Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Tears of an insomniac

I cry through stinging eyes as I recount the days of life.
Blood shot,
And full of things that expand my head, my heart…
I sniff back the tears that are as cold as ice,
I sat myself here and I will not allow the self pity start.

Deal with the consequences you are the cause of them,
I say,
You said you want to be free of men,
But he, he wasn’t just a man. To you he was more than that.

I pour fourth this monologue night after night,
Releasing tears, tears of an insomniac.

Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Too Late

He held me tight, but for too long,
Held me just right, it was so wrong.
The time was way off, he was too late, or maybe he was early. He was definitely late.

He is the man I long for in this moment. He was the man of my mind, the man of my dreams, the companion of my soul, the essence of my being. Maybe I’m being a little extreme but these are the thoughts he gives to me. I won’t have him though, I know that now.

And do you hear my heart? Can you hear it scream?
He is the love of my past, and my lover at last. But it won’t last. No, it won’t last.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction


The string of 24 tiny light bulbs shook left and right and then left again. It had been doing this for hours but it was noticeable now because the lights had been turned on. A special request from the pair that sat under it. Pellets of rain battered the table top and bounced off into the mist of the incoming rain, rain that was being whipped around in the cold hard breath of nature.

She sat forward, on the edge of the bench, leaning over the table into him. He mirrored her, although he couldn’t lean too much, the bench on his side was loose and he was heavy. He held her wrists with a tight grip. She didn’t mind because she was used to it. He whispered something into her ear. She barely heard him over the waves of rain, but she heard enough. She flung her head back, her red lips parted as far as they could be and a jazz voice offered up some joy against the melencholy morning.

It was still dark, eclipse, they said it was. Her laughter called the attention of the staff inside the Sandria Coffee Shop. Then those who’d paid their custom that morning, and others who were around for the sake of temporary shelter, turned their attention to the two sitting outside.

The bench and table were damp and the two out on it were constantly wiping their foreheads and chins with various wet items. They squinted alot and raised their hands a lot, as if they were blocking the sun out of their eyes, which is bizarre because there was no sun – but they were having a perfectly normal conversation and enjoying it.

The onlookers, the in-lookers were victims of the thing some refer to as pathetic fallacy.  Too right it’s pathetic. They were victims not because of the torrential downpour but because they weren’t able to find a way to enjoy it. The common denominator was the inner rebuke shared by all of those inside. They were stuck.

They made phone calls explaining latenesses, and they sat a sulked otherwise, looking onwards out. Insanity maybe? Hippies maybe? Dying maybe? Thoughts flitted across the minds preoccupied with frustration. Why on earth are they out in the cold, in the dark, in the rain? What on earth is the meaning of all this rain lately? Rain! Rain.

The laughter had resided, but eyes were still attempting to focus on the silouettes beyond the misted glass walls.

She stood up for a second. She lit her cigarette and climbed over the bench. She said something that was hardly audible from the inside. I love this. I love him. Something like that, something about love. She moved slowly, breathing in the nicotine. She sat down next to him, the bench rocked. She was facing the shop, she was facing the envy. Then she spun around 180 degrees on her gluteus maximus and was side by side with her companion.

The eyes began to tear away from the silouettes, two backs weren’t so interesting. They’d turned their backs on the envy and on the pathetic pathetic phallacy. He had told her a little about his evening on Friday. It involved a  video about a pathetic orange cat, and they just both had to watch it.  If she didn’t laugh he’d leave. She didn’t care and told him to show her.

She laughed, well she giggled and not because it was funny but because the cat looked like Ed Sheeran. He stayed.

She took his phone and asked him if he had pinterest, he said no and she said he sucked. But she found the absolutely hilarious picture she wanted him to laugh at with her. Thanks Google. A dolls head attached to a chicken carcass. She was elated and couldn’t stop. He said its not funny, it’s sick.

“You’re crazy,” he said and snatched his phone back. “It’s good to be crazy,” she said. She grabbed his wrists and squeezed.

“I have to leave now,” she said, “because you didn’t laugh.” She stubbed out her cigarette on the dampened table top, shot up, hopped over the bench, grabbed his skate board and ran. “Deuces!”

He flung his legs over the bench, wiped his brow with a wet napkin and ran too.
It was fun because they had only just met that morning, and now anything could happen.

Creative Writing, The Fine Line

You or You?

I am stuck in a place between who I was, where I have been and who I may become, where I might go. I am questioning where I am at. Relentless in my endeavours, making terrible choices without a doubt. Simultaneously making the best decisions of my life. I embark upon a journey inspired by nostalgia, all the while I’m intrigued in the mysteries of what’s to come. Where I am is in a place where I wish I wasn’t, and doing nothing about it because it’s the best thing to do. That way wherever it ends up I know I did nothing to get me there. It just happened that way.

I’m afraid to lose sight of what was, because I loved it, I still do. But I want to know if I could love, just as much, the things I would have never known if I remained on the course I was on. I trusted previously, I was confident in the concrete. Now I am on dry sand, no substance and no foundation, I could sink in any minute. But even concrete can break.

I have to make a decision, I have to pick and choose. Will I say I do to you? Or will I say I do to you?

Creative Writing


There was a storm last night. I was sat with my back to the heater, and I pulled my sleeping bag up over my shoulders. A cold summers night, it only makes sense because I am in London. I wasn’t afraid of the thunder or the lightning nor did I despise the heavy rain. I’d been raised to believe that I should be grateful for the disastrous times, because it would make me appreciate the good. I appreciated the disaster; cherished it even because with it came joys and a great hope.

This storm though, it was different.  It brought something else out from within me. A grim bleakness I wasn’t aware of it but it had been there my whole life long.  I got to thinking, there is a storm going on all around me.

I came to London, because it was the mother of all wealth or so I was told. I found that it was also the most expensive city to live in. I gave up everything to be here. I lost everything when I got here. And for me there is nothing everywhere. But I can’t frown because I was brought up to believe in the silver lining.

I’ve been indoctrinated, because this is bad and this is inhumane and this is not the bright side. There is no bright side. I got to questioning, everything I was raised to believe. Because if they had been wrong about this, they had been wrong about everything. It was up to me to find the truth for my self. Their truth was no longer working for me.

Like, I said there was a storm last night this morning as the sun rises, I rise too. I yell to them thay they were wrong, I scoop up all of my nothingness and I get on the road.

Hello to the rest of my life. My life.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Bedroom Mess

She liked having a tidied bedroom because it compensated for her untidied mind. When she came around from a night of violent passion and naked limbs, she woke him up and told him to leave.

She pressed her bruised thigh and sighed as he got up. She threw a bloodstained white shirt at his face.

She breathed slow and imagined a tidy room. It settled her. She took a shot. She began to pick up and put away and sweep and tie and throw out all of yesterday’s memories. He’d left and she was alone, in the midst of her thoughts.

Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

Minds and Hearts

We wrote a list of our woes
The content of our minds and hearts
We infused our self with nature
Embracing the natural
We set the paper on fire
Watched the flames
And inevitably inhaled the fumes.

It was choking to the body
It was also freeing to the soul
It was expanding to the mind and heart
It was unacceptable to the society
But it was funny to them and to us.

We sat and swelled with frustrations
We sat and we said things
We sat and sailed into ourselves
The content of our minds and hearts.


Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Love – take it back

She pleaded with it, sought it for all that she believed it was. Love, she called it as she pleaded it would once again take back the spotlight. Don’t fade into the background, be profound again.

She’d not had much luck staying focused and she was easily numbed. But she didn’t believe it was luck that freed her to feel everything. She believed it was a law, a force an energy. Love, she called it.

She said it was what made her. It was the thing that made her her and she knew that she wouldn’t be able to go on in life without it. So she sought right down into the depths.

The thing is, she didn’t realise that with every breath she had exactly what she was looking for, but because she set her gaze beyond this she lost it.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, The Fine Line


“Hi, back here hey. How was your weekend?” he said.

I smiled. I stared a little at his plump lips smiling back at me. I grabbed his extended hand. My right hand flat against his palm while my left clasped his wrist. As I ran my fingers through the hairs on his forearm he pulled me to him.

We were in a dance. Swiftly yet graciously our greeting stance had become undone.
On my right, his left he laced his finger with mine, simultaneously unclasping my hand from his wrist, slidding his hand down my palm and along my arm. My shoulders bore the beautiful burden of an embrace. I could feel my heart pounding in his chest. I stared into his eyes as he reached down. His beautiful face drawing nearer and nearer to mine. His breaths dusting my face like a summer wind. He was a master in the intimate embrace.

I was excited by him so my pulsing body was tense. I swallowed and he heard and he turned that pout into a smile. He drew his face back, away. I remembered to breathe. ‘Don’t go away’. He thrust his face foward again and his neck rested in the crescent of mine. His warmth, my warmth – we were two whole beings whose embrace had made us one. Love. There was nothing between us.

“Hi,” I said, “yep we’re back here. I had an okay weekend. The in laws were over. Ha. What about you?”

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Happy Birthday

Dear ex lover,

I just remembred it was your birthday and thought I’d drop a quick message.

I hope you are well and I hope you are happy now, because I am. I am so happy. It’s been two years since we last spoke (you know, besides the Christmas message I left for you a few months back. Did you get that?) and it’s been four years since we last dated.

I just want to thank you for everything,  the fun times and the hard times, and that time when you held my hand when I found out my real father was dead and  it was my stepfather who had raised me. I mean we went through a lot together. But most of all I want to thank you for leaving me like you did.

I was beaten down and heart broken, I was in a mental ICU and it seemed as though all my nurses had died. I couldn’t believe how much of myself I gifted to you, and when you left and didn’t give me me back I was a little bit lost. A lot lost.

But like I said I am happy now, I have moved on. I put myself through uni, and I am moving to LA to do some modelling.  I have an amazing boyfriend, who is thinking about proposing to me – but my move has postponed all of that for a little while. So I thank you because if you hadn’t left me like you did I would have never ever progressed.

I think about you sometimes, enough to almost call you but not so much that I actually hit send. I am glad we ended on good terms, it helped with the consolation and so I know everything between us is okay. Anyway, I’m rambling. ..

Now. Your new girlfriend is pretty, how old is she? Is she a Capricorn like me? I remember you always said your soulmate would be a Capricorn. And I love that she’s a flight attendant (yep, I admit I stalked her page a tiny bit). How’s the distance thing going?

I really hope it is working well. That’s what tore us apart. I was fine with it, I waited for you to come home on holidays and some weekends. I was fine with you being away. It was only a few years. I still don’t know why you thought that I needed more. I don’t understand.

Ah, rambling again…

Anyway, happy birthday.

C x