Creative Writing

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.

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.

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...

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...

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

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

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.

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...

Hayley Geneva Her bare arms were a stark white in contrast to the murky turquoise of the lake. The sun’s rays pierced the surface and lit up the waters below in glistening fingers of light. She kept her eyes locked onto her arms and hands, following the course of each snaking movement. Occasionally her eyes would wander towards the black pit beneath her and she would begin to tilt, as if she were falling off a cliff, slipping into the sweet nothingness below her.  She stopped for a moment to tread water and breathe in the summertime breeze, it began coiling itself around her face and shoulders. It’s okay, it seemed to say. There was an inflatable obstacle course to her right, and she could hear the children shrieking with laughter as they tumbled into the water. The sound vibrated t...

Elizabeth Ajao Jess   There are so many bad smells. There’s that one that’s like rotten eggs that you encounter  when it’s too hot. I think it’s sulphur. Then there’s that gross fishy scent someone has if  they haven’t been washing properly, oh, and speaking of not showering there’s the  seemingly omnipresent ‘BO’ that seems to follow all teenage boys around like a shadow.  However, there is nothing quite like the Essence de Rotting Flesh that we smelt that night.  Sorry, too much?   Em   It wasn’t very nice, no. It was really quite scary. I mean, when you get a call from your  friend at 2am telling you to come meet her for a milkshake you don’t usually expect her  to be dead. It only took us ten minutes to get there. I ju...