Creative Writing, Momentary, The Fine Line

Who Are You?


You get home after a long day, an awesome day, just a day.

You look at me through the glass on our dressing table and you contemplate momentarily.

The face that was chosen to be put on that morning, did it fit the day?

If, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day fit, you smirk because you fooled all them mother fuckers.

If, however, upon reflection, you decide that your chosen face for the day did not fit, you frown because you’ve opened up space for speculation.

Either way you will pull off that face once the pensivity and the moment pass.

Sometimes, you will be gentle and prop the day’s face neatly on the dressing table, ready for tomorrow. That’s when you’re happy. But those days are rare. Most days you rip the face off and throw it to the pile. The eight of your faces crushed and battered in the corner.

When you shout at us we hate it, but we do not complain because we know you hate it more.

We have lived with you this way for four years now.

We miss the days when it used to be fun. When you would wear us and love us and we’d all equally be apart of who you are. But now we lie, hopeless in the corner of your soul. This darkened room. There’s never any light any more. And the glass we see you through is crumbling.

We’ve been open with you about who we are and how we are feeling. Consensually. We hope it introduces a glimer of inspiration for you to be open with the world about who you are; who you really are.

Creative Writing

The Unmarried Wife

I hear a click and a clang of keys as the door unlocks downstairs

Perhaps it’s the unmarried man that shares my bed at night

I turn over and think about him, while he does his bit down there

Again. I focus hard but I’ve forgotten what he looks like.

I wait for him, I stay awake in the hope of some intimacy

I fix my hair and lick my teeth and wait a little longer

I become petite on one side of the bed and slightly straighten the sheets

What takes so long for him to come up here from downstairs, I wonder.

He wallows there or so it sounds; lethargy lifts me from reality.

When I wake he’s by my side, or at least the half of him I see.

It’s my turn to rise up now, ready for the work ahead of me

I’m a stay-at-home, who cooks and cleans and wifes about the house

When I’m done I catch my breath and watch my husband leave

He walks away, no words exchanged – except my prayer for my spouse.

For recently it’s been quite good, I haven’t heard his voice in months

It’s ending soon, I know the signs. It happens this way with all my loves

I’m ready though, I think, to let go and consistently take my medicine

My doctor says I’m to tell noone or they’d lock me again in the asylum.

So please, for me, as I speak keep all I say a secret

The 32 loves I’ve had, hereditary, life long and recent.

Creative Writing, Momentary

The Poison, Drunk

They poured the intoxicants down their throats. White hot chemicals, cold to the touch but volcanic to the jugular. They noticed no changes as the sun went down, but when it had dissappeared so had their rationale.

In sweat the toxicity appeared to be leaving them alone. But really, the chemicals defied gravity, the chemicals splashed a bit around the brain, the chemicals justified going insane.

Temporality. Temperamental.

Occasionally one of them, one of them would drown. The chemical current would become more than a bit of splashing about the brain. Rather, it would pull the brain under, indefinitely.

Then it would have to be drained, people would come to drain the brain. To rescue the one who poured perhaps too much of the chemical intoxicants down its throat.

The people who would come would be qualified. They would look down on the one. The one, who would be covered in food from earlier that day and the acid that dissolved the food, the food they ate, would be lifeless. Noone knows where the soul goes in that time, but they would be lifeless; legs twisted to the side and bent at the knees, bloody perhaps; arms splayed out all over a street, with head unrecovered.
The one would need to be returned.  Recovery. Position.

The one might be lucky, facing the sea of Death and avoiding oblivion or the one might be unlucky and facing the sea of Death unsteady and falling fourth forever.

Creative Writing, Poetry, The Fine Line

In The Pages

Read it from the pages, my love, and be assured,
That in the prose where noone knows yet what’s next to come,
The mystery, behind those words, behold all the cures,
Slowly. Slowly. Like a rose it all unfolds at once.

But if you pause or look away you might just miss the bunce.
I love you, said in writing can never withhold le cœur.
Perhaps not grand, direct or clear but certainly’s the sum,
So read on in the pages, my love, and be allured.

Creative Writing, The Fine Line

The Sea of Endless Possibilities


Diving into seas of spiritual literature her soul, tormented and spoiled, is washed up.

Swimming in the currents she embarks upon a journey, a sojourn, into the yonder worlds and truths.

Waving her arms wildly in the waves, certain of her place now, whispering goodbyes and godblesses to the shore where she once stood.

She doesn’t know anymore and that doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need to. What she does know is that she is in a sea of endless possibilities.

Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Baby on Board


This is a District Line train to Upminster. The next station is Gloucester Road. It was lightly air conditioned and artificially bright. It was early but not rush hour early, a little later than that perhaps. Only a few people stood but every seat was filled, so she stood there with her long, wiry, white hair wisping around her golden-bronze face. She was bent over a little reaching and shaking. It was as though it were winter and she’d forgotten to wear a coat. Most noticeable was her head which was bobbing up-down side-to-side involuntarily. Her lips were thin and cracked and very pink with a brown outline. Pocahontas!

Her hands struggled to find the green pole as the doors closed and the train jilted to commence the journey. She stumbled forward but did not fall. She had grabbed the pole for safety. Eyes were on her from all over and from above. Everyone watched the show of the hundred year old Pocahontas.

I looked away from her to scan my surroundings again. Eyes flitting between the show and the cats. Between the show and the makeup mirrors. Between the show and the Kindles. Everyone hoping that she might not fall, God forbid they delay this train for her sake, but all the same, noone willing to give up their seat.

The next station is Sloane Square. The train stopped. She went chest first into the pole. Someone gasped from the far end of the carriage. The seat behind her became free as a young man got up at the last minute and ran off the train. But before she could notice, for she was soothing her bruise with gentle strokes from her aged brown fingers, another young man jumped in the seat. He quite literally jumped. He had been inches away from her ever since South Kensington, holding onto the same pole she struggled with, never thinking to give her a hand. Thoughtless.

The girl opposite me saw it as well. She tutted, and when I turned to look at her tutting self, she pulled an ugly face as if to say what a shameful thing that was to do. I glared at her, stood up and pulled my whale of an ass over people’s feet to the old Pocahontas. It’s been too long.

“Hi,” I said to her in the softest voice I could conjure up. I was fuming. A single drop of warm water fell from my tear duct and crashed into my hand. I wiped it away. She pulled her arms around the green pole, holding on for dear life as she turned towards me. My legs, as wide as I had positioned them, could no longer support us so I was grabbing for the pole too.
“Hello,” she said to me with a croaky voice.
“Take my seat, please.” I said to her turning to point at the ash-white girl with pink lips sitting prim and proper with her A-line midi covering her knees and her breast bulging up out of the corset she wore with it. She was smiling and fiddling with her almost invisible necklace.

I don’t know where she came from, or how she got to my seat so quickly but I would get her out!

“YOU…” I began, addressing every dumb, ignorant and selfish ear that could hear me. Everyone who was not pregnant, disabled or elderly.

The old Pocahontas rested her paw upon my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it my dear,” she said, “leave them be. They’re not so bad, just preoccupied.” she said. I spun around to look at her again and held the rest of my disgust in my mouth. Once I had swallowed it down again, I felt faint. I pressed my hand into my back and then the train pushed my baby into the pole. Still, noone stood for the old Pocahontas or for me, the child bearing whale. Although her age was well etched into her face and my bulge was bouncing around and bruising, it was not enough for them.

The next station is Victoria, please change here for the Victoria Line, national rail services and Victoria coach station.I found that Pocahontas and I had the same stop. We made it on our feet until Victoria. Although we shouldn’t have. As she stood beside me and we stepped off the train onto the platform, I flooded both of our feet and crashed into my knees. She slipped on my waters and fell to her end in a moment.

It is true what they say. As one life comes into this world, one must go.

Creative Writing, Poetry

Love is?

Love is patient
Love is kind
Love is blatant
Love is blind

Love is dated
It’s in the air
Love is sacred
Love is fair

Love is yours
Love is mine
Love is giving
Of your time

Love is telling
Love is divine
Love is of spirit
Love is a lie

Love is for the broken
Love is for the blessed
Love will triumph
Every single test

Love comes at first sight
It is all of last night
Love is for the moment
Love is for life

Love is costly
Love is free
Love is exclusive
It isn’t for me

Love is elusive
A mystery
It’s undefined

Love is maternal
Love is obliged

Love is eternal
It is The Sacrifice.