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....

#BLM, Creative Writing, Venue / 30/06/2020 #BlackLivesMatter

We see people in the streets: Eyes ablaze, voices loud, hearts angry; More aware of injustice than we’ve ever been.  We will not be silenced. We ask to be taught our past To know better, do better, be better – Statues are falling, attitudes are evolving, people are learning. We demand a better future. We...

#BLM, Creative Writing, Venue / 30/06/2020 Our Thoughts

This should not be happening in 2020. We are living in a time which promotes equality for all; No one should be hated. But others haven’t seemed to have gotten the memo. 2020 has proved that. The thorns on a deeply rooted bush Still blind some eyes to the injustice happening all around us, And...

Creative Writing

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Addiction

I am what I am, or rather what I cease to be. That is Beauty. I am the beast, mongrel, the Pug-faced bitch Who sniffs the bin for degraded meat, Too ugly for tip-bits. Beauty is the red ribbon win, The prize Setter, Golden Retriever With hair smooth and sleek, Admirers queue to pet her….

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Cellulite

‘I read it from cover to cover and every article in it, everything that it was saying, could be condensed down into one short quiz’ – Sarah Pascoe Answer the questions. A’s hate their face, B’s bodies. She’s not allowed to like either: she is a pear. Time cannot catch in her breast, trickle through…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Beauty of Music

There’s nothing like a song. Songs we remember, songs we forget, songs we live in. It’s intangible – something frozen in a few minutes that you can’t touch or disturb. You can melt into it with the tears of heartbreak; you can merge with it, singing along at a concert, the car, the shower. You…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Untitled

Paris in the springtime and the whole city snaps from a flagpole I am not your rose or hyacinth girl Stop comparing me to flowers I want to be more than representation (for your disposal) Don’t April me or carve broken images round my hair rustling sweet nothing to the roots make a sword of…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Dear Freshers

People like to give ‘advice’ Yet vice is all we hear: ‘Sing louder’ ‘Yell loudest’ ‘Go to Thailand’ ‘Get a tattoo’ ‘Drink more’ ‘Wear less’ ‘Join a team’ ‘Lead the team’ ‘Leave the team’ ‘Start again’ These are the things we ‘should’ do. But change ‘should’ for could, And obligation becomes opportunity, So you have…

Creative Writing, OldVenue

Creative Writing: Untitled

(i) vodka shot eyes: and the moon replies without warning, waiting for her Orpheus hardly there, fashioning rings from her red, red hair (ii) she was a meadow; taste of heather rattle of bone he Decembered her with marzipan lips and moans (iii) his arms howl like raindrops among the hailstones


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