Creative Writing – Page 4 of 6

Bedtime Stories for a Grieving Child no. 4: Royal Holloway on Fiction

16Oct

By Zaki ChanNo Comments

Creative Writing

Bedtime Stories for a Grieving Child no. 4: Royal Holloway on Fiction

His wrinkles were gone. His crows’ feet only just starting to set in, the laugh lines around his mouth less pronounced than what I was used to. He wore his starched white business shirt, sweat faintly dripping down his brow, his hair just starting to recede. There he stood in his stiff work clothes, a handkerchief just peeping out of his pocket. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Dad said, a hint of playfulness creeping into his voice. I smelt the cigarettes off his breath. There was pandan in the air somewhere. I tasted the ash in my mouth. He accompanied me all the way to the hospital, making small comments about the old photos that I found in his old apartment, even after he separated from Mom. He kept the different rings that they wore during their marriage, tucked ...

The Samaritans Left me on Voicemail Imao

16Oct

By Zaki ChanNo Comments

Creative Writing, Features

The Samaritans Left me on Voicemail Imao

Two short poems: Our Little Secret and Petals

27Feb

By Mercedes-Georgia MayesNo Comments

Creative Writing

Two short poems: Our Little Secret and Petals

Our Little Secret: Tiptoeing across the stars, and squeezing close beneath the duvet of night- we can’t let them see. Talking in kisses and glances, morse code touches across our bodies- we can’t let them hear. Trapping our hearts in the silence and dark- above all we cannot let them know. Cannot let them extinguish our already restrained moon glow, it’s our little secret- don’t let it go. Petals: I swear she’s made of petals, and her hair blossoming vines. She smells of running away and lighter, easier times. She twines round my existence, curling round her sturdy shoots. I could never pluck her from me for we share the same roots.

Two short poems: Her name is anxiety and… Nathaniel

27Feb

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

Two short poems: Her name is anxiety and… Nathaniel

Her name is anxiety and She lives on the surface of you, a thin layered coating of pure adrenaline; she tastes like everything at once, a thousand bees stinging your tongue and you’re simultaneously still and moving - the world whizzes past with a high pitched whistle, and the bees move to your bloodstream, limbs shake and you’re out of control: she owns you. Nathaniel He’s impulsive: eyes too big, too blue, too wide. They take in the blurry world through thick lenses. Glasses magnify tired eyes, heavy bags held up by skin spread smooth turned purple overnight, bruised by the weight of all that he has seen.

25Jan

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

Hedonism

They want parties and they want them now. The bugs of the metropolis glean blue in the daytime. Shake hands, rub wings, leap in flight from skyscraper to skyscraper. Fill plastic bags with belongings, once theirs, now mine: leather shoes, slinky handbags, velvet dresses and dark suede. Fur coats trimmed with snow scarves turn to chiffon and liquorice jackets come spring. They use terms like, ‘summer wardrobe’ and warble about ski seasons and active wear. Models overtake models, on catwalks and in rehab. They trawl from retailer to retailer as hands bump, and cards read: Transaction Authorised. Sunglasses meets Black Eyeliner’s gaze across the counter. They cram their mouths full of cheese, pastries, sun-dried tomatoes, passion fruit and tequila; the nectar of The Every-Day bec...

25Jan

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

Letter from Farishta

05/01/05, Barki From Farishta between the wheat countries somewhere hunched like those women who chew beedis – we listened – unbathed unshat to our rusks and watched thatches of earth become our new home I thought of when we played shuttle once you sang you wouldn’t shut up that song from Umrao Jaan your dada sings with his snake hookah around his neck didn’t I say something like I will never marry that I wished to be those bikers we saw while picking our marigolds riding to Leh from the south like they meant to burgle the Himalayas – I bit Asif when he rode me for the first time last night I feared he will find my letter and – if this reaches you...

25Jan

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

like the others

like the others blowing their hovels with pink salt with crumbled seeds as sand caskets he watched them recede it was the summer of disease

18Dec

By Jack WrightNo Comments

Creative Writing

Six Short Poems

J. Wright i. Start Sometimes these things like the best things take time ii. Smile I can’t remember what I said to make you smile iii. Sure I smoke often only so that my hands have something to do iv. Sorry You and I beneath pale bluish skies knit together in birdsong v. Skin I fall out of bed wearing the imprint of my body into something soft, soon and smooth vi. Sighs I miss you like dawn misses the moon

23Nov

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

“A multitude of tiny orbs…”

Roya Khodaie A multitude of tiny orbs that shine And sparkle in the dark night’s sky. Inviting and alluring, You travel upwards to their Solitary depths, Cold and alone. The illusion is broken, they are nothing, Fool’s gold and silver, a wisp of A childhood dream. Stone cold and mocking me, A vacuum for the warmth and closeness Of a mother’s embrace.

23Nov

By Jordan ThorneNo Comments

Creative Writing

What are you going through?

Cathy Snarey Trigger warning: mentions of medication and suicide Last night I had a dream. I went to work. I was managing a street feast festival. After closing time, I caught a train from Dalston – was it Kingsland or Junction? Does it matter? I changed to the underground at Highbury and Islington, then onto Euston and the Hammersmith and City line to Paddington. I drove home from Reading Station. John was on a late shift, so I cooked dinner, Ayam Goreng Bali. Not that I’ve ever been to Indonesia, the recipe came from a book my mother inherited. Recipes from that book became family favourites. Favourites that John and I now share. As I crush the ginger and chilis into a paste, I can see my reflection in the mirrored splashback. I’m smiling, happy. Beautiful even. John comes h...