May 2015

In May I submitted three pieces to Jotters United Issue 14 for the theme of Hooligans/Youth.

Update: I was lucky enough to have all three accepted, and given a full page spread.

Two’s Company is a piece of flash fiction, The Visitors is a short story and Nostalgia is a poem.

May also saw two of my poems accepted into Silver Linings, an anthology produced to raise money for the victims of violence. Here are my entries, both on the theme of domestic violence:

Daddy’s Home

In a dark corner squat

she is folded,

by the bed,

an upturned, colourless Z,

hair caught on ripped anaglypta,

arms like a metal tie around bread,

black soles like ballet shoes,

and toes so cold they might snap

and clatter like dropped pebbles.

Nibbled nails like fairy plates

in bloody beds with ragged frames

on stubby fingers, sucked thumbs

and clutching fists,

twisting comfort out of fabric.

Shiny eyes, bright with fright,

boring blackness,

strings of hair, straw dolls,

tucked behind little ears –

like sheets, mattress-tight –

to listen.

Breath is silent, sparing, saved;

like disturbed silk,

shoulders rise,

shoulders fall.

A bullet-click.

A creak as discordant as a wail,

the sound of a python-squeeze,

insidious.

Too drawn.

He is coming.

He is coming.

A shape more solid than the dark

walls her in.

She feels the burning trickle;

her sodden shroud hugs, clings to her contours,

and the puddle softly creeps

around her cradle,

gently arcing her heels like a crawling tide,

tickling her crunched toes with its frill

and she fills her mind with wet feet and cotton cloth.

For Better, For Worse

Mummy’s sleeping on her side

in the corner of the kitchen,

all curled up like a cat.

She hasn’t done her make-up very well…

she’s got dabs of purple all round her eye,

like violet petals squeezed dry

and there’s red sponge-painting on her cheek.

I’m not allowed to sponge-paint.

Her lips look juicy;

I think she’s blowing me a kiss.

I’ve been brushing Mummy’s hair

to make it nice.

It feels like golden clouds in my hand.

I collect balls and balls of it

and lay it on the floor ready for the birds.

I do dot-to-dot on her leg – just pretend –

trailing my finger between the little red circles

and I cover Mummy’s legs with her nightie

so she doesn’t get cold,

the way she covers me up and tucks me in.

I wash the dirt off her icy feet

with the dish-cloth

and jiggle on her slippers,

toes first, then, clunk, over the heel.

I think she is very tired.

She’s sleeping and sleeping and sleeping

and I am hungry, hungry, hungry.

Black streaks like little rivers

have run down Mummy’s face.

I think she’s been crying about

the terrible mess

and because she broke her favourite vase.