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.

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Creative Writing, Momentary

Too Busy

I watch the busy people rushing through life.

They don’t have a moment to stop and notice that they are being watched,

Nor do they have the moment to notice that their daughters are becoming wrecked emotionally,

That their sons are on the edge, that their babies are not progressing,

Nor do they notice their dying mother and father or their forgetting grandparents.

They don’t have the moment to notice.

I take a step out from behind the coffee shop window,

I am on the corner of Baldwin Street, in the city of Bristol,

The sun is high in the sky and there are no clouds,

I suck in a gush of air through my nose

While I close my eyes

I blow out a flood of breath.

I am a busy person too,

I am busy relaxing and enjoying my existence,

Eating and drinking, loving and living,

I am two decades old but I have understood already.

I will not partake on the journey where I will be dying to live

When that life means really living to die

I approach a woman who has taken a break from the buzz,

She’s bent over by the bus stop, pulling at her heel.

I start, ‘Excuse me, Mam’

‘No, Sorry, I’m busy’ she says as she tries to run off.

Her heel gives way and I approach again.

‘I can see that and that is why I am here’

‘No, no I can’t talk to you now’. She throws her shoes off

And barefooted she re-joins the rush through life.

She hadn’t noticed that she had dropped her wallet and key

My returning it was unsuccessful because she was too busy.

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Creative Writing

Scarlett Crimson

We were young and dumb. Yes, sounds a bit cliché but we were immature. I’m not trying to hint that being mature means you don’t make mistakes, but it is the best excuse for what we did.

Yes, I love you and yes we had fun. When we were married I couldn’t see anyone else. We often spoke about that being a good thing, possibly the sweetest thing ever but I have realised now it is that reason why I can no longer be around for you. I couldn’t see any other woman before, so I didn’t have the chance to strengthen my fidelity, I had no interests because I saw nothing to be interested in. It’s been four years and I’ve felt that way up until you had that accident. You have been in this coma for three weeks, and they don’t know if you’re going to make it. Since I’ve accepted that it’s like scales have been lifted from my eyes.

I see everything now, I see the beauty of the world, I see women and men but not in the same light anymore. I see couples doing things together and enjoying one another’s company. Then I go home to an empty house, and sit in the dark with a bottle of wine and three pictures of you. I flick through them over and over and over, as though I was going through a whole album.

It is the one I took, when you first got off the plane to come and see me for the summer, with your scarf wrapped around your head and clipped under your chin, your lips as red as blood, your shades as black as night and as round as a full moon. You are not smiling in the picture but I remember how you couldn’t stop grinning as you realised who was behind the camera.

The other one is when you were sat at the morgue, when we went to bury our three week old baby girl. The picture looks almost black and white, but that’s odd because it was taken in colour. The last one was taken on the final night of our wedding, when our families were leaving, yours to Ohio and mine to London. Oh dear, how you cried about their departure. You fought with me that night, actually you fought with me most of that week. I didn’t make them go, nor did I make you marry me. You decided it all and that’s what happened.

I don’t know why it had to be those three pictures, every single night. Tonight though, I thought it important that you know. I met someone. I only met her yesterday, but she’s still here. She sat with me last night, while I flicked through your pictures and finished my bottle of wine; she had her own.

We quit our jobs in the morning, and hired a pair of Barclays bikes and cycled around the Hyde Park. Then we went back to the costume shop and played dress up games. Then ran all the way back to the park and we watched the sun set. Today I got to be young and dumb. I declared you dead and remarried, sort of. She’s my wife; she’s called Scarlett Crimson now. I am going to bring her in to see you soon. She’s going to love you.

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