Monday, 14 March 2011

All Grown Up

Thing I wrote, all narrative like...

She irritates me, thought Jack as Corin delicately bandaged his arm.

Taking in her appearance with mild surprise, he noticed, much to his almost parental displeasure that she’d grown into her body as well as her face. That could be seen more as an eventuality of departing from the teenage awkwardness and entering into womanhood than a miracle. No, she was not exceptionally beautiful, hardly anyone that had not undergone the surgical scrutiny of a photo shop tablet could be characterised as such these days, but perhaps she could steal the glance of a grimy Nightstalker.

“You alright?” she muttered offhand, noticing him flinch as she secured the piece of gauze around his forearm.

The flinch had been an involuntary response to the image of a creature crawled over his former student.

“Go take a nap or something,” he responded gruffly, waving off her fingers that had been curled over his form as if eagerly waiting to readjust, to help.

That most annoying flaw had reared its ugly head. Her willingness to follow him anywhere, if only to quench her undying curiosity, would be the end of her. He readied his tongue for a swift reprimand when her fingers curled tightly into a ball and she abruptly left the room.

“Corin,” he called afterwards, weakly echoing the beginnings of his lecture.

Jack didn’t move to follow her. The stubborn man did not follow, especially those displaying such childish petulance. Still, he was unable to mask his shock. Had the curiosity of the unknown been saturated after being plunged into it headfirst, and destroyed with it the puppy dog loyalty he’d always resented? Or had she matured so much in personality that such curiosity had been weathered away by the storm of rationality, at least as much as one could afford in a world such as theirs?

Either way Jack, though he’d deny it, regretted the affect their time apart had had on her. That brief exchange warned him she was in danger of becoming his twin. Endlessly unsatisfied.

Then the door swung open, bouncing sharply against the wall, and Corin stood in its frame with her shoulders tensed.

“What the hell is your problem?” she ground out, fists balled at her sides. “I save you and the only thing you have to say is go take a nap or something,” she mimicked in a dunce’s baritone.

As a child, she’d been bad-tempered and argumentative but in adulthood, she lacked the same baseless impudence. Instead, her words were accusatory, compressed like the aged glaciers of Kilimanjaro with layer upon layer of resentment. Not for him, but for the entire world.

“Don’t you have anything to say to me?” she implored, the meekness in her words barely noticeable.

Jack hauled himself to his feet and limped awkwardly to where she stood, still breathing heavily from her rant. Even over the years, she hadn’t dropped the ponytail or the uniform white t-shirt and black cargo pants. Now they caught gently on the slopes of her hips and the underside of her breasts.

“What do you want me to say?” asked Jack in all seriousness.

Her eyes were glazed over with tears she refused to cry and he was reminded of the same helplessness he was met with five years ago in the mortuary. A busted up little rag doll, the stuffing persistently leaking from its ripped seems despite its best efforts to replace it.

Corin groaned. “Something that isn’t condescending,” she offered up half mockingly. “Comforting? Do you know how to do comforting?”

A smirk tugged up the corner of his mouth before he could prevent himself from being a little condescending. She’d been his kid for so long that it was hard to see her battling him on a level playing field.

“I’ve never been the comforting kind,” he answered, simply, ruffling her hair briefly.

She wrenched away. “I’m going to go now,” she told him. “Make sure you—Y’know what, pretend I never said anything.”

“They’re probably still looking for you,” said Jack. “And they’ll probably find you.”

“No, I’ll be fine in Ryder’s flat-”

“What?” Jack snapped, voice sharply bouncing off the walls like a whip. “The little cunt that nearly got you killed.”

Corin’s eyes momentarily surged with triumph. She’d extracted the reaction she’d wanted. Concern.

“We settled things,” she said, offering no more explanation as she backed away one leg at a time until she’d made it across his apartment and pressed her back against the front door.

He didn’t attempt to stop her, he was still reeling with the information that she kept up any communication with scum such as Ryder McAllister.

However, before she could disappear for the night, Jack spoke up. “You’ll be here tomorrow?”

Corin nodded her head in the affirmative. “You’d die without me.”

“I’ll remind you,” he drawled, not amused in the least, “Half of your teenage years were spent under my protection.”

“Yes sir, I am aware sir!” Corin said sarcastically, before turning the handle and slipping out.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

breaking dreams

when you realize that there will always be some-one who's better than you at whatever you do. you may think you write wonderful poems and one glance at some-one's compilations makes you shred your work and burn it. you might think that your fashion sense is quirky and individual but then you realize how many people own that artsy studded miniskirt and those pre-torn stockings and you give them away. maybe you can dance; and you see one girl on the dancefloor and you know you'll never dance again because your light won't shine as bright as hers. not in his eyes, anyway. so it takes a downfall and soon you think you're the best at wrecking yourself; destroying your life with a variety of poisons some of which taste oh-so-good; but then you meet a smackhead who's been on the junk for four years and will probably not live if he injects again. you finally try to be the best at dying - and what do you know? you have no friends or family at this point so there is no-one to grieve as your blood seeps into the sheets of the mangy bed you lay on in that dilapidated hovel you call your home.
so just give up - you're a fuck-up anyway.
why try when your dreams will always break?
snap like disregarded shards of mirror dust upon the pavement
mixing with the stench of
loneliness deep inside your soul
and you don't belong in this place with these clean, normal people
shrinking away for fear of brushing against your burning skin
skin that burns with sin

wiping the dirt from his hands as he walks from the grave; no-one was saved.

Extract of Butterflies: A Short Story

She lay on her bed, sucking a cigarette. It was past midnight but sleep wouldn’t come. The lamp was on, throwing shadows onto her wall. She wasn’t scared though. She welcomed them.
 With a sigh, she got off the bed; the springs groaned as the weight suddenly disappeared. She held the smouldering cigarette between her index and middle finger of her right hand, and walked out of her room into the hallway.
 She walked towards her bathroom, already confident in what she would see. A pale and haggard face would stare back at her from the mirror. Her eyes would look bruised from lack of sleep, and her lips would be dry.
 Ignoring the face reflecting back at her, she mashed her cigarette into the ashtray that was on the windowsill. Stooping down to the sink, she turned the tap on. She splashed her face with ice-cold water, drawing a slight gasp. Droplets ran down her cheeks and under her chin, slowly travelling down her slim neck.

Sunday, 13 February 2011

Extract of my novel

My life was a chain of events attached together by the strings my mother knotted together. There was no control. No substance to anything I did. My emotions were cut off from my actions. A puppet hanging off strings directing my body towards a man or a social gathering.
There was always something to prepare for. As a child always meeting new people, crowded by those commenting on my grace or my stature. Or just commenting to be associated with me and my family.
Family, please. Family is treatment of loyalty and intimacy towards the ones close to you. The loyalty was there, just the intimacy was missing. Mother-daughter relationship ceased to exist in my world.
My dresser was filled with useless accessories of expensive makeup and hair products that were never used. Yet she believed they were necessary for face value. Whatever other mother decided to pop in for a spot visit as if we were on display in a mental asylum.

Friday, 11 February 2011


so this is going to be where you can post your poems, short/long stories, lyrics - basically anything that you've written. you can post quotes or extracts from other people's work if you'd like to share them, although obviously you'd have to credit them.

currently the blog is on public so this means that absolutely anyone with internet access can read it. it can be set so that only authors - as in the group - can view it. perhaps when we get this going a bit more we can decide which we'd prefer. posts can be tagged by author; for instance, if my name is entered in the search bar, only posts tagged as mine will come up. i don't know how many of you have a blogspot or are aware of how it functions, but it's pretty standard to most other blogging platforms.

i'll get the ball rolling with one , although i expect not much will happen until everyone's been added.

'i only have two kinds of dreams: the bad and the terrible. bad dreams i can cope with. they're just nightmares, and the end eventually. i wake up. the terrible dreams are the good dreams. in my terrible dreams, everything's fine...everything's wonderful and normal and fine. and then i wake up. and i'm still me. and i'm still here. and that is truly terrible.' - urania blackwell, dream country; neil gaiman.