Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Goodbye Garrett

Rain in Vegas,
as heaven hears the news,
the fate of their favourite son.
Such a sweet child,
lost in the lights,
but always smiling,
sailing down the skyline,
garlands of chrysanthemums gaze at the crowd from around his neck,
and white roses fill the row,
landing at his feet as he bids farewell.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Two Fathers Are Watching

He towered over the troubled child,

virtuous, virgin of hope,

a child,

ripped from a child herself.

Messy when she fingerpaints,

messy when she scribbled words that would one day become whole worlds,

messy when she tried to climb the kitchen cabinets for biscuits before dinner,

his very own Macarena.

He had such hope for her,

unable to see her human failings,

and how he’d feel about them,

because a father’s love is beautifully blind,

and she was fantastically flawed,

in a way he would learn to love,

once the disappointment dimmed.

Now,

he still towers over her,

watching from God’s garden as his cherished child fingerpaints herself into futile corner after futile corner.

Posted in Blog

Gwen

You always took too long to say goodbye.

You were famous for it,

for the frustration of people who found themselves in your web,

watching you spin another conversation,

from the thin promise of “I’m gonna let you go.”

Crossed legs,

crossed eyes,

as you crept into monologues,

about that woman down the shop,

that nobody knows,

but you,

but we are expected to,

because you want to tell us an anecdote,

that could probably wait.

Nowadays, I wait,

for a call that never comes,

thinking fondly of the long goodbyes,

trying to force them over the final moments,

when I lay alone in bed,

midday,

and someone called quickly,

to say that it was all over.

For the first time,

the final time,

you said goodbye too quickly,

the one time I wanted you to take too long,

you couldn’t stay,

fading from the scene,

from a hospital bed to heaven,

as I listened to your favourite song,

again and again,

unable to say goodbye as quickly as you finally could.

Posted in Blog

Ella at The End Of The World – Episode Seven

Read more of Ella at The End Of The World

They’re dead.

We got there, and everything looked normal. They live… they lived in a remote area, and it just looked so… normal. Mum’s house is one of only three on the road, with just a little corner shop for company. The whole place was so quiet, empty, eerie.

Martin had insisted on bringing his crossbow. I can remember first seeing it, when we moved in together. It was just casually hung on the back of his bedroom door, as if it wasn’t a deadly weapon. It was there, all the time, just staring at me, and it, along with the knives scattered around the house, and several bats, always made me nervous.

I was nervous as I put my key in the door, both despite, and because of the crossbow. The house was creepily quiet as we stepped inside. Martin insisted on going first, sneaking through the hallway, peeking around corners, like they do in horror films, and I followed behind, as quietly as I could.

Mum was in the kitchen, motionless on the floor, her red hair, framing her face. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. I felt sick, but thankfully, nothing came of that either. She looked frightened. She looked so frightened. Her beautiful face, frozen in fear, a few splotches of blood across her pale skin. Aaron didn’t look frightened. Aaron looked hungry, knelt over her body, his hurried hands, in and out, in and out, drenched in blood.

I didn’t even see Martin move. I was absorbed, overwhelmed. My mother’s face. The blood. The sound of chewing, over and over, louder, louder, louder.

Aaron turned, and for a second, I thought he looked frightened too. His blue eyes, gone, red and full of rage, but the rest of his face, so familiar, my baby brother, so lost, so frightened. Then, it was over. The arrow pierced his head, and he fell, motionless, like Mum, on the once white, but now red kitchen floor.

Martin pulled me away, until they were out of sight, but I could still see them, hear them, even, all the way back to the car, all the way back to the border, all the way to wherever we currently are.

Chewing. Over and over. He was eating our mother. My little brother, who spent most of his life shovelling pizza into his mouth, while he played Xbox, was shovelling my mother’s flesh into his mouth, that never seemed to stop chewing. Chewing. Over and over. An endless, torturous hunger.

I don’t want to sleep, but I don’t know if I can avoid it.

I hate him.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hello, Again

You are a song,

I sometimes hear,

in the back of my mind,

when I am away with the fairies.

I called you last night,

by mistake,

awaking with the memory of you,

your curiosity,

for what I became,

after we parted ways,

all the ways I was so different,

and the ways I’d stayed the same.

Sometimes,

I think that maybe I’ve been driven mad,

by days that became weeks,

weeks that went on far too long,

but then I see you,

and I love you,

in a languishing,

lingering way,

and I realise that I was always a little bit mad.

I had to be,

give my mind, entirely, to you.