Creative Writing, The Fine Line

Two Of Me

I stood there feeling a little embarrassed. I raised my hand for the bus and then I retracted it; it was a 76 and I had just gotten off a 76. I apologised to the driver with a nod of the head and I stepped back. He stopped anyway. I looked up and saw everyone looking at me – funny.
The doors down stairs opened and I was looking at me too. I watched myself get off the bus. I analysed me. Everything I would do I did. I said “thank yew” in a Bristolian accent as I stepped off the bus. Then I whispered to my self ‘what on earth did you do that for? You’re from London!’
Then I secretly laughed at the woman who tripped for three whole steps. I laughed too.

I looked more closely at myself and realised I was looking at me. I was over there seeing me from over here. Had I died? Surely I would see a limp body hanging off the bus if I had died.
A little boy jumped off the bus behind me in his school uniform and grabbed my hand. He looked up at me and we skipped off into the distance.

To be honest had I not been frozen in shock I would have followed myself and the little boy. Where were we going? Who was the boy? And who was the third figure I saw us greet and leave with us in the distance? The little boy looked a little like me and a lot like my best friend. He was chuckling like him too as he jumped off the bus. Although I didn’t find it funny.

It was a sort of surreal real dream. I continued my life after that. I never saw them around town again. At least not until I picked up my son from school and took him to meet his father at work one afternoon.
I get off the 76 and say ‘thank yew’ and then scold myself a little for saying it like that. I can’t believe I still do it. And I still find myself laughing at the little misfortunes of other people.

I see a woman laughing too. I think to myself she’s bad minded so I stop laughing. She looks like an older version of myself; maybe it’s because we are the only two laughing. She’s staring at me as though I had been a close relative of hers once.

I look into the glass window of the flower shop and see my reflection. Our reflection. This moment I feel as though I had seen it before.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Who She Was

She became the type of woman you might see struggling down the Oxford Street, high street, with a dozen paper bags in each hand, running for a taxi. Each paper bag would have a famous name on it and it would have some wonderful luxury inside. She wouldn’t say ‘hi’ even if she recognised you. It wasn’t very classy to have a street side conversation, apparently. She would have you book a lunch date with her or something similar.

I wouldn’t permit you to despise her because she was like this, she just didn’t know any better. She was no longer the young girl you once knew but she was still a girl. And you can’t really blame a girl for who she is until you get to know her. So you would have to get to know her all over again, and then decide if you blamed her.

I won’t tell you what I think of her, but I would like to hear what you think of her once you had gotten to know her again.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, Journal Log's, Literature

A Daughter’s Advice

She told me I was so much more valuable than whatever it was I thought my worth was. Terrence didn’t think that though, or he wouldn’t have left. Apparently I’m supposed to take care of myself, and treat me like a princess and then others would too. When I love myself, and only then, will anyone else be able to love me. If I don’t love myself I don’t value myself and I won’t take any effort to maintain myself. Nobody else will. Apparently.

How am I supposed to do what she says? I’ve tried, I’ve been asked myself that everyday since she went back to uni. It’s all the same. I tried to love myself, I did my hair and nails two days ago, but it’s still the same.

I make myself sick sometimes. I hate looking in the mirror. I got rid of the mirror in the bathroom, because I have to go in there everyday and I just don’t need to see it. Terrence broke the mirror by the front-door, so the reflection it’s a little distorted. I see my face in three parts, it’s like a Cyclopes. No, not Cyclopes, the other one – with the extra eye. Anyway, I don’t care for that mirror, I’m familiar with all of my outfits now anyway.

She told me that my love should come from the inside. Haha, she has no idea how much fresh fruits and vegetables costs. I told her she was having a laugh. They won’t give me any more than 70 something pounds a week. I can’t afford to start loving myself from the inside. I told her that. Then she said that’s not what she means, she wouldn’t let me say anything more because she was in a rush. I’d have asked her how she does it. She’s so jolly all the time and she doesn’t even get 70 something pound a week. She lives in a house with other people. I’ve never gone to see her, but I can imagine. It must be disgusting. And she has this boyfriend, who worships the ground she walks on, apparently. She always gets awkward when I say it like that. Ha, she’s a weird weird being. I’ve never met her boyfriend, but he loves her and so I’m happy for her. I love her she’s my daughter, but I don’t understand why she’s allowed to live this bright pretty little life and I’m stuck here in this grand depressing squat.

She gave me a box once. It was tiny but she said in it was a love letter, some advice, some stories and some poetry. I’m guessing it was from this boyfriend of hers. God knows why she would give it to me. She’s trying to make me jealous. I know it. I shoved that shit under my bed! I ain’t interested. Always asking about it. ‘Have you opened the box yet, have you read the letter.. How you feeling today ma? Go read the letters…’ Neh neh neh.. On and on and on. It’s all she goes on about, it pisses me off. And if it’s not that she’s telling me I should do this and not that. I should think that and not this, I shouldn’t say things like that blah blah blah. Did she give birth to me? Am I missing something? Because this is bullshit!

The last time I wrote I cried, all night long. I ignored her calls, she called 33 times before I heard her come it. We sat up and I told her. I told her she pissed me off all the time, and I told her I was the mum and she needed to listen to me, not the other way round. She told me, I was not the mum, she was. I could have punched her. Thank God I didn’t, because what came next was what changed my life. She broke down, like crying, sobbing, bawling and anything else that relates. She never cried before that, I’m sure she stopped crying when she was twelve. I was shocked.

So eventually I opened that box. She nagged me so much that night. She was right; it might have been a small box. But it had everything I ever needed. It’s only been a few months since I last thought about not opening the box, but I’m glad that moment drove me to do so. My whole life has changed, and it will never be the same again. I got mirrors in almost every room. And I’ve thrown out the one Terrence broke and I’ve thrown him out too, but before I did I made a box for him, and hid it amongst his stuff. I’ve written a letter of my own to go with it. He didn’t like my new life. He didn’t like that I had a new love, or a new ‘everything’. But I do, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

I’ve also left a box for you to find. I urge you to open it. It’s helps ease the pain. Even if you don’t feel like your in a place of need. Oh and I’m moving house by the way. It was nice living here in this big house on Diedrich Avenue. It really was but I’m happy to move to a smaller flat on All Saints Way. My daughter and I. She said she will move back in with me. I’m so happy.

Here the box I’m leaving for you.
I’ve written on the spine of it ‘The Holy Bible’ so wherever you put it, you will be able to find it when you need to.

All the best, God bless

Renewe x

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

The Termination

Once when he was seven he witnessed the murder. A family member, his best friend, his father’s brother, terminated a woman just like they do in all the games. That woman was not his best friend, nor was she his friend. He disliked her because she took his best friend away from him every night. He would hear them playing in the middle of the night- every night. This angered him because she would not let him join in their fun. Terrence swore his allegiance to his father’s brother on the night of the termination. And for 3 years not a word departed from his lips.

After the termination, whenever things humored him, he only wore a smile that could only be seen in his eyes.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

The Rush-Hour Crush

To the porcelain brown hair guy on the 17:36 train from Vauxhall to Kingston, I wish I had said something other than “y’okay” when you said sorry for touching my hand on the pillar. How about we make a second first impression?

(A little embarrassed) Sharon x

Sharon’s rush-hour–crush note appeared in the Metro. When she saw it she thought how awkward it would be if anyone recognised her. There wasn’t a picture, but there was writing and for Sharon writing was just as revealing as a picture. She smiled to herself, folded the paper and got in queue for the arrival of her train to work. It wasn’t much of a queue. There was two school children ahead of her. The taller one was holding the Metro open, on the page of her message. Had the porcelain guy seen it too?


After work she boarded the 17:36 train having completely forgotten that she had written a rush-hour–crush let alone having read it published in the paper. She managed to get a seat today, which was a rare happening. She turned on her blackberry and flitted through her emails.

‘Mark R wants to make contact,’ one of the emails said. She wondered for a moment whether it was spam and where they had managed to pick up her email address.

She opened it, and turned a deep crimson colour. She smiled, then grinned.
“Yea why not”, she heard someone with a deep voice say loudly but she didn’t realise it was directed to her.

“Yes. A second first impression might be called for, Sharon,” the voice continued. Her eyes shot open, wide. She dropped her blackberry on her foot. Awkward. As she lowed her self to pick it up, her eyes followed the long legs that belonged to the porcelain brown haired man, she now knew went by the name Mark.