Drowning In Us Trailer

Hola amigos,

I hope the cold weather isn’t too bad where you are.

As you know, for the last few years, I’ve been working on a very special project. It has been a long process and it has gone through a lot of changes, but I have some further details on it that I can share with you.

The project will be a story that is told through various mediums, and will include a book of short stories and poetry, an album of music inspired by the story, and a film.

You can check out the film trailer below, and I can’t wait for you to see more of the project next year!

I really hope that Marina and Grant’s love story will be something you enjoy.

Besos,

J x


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Collecting

Chrissy let out a heavy sigh as her latest lover collapsed on top of her with great force, he groaned a little before rolling over and closing his eyes. She pulled the duvet around her and put an arm over his warm body, exhaustion was a powerful thing and allowed her to have this strange man under her control.

“Your thoughts?” She asked taking his hand in her own and squeezing it gently, she often had random bursts of affection for her men after the deed was done, even if she didn’t find him all that attractive. She simply couldn’t help herself, a wild and uncontrollable rush of happiness filled her and all she wanted to do was lay in his arms and pretend they loved each other. It was called making love for a reason, every time she participated she created at least a few minutes of genuine love for her companion.

“Good.” He replied as he pushed her hand away, she grabbed his again and pushed her body closer to his. Her lips found their way onto his ear and she kissed it with intense passion, she thought he’d at least be grateful but he simply pushed her away again.

“What’s wrong?” She asked sounding and feeling a little hurt, she rest a hand on his waist and leaned closer again. He turned to her and opened his eyes a fraction, she stared intently into them and smiled.

“Look Carrie.” He began, her smile remained intact but seemed a little forced.

“It’s Chrissy.” She reminded him before shoving him affectionately. He didn’t return the affection when he replied.

“I’m tired so just give it a rest.” Her face fell and she felt the tears approaching, she tried her best to fight them as she knew crying was the worst sign of weakness. A few simple tears would show him who she really was and that couldn’t happen.

“Sure.” She said as he turned onto his side and she lay on her back staring at the ceiling, she hadn’t intended for things to end like this. She never did. He was supposed to hold her and tell her she was beautiful, he was supposed to kiss her endlessly until she fell asleep, he was supposed to remind her of all the reasons why he was attracted to her. Of course he did none of these things and simply fell into a deep sleep beside her.

She rolled onto her side and took a good look at him. He was presentable at best, not exactly her future husband but he was decent at least. His hair fell past his strong shoulders and fanned against the pillow, it was cute but perhaps she’d like him to get it trimmed. One thing she definitely liked was his slight tan, a healthy tan was always her favourite part of a man, also tattoos. She spotted one on his lower back and slid under the covers to take a closer look.

“Stephanie.” She read aloud in a hushed voice as she traced along the elaborate lettering with her fingertip. Wonderful. She thought to herself feeling the tears return, she had picked up yet another married man. This had to stop.


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Looking For Squirrels

I lay in bed staring up at the ceiling as the noise of the house began to simmer down. My mother was sleeping and my little brother at a friend’s for the night. There was only the light purr of the cat across the room and my father’s padding feet travelling up the stairs left to be heard. I closed my eyes and thought about what my day had been like, pretty normal with just a hint of excitement. My best friend Jamie and I had gone to the woods after school to look for squirrels. We gave up looking after about ten minutes as little children often did. At the age of seven you don’t have much patience, not even for something as wonderful as squirrels.

Jamie and I had been friends since first grade and told each other everything. Almost everything. We had sat deep in discussion for about half an hour about nothing of great importance, just the usual subjects. Music, television and how icky boys were. Secrets were shared on her part and I fed her lies to replace the secrets she hungered for.

I had a secret, but I knew she wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t believe me. She’d think I was a slut. I thought I was a slut.

I thought about my wedding. I often did that when I should have been sleeping but couldn’t. I wanted a dress, like all the ones in the magazines. White and full of the promise of a future I’d never have to dream my way out of. It would be a chance to start again. Trade my name for something new, and be truly loved, just like in the movies.

I heard the door of my bedroom slowly creak open and was dragged from my dreaming. I tried to hold on by closing my eyes and running back to the church. I held my breath and hoped I would die. I felt his hand on the body he was too big for, and I knew the dream was dead.

I pulled the blankets up over my head as the lights flickered on. This couldn’t happen tonight. I had gone a whole day without thinking about it and felt nothing but air on my skin, and the innocent blades of grass. I curled my body up until I thought it would break, and I ran from the church, and the future I wanted, to the forest, for the squirrels I’d seek sanctuary with.

“Come on, wake up.” The forest began to burn around me, and I heard the desperate screams of the angry, attacked animals. Mine were silenced by a huge hand across my lips. We burned together, huddled in our helplessness and thrashing against the cruel, scorching flames. I closed my eyes, but was tortured by the bright, endless stream of light, determined to leak past my eyelids and blind me.

I prayed. I wept. I ran and I ran, until all I could do was grab the nearest object and swing. Swing for my life. The flames engulfed me, and the world was so still, in it’s destruction, as if every part of the cosmos had taken a half day to watch me finally defeated, but I was strong, for someone so small, and I was wide awake, fighting for my life. They’d have to understand. They’d have to believe me. They’d have to think I just did what anyone would do. I just did what anyone would do.

I opened my eyes, and my lamp had been broken, and the fire, finally put out, and put down, fell to the ground, leaving me free, in the forest, to search for squirrels, once more.


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Neglected

“What have you gotten into this time?” He smirked at the voice as he opened his eyes and delicate fingers ran through his hair. “Or what have you gotten me into, princess.” He sank back into the pillows, thankful for the mercy of a comfortable bed, and noticed the restraints on his wrists. “You have been thorough, my love.” He whispered, trying to mask the pride and arousal in his voice as he looked up at his lover, a sweet smile spreading across her delicious, painted lips.

“I wanted to play.” Her sing song voice sent chills down his spine, and straight into his groin, as she fiddled with the bow that adorned the front of her dress. “You were being difficult.” He had been initially apprehensive of his girlfriend’s desire to take the lead in the bedroom, but he had to admit, he was enjoying what she had to offer so far. “But here you are.” Here he was, and he admired the effort she had gone to.

“My sweetheart always gets what she wants.” He muttered, aching for what lay under her clothes.

“You’ve been very bad.” She knelt on the bed beside him, her fingers still lost in his hair, pulling it slightly. “Bad, bad boy.” She released her grip on his hair and reached for the zip of his trousers, his whole body desperate for more.

“Anything you say.” He said, with the hint of a moan as she began sliding them down his legs, tortuously slowly.

“You promised me…” She whispered, playfully snaking a fingertip across the fabric of his underwear. He nodded, closing his eyes, with a smirk. She began rubbing his erection through his underwear, and he groaned in pleasure, wanting even more to touch her. “You said I could have whatever I want.” She said suddenly, removing her hand. He groaned in protest and opened his eyes.

“How am I meant to do that when I’m all tied up?” It seemed a reasonable question, but she pouted nonetheless, hitching up her dress to reveal what he desired most, covered in black lace. “Please, stop teasing me.” His voice was low and throaty, as his tongue ran over his bottom lip, and he pulled, in vain at his restraints.

“No.” She replied bluntly, removing the dress completely, to reveal even more lace covering even more things he desired. He groaned, fighting once more against the rope that bound his wrists, and crying out slightly as the ropes burned at his skin. “Bad boy.” She whispered, ripping open his shirt, with a surprising amount of ease. “You never get what you want.” She sunk down into his now naked chest, her soft hair tickling against his neck, as she ran her fingers up and down his erection. “Do you?” Her touching teases were driving him insane, but the intimacy of it all soothed him.

“Please?” She shook her head with a smile, releasing him suddenly and sauntering off the bed and out of the room. He sighed, watching her leave. “That girl of mine…”


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Boo, bitch..

Hola!

I have written a little something (and a little something more) for Halloween, so I hope you enjoy my spooky stories, and the rest of your Halloween!

I hope your night is as sweet and wonderful as you… and a little bit weird, of course, as all the best nights are!

Besos,

J x


-x-


I love you, bye.

“I love you. Byeeeeeee.”

Lewis mouthed the final word along with Rose, her sweet smile fading to black as the video ended. His daughter sat transfixed beside him, her hand feeling blindly for the mouse to select the next video. She, like every other young girl was obsessed with Rose and her videos. An entire generation of young women was transfixed, and while many parents couldn’t understand why, they did their best to accommodate their children’s love for the star. Lewis was prepared to go the extra mile, for his only child, Hannah.

“No more.” He muttered, patting her head gently and ignoring the small moan of disappointment from Hannah. “We’ll see plenty of her later.”

“Special meet up! Special meet up!” He smiled, watching his daughter bounce in the chair beside him, in sync with her chants of excitement. The day had finally arrived when his daughter would meet her idol. It had been months in the making, and many hours of careful planning and hard work for Lewis, but it didn’t bother him. How could it? He wanted only happiness for his daughter, and he knew Rose could understand that.

“That’s right.” He stood from his chair, extending his hand to her. “And why do you get a special meet up?” He asked as she jumped down from the computer chair.

“Because I’m her favourite.” He nodded, leading her towards the basement, and unable to suppress a smile as he looked down at her bright eyes, sparkling with excitement.

He opened the door and could feel his daughter pulling at his sleeve, silently pleading for him to take her downstairs. He had teased her for weeks, warning that going to the basement would ruin her special surprise. Rose had replaced Santa in ensuring good behaviour from his child, but he had seen her, sneaking a look down the stairs of the basement, hoping to catch a glimpse of her idol, but just like Santa, Rose would only appear on one very special day, before vanishing from sight, and being nothing more than a dream.

As they slowly descended the staircase, a small whimper could be heard, and while any normal child would be frightened, Hannah didn’t seem concerned.

As they reached the floor of the dimly lit basement, an upturned water bowl at the foot of the stairs was the only thing visible, until Lewis reached up and switched on the light, and Rose, dishevelled and exhausted was finally visible.

Rose wasn’t quite herself, she usually accessorised so well, but ropes around her wrists and ankles wasn’t quite the look she’d usually go for. As Hannah ran to her, screaming with excitement, Rose’s hoarse voice could barely be heard.

“Please let me go.”


-x-


 

Stay Away

Jamie had never been a petty person, or so she told herself, and she had gone through life accepting what fate gave her, without being too concerned about clawing back something she felt she was owed. She was humble, not feeling entitled to anything, until of course, she, like many people do, day after day and mistake after mistake, she fell for someone she shouldn’t have. She had never been petty, but she had always been shy, and as you can imagine, this can cause all kinds of problems for someone who is struggling to navigate through a busy college corridor. As Jamie was knocked to the ground, an almost daily occurrence that she had just about accepted, the group of students continued on, as if she hadn’t been there at all. She began to collect her books, and strewn glasses, when another pair of hands joined her own. It was a cliché, she knew that, and she cringed every time she recalled the moment, but for the first time, she felt welcoming to what fate had given her, instead of disgruntled indifference.

She didn’t say a word to him as he helped her gather her possessions, and she couldn’t even push a thank you from her throat as he walked her to her dorm room. It had been embarrassing to simply point and nod, as if playing a ridiculously timed game of charades, but she was sure that if she opened her mouth in the presence of those piercing blue eyes (again, the girl loves a good cliché), that she would say something worthy of a restraining order. He told her his name was Bradley, and ever the mistress of her own bodily reactions, she sighed without meaning to, and almost slid down her own front door. Composing herself, she managed to tell him her own name, before he wished her well and sauntered down the staircase, and out of sight.

They talked more and more, or rather he talked and she smiled, and nodded, while fantasising their future conversations, before the present had even finished. In her reality, they were deeply in love. The kissing, the touching, the actual public proclamation of their love for each other, that was all a formality, because for Jamie, he said it (prepare for another cliché) with his eyes.

Unfortunately for Jamie, this was not the case at all. Bradley was a narcissist who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and had finally found a quiet and appreciative audience for it. He didn’t view Jamie with any malice, of course, he was fond of her, even if it was just for the fact that she listened and responded positively to everything he said, which in Bradley’s eyes made her the very best a person could be, but he certainly wasn’t in love with her. However, Jamie had been raised on romantic films and poorly thought out advice pages from magazines, that told her that the second a man opens up and talks to you without hesitation, you ought to buy your mother a new hat, because you’ll be taking a trip down the aisle very soon.

As previously mentioned, Bradley was not in love with Jamie, and Jamie had barely been able to talk in front of him, so had no way of telling him that she wished he was, and so Bradley thought nothing of confiding in his new friend about his girlfriend, and the dilemma of how he should proceed with valentine’s day.

At first, Jamie was distracted by Bradley’s eyes, and his lips, and all sorts of things she had decided made him worthy of the alarming amount of clichés she used to describe him in her diary, but after a few moments, the gravity of his words, and the knowledge that another had already stolen the heart she had earmarked as her own came crashing through her fantasy, and left her again on the floor, with her books all over the place, and her glasses not only strewn out of reach, but crushed by the size twelves of fate. Self pity rose through her body and threaten to leak from her eyes any moment, and for the first time, she spoke without effort, quietly excusing herself, and running from his dorm room to hide in her own, with a tub of ice cream, and all of her regrettable diary entries.

She poured over them for hours, unsure of how she could have misread the signs so badly. If she was being honest, she hadn’t really listened to Bradley all that much, so it was pretty easy to ignore that he had a girlfriend, and if she was to be even more honest, she wasn’t sure that she liked Bradley for anything other than the fact he acknowledged her existence and had been raised with enough decorum to help someone pick up their possessions if they dropped them. Politeness and general acknowledgement weren’t quite enough to build a marriage on, and if that had been everything, she would have happily settled the matter and learned from her mistake, but fate hadn’t quite finished with Jamie yet.

She slept for a few hours, to try and rid herself of the tear induced headache, and awoke to a phone call from Bradley. At first, she thought about ignoring it, but while she didn’t listen to Bradley all that much, she enjoyed giving the illusion that she did, as it gave her someone to spend time with. They spoke, with her feeling free to for the first time, and when she was sure he was satisfied with the lie that she had left due to feeling unwell, as opposed to the truth, she agreed to meet with him ‪the next day and hung up the phone. She tried to sleep again that night, but couldn’t. She knew, deep down that Bradley wasn’t in love with her, and yet, the fact that he had called, the fact that he had worried enough to check on her after she left set her mind racing, as she imagined a scenario in which he was in love with her. She tossed and turned for hours, her heart saying that he could be feeling the same torment, and her head telling her to shut up and go to sleep. While she listened to her head and gave into sleep, she couldn’t resist dreaming of Bradley all night.

When she awoke, she heard knocking at the door. Gathering herself together, and covering herself up as best she could, she approached the door of her dorm room and opened it slowly.

“Jamie!” Bradley looked handsome, and Jamie wished she didn’t think so. She silently stood aside, allowing him in, and watched with a heavier heart than she would have liked as he sighed and fell down onto her bed, throwing his bag on the floor. “Oh Jamie, I need your help.” It was Jamie’s turn to sigh. She had awoken sure that her feelings for Bradley meant nothing, and that she could continue life as his echo chamber in exchange for having seats saved at lunch and someone to be with on lonely nights, but seeing him made her remember the concern in his voice as he called the night before, and left her clinging desperately to the idea he might in fact have deeply buried feelings for her, despite his girlfriend sitting atop his heart, swinging what Jamie was sure were long, tanned, beautiful legs. “My girlfriend is mad at me.” There it was. “She’s upset that we’ve been talking, and now she won’t speak to me.” Jamie tried to show concern, but an ugly part of her had surfaced, and enjoyed knowing that she could get at the ominous girlfriend, that she had grown to resent over the last twenty four hours. Jamie wouldn’t normally sink to this level, and preferred to get her kicks from high test scores, cat memes and pound a pint nights, but love, or at least very strong lust with a hint of bitterness had given her a new edge, and nothing could thrill her like the sadness of a perceived enemy.

“I could talk to her, if you want.” Jamie said, her voice laced with sympathy as she sat on the bed next to Bradley, stroking his auburn curls. “I could tell her that she doesn’t need to worry.” Bradley beamed up at her.

“I knew I could count on you.” He whispered, taking one of her hands in his own and kissing it gently.

Jamie wished things could stay as they were, Bradley snuggled close to her, without a care in the world, however, life wasn’t always easy, and sometimes, it was just ridiculous. This was one of those ridiculous times.

Jamie could barely believe when Bradley excitedly pulled his bag onto the bed and threw a spirit board in her direction, or when he babbled on about his dead girlfriend. The whole thing felt like a prank, but just in case it wasn’t, Jamie decided to go along with it. She realised that she had a great opportunity. She could simply tell Bradley that his “ghost” girlfriend was breaking up with him for good, and she would have him all to herself. It was a flawless plan, as far as she was concerned, and she couldn’t wait to get started.

She had decided to take a nap first, but as she awoke, she wished she hadn’t. She had slept a lot longer than she intended, and was dripping in what she hoped was sweat. Her sleep was a mess of nightmares, all revolving around Bradley’s ominous girlfriend taking her revenge as Jamie took her man. She tried to convince herself that she didn’t believe what Bradley had told her, and that it was all just a game, but she felt compelled to apologise to the spirit, in the hopes of getting a good night’s sleep.

She knew that she shouldn’t be alone, but Jamie didn’t have anyone else she could have invited along. Attempting to contact spirits wasn’t the top of the to do list for her small circle of friends, and so she tucked her hair behind her ear, did her best to fight past her nerves and took a deep breath, before opening her eyes. Everything was as she had left it before. The unlit candle on her left, a note pad and pencil on her right, and the spirit board, looming in front of her.

She took another breath, looking around at the well lit room and trying to force herself to laugh at her own paranoia. She had yet to summon or approach anything, and even when she would later try, there was no promise that any of it would work. The panic must all be in her head, she decided, taking another breath, and shaking off another shudder that the room had taken against her will.

She lit the candle, exactly as she had seen in the YouTube tutorial (they make those for EVERYTHING these days), and took another breath.

“Is anyone here?” There was silence. Jamie kept her eyes focused on the spirit board, as the coolness of the room edged down her spine. With every second, she was convinced that the whole story had been a prank. Bradley seemed relatively well adjusted, so it was unlikely that he truly believed his ghost girlfriend was desperate for a heart to heart over candlelight. After what felt like hours, but was only in fact a few moments, Jamie finally laughed to herself, and blew out the candle. She would mark it up to experience, and forget about Bradley, and his alleged ghost girlfriend. She packed the spirit board in it’s box, and left it outside of Bradley’s room before heading to bed, and hoping she would dream of something a little less strange.

She awoke early, when the darkness still lay outside, to see a single candle lit on her desk. She was positive that she had extinguished it before taking the board back to Bradley, but as she stood and examined the candle, she noticed the board was open on her desk. She tore her eyes from the scene, her body submerged in icy fear, and saw her door was still locked, as she had left it, and as she turned to the board, she couldn’t understand how it had appeared, unless of course, Bradley had been telling the truth, and a pissed off ghost wanted a conversation with her.

She watched in silent horror as the board spelled out a single word.

SIT

She fell into the waiting chair, despite desperately wanting to run, but unable to move an inch. She thought about praying but she wouldn’t even know how to explain this situation, or what kind of help to ask for. Her eyes followed the planchette as it continued to move.

STAY AWAY

She nodded, unable to say a word, and hoped the spirit understood that she had won. No man was worth this, at all. As she tried to find the strength to speak, she could see the spirit continue, and after taking a few seconds to figure out the words she was spelling out, she wished that she hadn’t.

YOU WILL DIE.

There was a knock at the door, but she didn’t dare move. The candle flickered as the planchette continued across the board, and while she recognised Bradley’s voice from the other side of the door, his words didn’t register in her mind, as it was too full of the spirit, and what she had to say.

HE WILL KILL YOU LIKE HE KILLED ME.


-x-


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Further Writing Adventures

Hola amigos reflexivos,

I hope you’ve all been well. I’ve got some new poetry below which you can check out.

I’ve also been working on some short stories, which aren’t quite finished yet, but are coming along quite nicely. I was inspired after reading the work of my friend that gave me a deeper appreciation of the short story.

Don’t get me wrong, I was always into them, but I’ve never really written them, and so it was fun to delve further into a medium I didn’t often explore. I’ll hopefully post them soon. Of course, they’re romantic (this is me), but there’s a little difference that I’m hoping makes them exciting.

I had a great time working with new characters and scenarios, and it was a great writing experience to do something a little different, so hopefully you’ll enjoy them.

Besos,

J x

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in his life jennifer juan

You Get Less For Murder

I’ve tried digging the nails you helped me paint,
under your glowing ground floor to dig deeper.
I wanted to pick parts of my idealism away,
in the hopes that I could plan an escape.
I broke a nail.
Your lips launched on the stinging sensation,
until my frightened finger was calm,
and only shook because it was shy.
I’m getting used to the idea,
like I became used to the in-out-in-out night time respiratory adventures,
and the face you try not to make when I tell you I’m willing to cook.
I count both, the breaths, the culinary reluctance.
Both polite, both pushing my heart to keep up the good work.
I see your stomach ache face in milk sans soy,
and your name is spelled, subtle in the presumptuous playlist we made.
I think…
I know, I’ll love you forever.
I just hope you can love me too.


Comparing And Crediting

Even though your eyes
have nothing in common
with the pollution and pain of the ocean,
I see them in wanderlust waves,
dancing to the dunes
and lapping at my legs.
You have no connection
to my compulsion to breathe,
no matter what I’ve told you.
Sometimes I feel it’s me doing you a favour,
but I’d honestly be doing it anyway.
Wouldn’t I?
I’ll still let you take the credit,
for the air arranges neatly in my lungs,
no longer pushing and shoving,
since I first breathed for you.
I could easily pick the sun
from a line up that included your smile,
but as bright and beautiful as all things are,
I’d only pick the sun to escape
the gracious glare of your glorious grimace.


The Incarceration Of Mimi

Everyone loves a sing song,
you have them every night in sing sing.
Pad the planks of your prison palace,
butterflies break from the boundaries,
and your eyes plead,
when your lips can’t,
for them to return for you someday.
The grotesque glamour of the diamond dragon,
tail trapping a princess,
in a kingdom she couldn’t explore.
Perhaps, all that glitters is your spirit,
still shining, and still standing,
under more strain than your smile will show.



Keeping Up

The stars are shippers,
kept young by the scenes we play out,
and the dreams we send up,
and the arrogant apprehension of our affection.
We know we have an audience,
and we play like Kardashians,
the cosmos slipping off their seats,
while we cut to a commercial.



Withdrawal

Let me imagine,
that my path is more,
than a million alarms,
a million commutes,
a million missed moments,
lost to traffic jams and unpaid overtime.
Let me be more than a widow
to my dreams,
parted prematurely
by the death knell of kneeling to reality.
I’m not ready to weep
for the wishes on wasted, defeated stars,
or to blow out the candles on every ambition,
carefully constructed with optimistic oxygen on fantasy flames.
They told me to dream in dollars,
but the American Dream, is unavailable in my country,
or in the country of origin,
or anywhere.
Exchange my investment at the post office,
and head back home.
Coppers smash through the windscreen,
of a car I’ll never afford,
on the road to a house I’ll never own,
in a tepid town,
that doesn’t open up to “my sort”.
Won’t you give me one more moment,
to pretend something could change.
Let me get my fix,
of the aspiration I’m addicted to.



Scrubbing, Spritzing and Holding

She can scrub my lipstick from your collar,
nude stained when nude,
vanished by vanish.
God damn it, she tries.

She can spritz my perfume from your coats,
the virtue of vanilla never appealed to you,
in scent or in sex,
but god damn it, she tries.

She can hold you hostage in your home,
hold you to your vows.
More than my lips and candy bling are stained on your soul,
but god damn it, she’ll try.

I wait, painted and perfumed,
for the cautious, callous call.
I start scrubbing and spritzing too,
holding myself hostage,
but in my heart,
I know it’s been too late, for too long,
and God damn it, I’ve tried.



Little Frances

You were sweet as cotton candy,
so they pulled and picked,
your time,
your smile,
your life,
until your stick,
fell to the fame,
and those very same consumers,
threw up an ending,
that Hollywood would never approve.



Inauthentic Apparel

My shirt,
with low morals,
and an even lower neckline
spread rumours all about town.
She said that we’ve had every single man,
in every single place,
and every single hole,
in every single way.
We? I ask you.
I wish she had invited me along,
I could have done with a change of schedule,
from Netflix binges
and self pity.



In His Life

I’m no McCartney,
but he had Lennon looks.
Yellow couch with all our secrets,
made redundant by a room full of news.
We deviated from the map we sketched,
ran past the landlord,
changed the locks on ourselves.
Bloody brother and sister,
not born by bone,
glued by a tempestuous tenancy,
and game nights.



Technophobic

I type your name
on my tongue every chance I get.
I’ve slammed the backspace key
so many times that it has stopped working,
leaving no choice but to download you,
and cry, consumed by your virus.
If you were to say that I wasn’t your file type,
or that I didn’t fit in your drive,
or that you couldn’t spare the run time
then I could delete every devoted daydream,
send myself to sleep mode,
yet still,
you leave me warm and whirring.



Nothing But Longing

His eyes firmly on the camera,
glazed and distant,
as his patrons preferred.
He felt a sensation that he called tiredness,
but today, he couldn’t pretend
that it was anything less than apathy.
He went through the motions,
fingers down his chest,
fingers through his hair,
fingers on his unmentionables,
but despite his fingers,
and those of others exploring his body,
he felt nothing but longing.
He couldn’t wish for an ending,
so that he could go home,
because there was no home to go to,
and nothing to do when he arrived there. There was an apartment,
of course,
respectable in size,
and tacky in décor
according to his own inner monologue,
and the criticisms of occasional hook ups,
but it wasn’t a home.
It wouldn’t be again,
until his little bird,
returned to the nest.



You, Or Nobody

You were contained fire.
Light and warmth, without destruction.
You cooked the raw ingredients of my making,
without burning the flavour I thought I had lost.
Before you, I had heat everywhere but my heart,
I thought of thawing, but it wasn’t who I was,
or who I told myself I was,
to keep what lay underneath safe,
from hungry hands under the table.
I knew,
it was you,
or nobody.
That was the exact request of the recipe,
no substitutes,
no stand ins,
or nothing rises,
and nothing shall be devoured.
I know,
without you,
I am charred, and tasteless.
Our flavour has lingered on my lips too long,
that I crave you more with every second.

Twilight

Jennifer Juan selfie

When I was seventeen, I decided to go to university. I had considered, and dismissed it before, but at seventeen, an English teacher remarked of his hopes for me to continue my studies at university, and I decided “why the fuck not?”

So, off to university I went. I decided to do a course in creative writing, and was excited at the prospect of meeting people like myself, and I did. I met a lot of wonderful people, but I also met quite a few people that I’m going to discuss further.

Before university, my writing was isolated. I occasionally shared it in english classes, when pushed into it, but it never went further than that. I had never really met other writers before, but they always seemed nice in books and movies, and so I wasn’t too concerned.

In one of my first classes, there was stifled laughter from one corner when a student stated that Twilight was her favourite book. Now, I’ve never read Twilight, and I probably won’t, but this moment highlighted a big issue in the writing community for me.

There is a startling problem with elitism among students in writing classes (and writing in general). I’m not sure why I was so surprised to discover it, in hindsight, because it’s incredibly visible. Of course, all writing is subjective, and there would be no point in writing continuing if we all read and enjoyed the same content, and with that in mind, why should someone be laughed at for enjoying Twilight? A student inspired by Twilight is still capable of writing to the same level of somebody who has been raised on a diet of Keats and Wilde, and it’s unfortunate that people still think otherwise.

Every writer has limitless potential, and the way they discovered their passion for writing is valuable, regardless of who pointed them in that direction. There is no reason a person should be written off immediately, due to their creative influences, because it potentially throws away future best sellers, books that will change lives and open minds. Drowning out a potential writer’s voice with obnoxious laughter at their influences only isolates writing further as a medium, and continues to present the stereotype that writing is for a small section of the population, and that no other voices are worthy, which is hardly the image writing needs.

There are expectations, of those who attend creative writing classes, to consume a certain type of writing, and then produce the same, which completely undermines the word “creative” in the title of the class. No writer has the same journey, and your journey being full of Plath and Morrissey vinyls doesn’t make you more intelligent, or more entitled to be in a writing class, because a learning environment should be for anyone who found their way there, and wants to learn more.

If a person has something to express, and decides writing is the best medium for them, they should be encouraged, and not mocked, because their influences don’t match up to your own expectations. The content of their inspiration isn’t important, the existence of the inspiration itself is the key factor that earned them a place in class, and you don’t get to tell them otherwise. It doesn’t matter where it comes from, passion is the only prerequisite to advancing their writing journey.

I’m now twenty three, and while I have understood this for a while, I am aware a lot of people still struggle with the concept. The truth is, it doesn’t make you a better writer if you laugh at somebody who read and was inspired by Twilight. It just makes you rude.