CreativeWritingBlog
Sunday, 16 July 2023
Monday, 20 January 2020
Friday, 4 October 2019
My unrequited love poems are now on Kindle
My own photo of St John's College |
5 October 2019
I fear one day
Our ways
Will part
I cry
Feeling phantom loss
If only you knew
How important I am to you
If only
I love you, but I can never tell you
AND the first one
11 February 2019
In the gallery the poet reads with emotion
Champagne's bubbles tickle my lips
My heart swells
While I imagine our first kiss
I cycle back through
Dark Cambridge streets
Tears running down my cheeks
My heart shrinks
I love you, but I can never tell you.
While I imagine our first kiss
I cycle back through
Dark Cambridge streets
Tears running down my cheeks
My heart shrinks
I love you, but I can never tell you.
The whole Cambridge series is now on Kindle.
Sunday, 28 October 2018
Hello, new series announcement + #nanowrimo!
Good morning, long time no see... I am planning a new series based on Cambridge Colleges, 31 stories, in the same vein of Circle Lives. I am not sure when I can publish them as one is in a competition, when it's over, I will publish it here. I can't share it now. I will develop the other 30 during #nanowrimo.
One of Cambridge's colleges... |
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
A creative writing workshop on the bear straw festival in Whittlesey
Pic: Kev747 at Wikipedia, 14/1/2008 |
Here is something I posted on my main blog... poems and short prose about a straw bear... Cheers!
Saturday, 29 October 2016
Moorgate: lunchbreak
Pic: Andrew Bowden |
The sky was dark. The waves were swollen, crested by strokes
of black and purple. Accents of white foam edged the dusky sand. A woman, dressed in a smart pinstripe suit, was
facing the storm. She was standing still and supple, as if the day’s weariness
had been swallowed by the violent waves.
Sky and waves, meeting in the distance - where did the sky
end and the sea start? Dark clouds were gathering and soon silver flashes
fragmented the sky. A moon ray filtered
out of a cloud: a translucent beam in the midnight blue.
She was waiting, her bare feet washed by the sea, her eyes
on the far horizon. High sprays bathed her face, making her eye make-up run
down in dark rivulets. In those roaring waves, in that soaked sand, in that sky
split by lightning, there was a force. A powerful one she had not encountered
before.
Invisible arms were enveloping her. A supreme being breathed
in the sea, sky and sand. The storm was his powerful lullaby. Tired, she lay on
the sand and closed her eyes.
At last all was calm. The sea was an indigo brush stroke,
the sky a jewelled midnight blue, the woman a shapeless body on the burnt sienna
sand. A suffused light illuminated the unframed canvas, a pair of black high-heeled
shoes neatly placed underneath.
Wednesday, 28 September 2016
Barbican: Curiosity killed the Cath
Cath looked out of the bus window. The street lamps were
diffusing an orange glow to the street, while the brightly lit shop windows murmured,
‘Come in, come in.... we are open late tonight...’ She yawned, then felt her
stomach rumble. Time to go home, have a bath, eat dinner, watch TV and then off
to bed.
The bus slowed down as the rush-hour traffic built up. The
doors opened and closed, people got on until all the seats were taken and a
line of people were standing from the back up to the driver's seat. Cath saw
angry faces when the driver refused to take any passengers at the next stop.
She peered out of the window and saw people approaching
the old church that had been shrouded like a giant mommy by scaffolding and
plastic sheets for months. A banner screamed ‘Grand Opening’ in big letters,
lit by a row of industrial-strength spotlights. She saw people entering freely,
no sign of a bouncer or anybody collecting invitations.
She rang the bell. The bus stopped and the doors opened.
She negotiated her way through the standing passengers and got off. She reached
the church and joined the visitors’ flow.
By the door a tall desk displayed exhibition programmes, a
price list and leaflets of future events. Cath picked up one of the programmes
and walked into the main room. Three metal towers reached the ceiling of what
once was the main nave. People holding wine glasses were milling around,
talking to each other and glancing at the smaller exhibits hanging from the
whitewashed stone walls.
Cath liked the towers best. The first one had a plaque at
the base with the words ‘Name your fears’. The second’s plaque read ‘Challenge
your fears, while the third said ‘Overcome your fears’. She opened the
programme and read: "Xandra Behr's totemic installations deal with the
interior knots of pain, alarm or apprehension we call fears. Unlike animals,
human beings can identify their fears, so naming your fears is the first step
to rationalisation, a truly liberating experience, the first step to harnessing
the dark instincts we bury inside us."
"Clever rubbish, isn't it," remarked a female
voice.
Cath looked up. A tall woman dressed head to foot in black
and wearing dark sunglasses was smiling down at her.
"It sounds interesting."
The woman removed her sunglasses. Two icy blue eyes bored
down on Cath. "Nice, interesting, pah, it's non-committal crap. Do you
like the artwork or not?" She waved her arm around the room to include
every single piece.
Cath noticed that people were staring at them. She
thought, "Bloody woman, why couldn’t she harass somebody else?" and
moved aside, clutching the programme like a lifesaver. She walked to the bar at
the other end of the room and picked up a glass of white wine. She sipped it
slowly, admiring a black statuette of a woman holding a child by hand. Milk
spurted from her left breasts and dripped, white on black, on her side to form
a pool at her feet. The child's head was bent down, his small features screwed
up in pain. Under the statuette, placed on the floor an open suitcase had been
filled with spiders. On its stiff leather handle sat a stuffed rat with a long,
slim tail.
"This work has a disturbing quality to it, don't you
think?" asked a male voice behind her. He looked like he was in his
sixties and was dressed head to toe in bottle green, a paisley scarf knotted
around his neck. Cath ignored him and moved towards the second tower. A small
queue was standing by the staircase that led to the door at its top. A gallery
attendant was directing people to climb one by one.
The queue moved slowly, so Cath opened the programme.
"Challenge Your Fears stands for courage, the prerogative of facing what
limit or terrifies us as human beings. The triptych completes the journey
through the human psyche with Overcome Your Fears. How can you control your
fears? Is it through psychoanalysis, extreme fortitude or necessity? There isn’t
only one answer, the solution is different for everyone of us. You're invited
to complete the journey and find out what you're made of."
"Intriguing isn't it?" said the woman in front
of her. Cath looked up and noticed with relief that she was speaking to the man
beside her. She was getting paranoid about being approached by weird strangers.
"Yes, very, but do you think it's dangerous?" asked the man.
"Not for the initiated," she replied looking smug.
"What a snob," thought Cath and leafed through
the programme. On the last page there was a short biography of the artist.
Xandra Behr had been at St Martin’s Art School, had then exhibited all over the
UK and abroad and been an artist in residence for a mental health charity. Cath
had read about art therapy and wondered if the exhibition had been influenced
by her latest experiences. Fears became phobias, phobias could lead to mental
disorders.
The woman in front of her started to ascend the steps that
reached the tower’s summit. She let the door go abruptly, so that it clanked loudly.
At a sign of the attendant, Cath started to ascend the steps. She noticed that
they had holes so she could see through them, the holes getting bigger as she
ascended. When she was nearly at the top she looked down and she could see the far-away
floor, a rather unpleasant experience. She felt dizzy. She had never been
afraid of heights, but her left foot was frozen on the lower step and she
couldn't move the right one. “Don't be stupid,” she thought. Only the thought
of the people watching her down below, made her grab the handrail and force her
legs to reach the top.
She opened the metal door and closed it gently. Inside the
tower was hollow. A spiral staircase descended in a dark pit. Small lights lit
up as Cath descended each step. On the wall a small glass framed a photograph. One
displayed the roof of a skyscraper, in another a big spider was standing on a
woman's arm. Other photos illustrated claustrophobia, agoraphobia and even social
phobias.
She descended the steps without feeling any anxiety. The
staircase had solid sides and the steps didn't have holes through them. She
wasn't frightened, but the darkness below each step was unnerving. At the
bottom of the tower she saw with relief that a neon sign indicated the exit. She
was expecting to be in the gallery again but entered a narrow booth. A chair
stood against the wall and an old-fashioned diver helmet was waiting for her to
try it on. She put the helmet on, intrigued. At first it was darkness, then
multicoloured lights flashed in front of her eyes. A spiral started twisting
round and round until she felt dizzy and had to close her eyes. She jerked
herself awake and took the helmet off, got up, found a half-hidden doorway and
came out in the gallery. She emerged at the back of the tower and noticed that only
a few people were still milling around. Waiters were busy collecting glasses
while a woman was plugging in a hoover. She looked at her watch. Eight o'clock.
It couldn't be, she couldn't possible have spent half an hour in the tower.
She saw the man in bottle green talk to the woman dressed
in black. They turned and looked at her. She crossed the room and quickly
exited the gallery. Outside a couple was lingering, perhaps waiting for a taxi.
She crossed the road towards the bus stop and sat on the plastic bench at the
opposite end of an old woman who was muttering to herself. She was facing the
gallery. The couple who were standing outside were now boarding a taxi. A man
flung open the heavy gallery door and ran into the road. A car swerved to avoid
him, the driver angrily tooting his horn. When the man was past the middle white
line, he stopped, opened his arms and was knocked off by a courier van speeding
down. Cath sat transfixed. The old woman whimpered, a hand on her mouth. The
traffic stopped, men and women got out of their vehicles to look at the
accident. The van’s driver was talking in a mobile phone.
Eventually the bus reached the stop. Cath and the old
woman boarded it. Cath glanced at the man lying on the tarmac, surrounded by
paramedics. On the bus, passengers were looking out of the windows to find out
what was going on. Cath stared ahead. She had witness street accidents before,
but never a suicide. She closed her eyes. She could still see the man standing
in the road, his arms opened as if welcoming death.
When she saw the bright lights of the bingo hall, she
pressed the request button. The bus stopped and the door opened. Cath got off
with a man leading a dog on a leash. She walked up the alleyway towards her
flat. The man with the dog caught up with her by the pub.
"Do you want to hear a funny story, mate? " he
asked.
"No, not now, please."
"I'm not mad or anything." He bent to caress his
dog's back and added: "Today my dog was supposed to be put down. The
sweetest dog in the world."
"I'm sorry, I need to get home," said Cath and
walked away.
"Sorry, yeah, sorry," she heard him muttered behind her.
"Sorry, yeah, sorry," she heard him muttered behind her.
When she got home, Cath walked straight into the kitchen.
She put her coat and bag on the table and bent down to look at the trap. She
could hear the sound of tiny claws scratching, while the box shook. Of course,
being a humane trap with holes dotted along the box surface, the mouse was
still alive and trying to find an exit or make one. She reluctantly picked the
box up. It wasn't very heavy. A baby mouse, probably. She had a horror of mice,
filthy, furry creatures, their faeces small black pellets that have been dotting
her kitchen’s surfaces for weeks. She decided to free the mouse by the canal.
She dropped the trap in a plastic bag and walked out again. She was tired but
it could not wait.
Down the steps, the pathway was deserted. She walked a far
as she could, to disorientate the mouse, hoping it would not find its way back.
She bent down, opened the trap, but because she was nervous she twisted the box
and the mouse fell on her shoes. It was a black small mouse, it squirmed and
started to climb her left leg. Horrified, she tried to shake him off, but it
gripped her leg through the lace tights. It would not let go. Cath jumped in
the canal.
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