, the hedge was chopped, The gardener headed home, The sun had stopped, Already clocked off, And the cat was left alone. By Gravestones steep, and tall, profound, The cat watched through the gate, The slippery ground Kissed embossed stone, As fingernails on slate. As a padlock slammed the steel gates firm…


1 52 53 54 55 56 63