Write to me.

"Write to me." You said as we parted, the words spilling out of your teeth bitten lips. Your spindling fingers twisted and curled up into your palm spinning yourself a web until as I sat there, frozen and wide eyed, I at last mentally made a thousand wordless notes. Feelings ran through fingertips I could not exert onto paper. I dreamt you up then, a grey grizzly mist swirling full of sparkles; you embodied, stomping forth with its feet. And I saw you through the door and the endless hallways of curving mazes pushing you forward. I dreamt you met dragons on cornerstones and middles of the street. I saw them breath their fire over you, tasteless hot fuel that fell into particles as it covered you. I dreamt you met the wise men, the hopeless ones, i dreamt you spoke as clear as crystal and i dreamt you ran into retreat.  I got lost clueless in our endless spiderwebs as they caught me from the neck.And in one way at an hour I saw you run away into the light. Endless, your feet, jumping. I let the web devour me as you let out your happy cry. And there was joy, joy, your bright light. 

A seconds still

At the time my hopes were high as I dwindled through country lanes. I was young and reckless too, yet in my silent manner which was not so noticeable. You'd have to look to see. 

"Right then, come along," said the  man when we reached the doors and with a swift push inside there I was. I thought to myself at the strange commodity I had brought myself to. it was a time where nothing stood still and everything, in a millisecond would move. I guess I had a slight fear, it with its weak voice would remind me on ocassion, a seconds still could be lost in a flinch. 

Then placed in front of me was a huge dish, plates of fish, chicken, all meats, veg, nutrients, the odd apple that my unfussy tongue would devour down in seconds. And then, "right then, come along" said the man and it was time to lounge on the lace covered furnishings,  the fluffy pillow, drown into sunken sleep. 

But what about? 
You've got a brain haven't you. 
The words ringed against my protest. Amongst all the ravishing beauty's lay a hidden evil. It was breathless as it overcome me. It was the realisation, I had no camera A camera? You laugh. It was a tool indispensable to me at that moment though, a way in which I could record information I wished. Forever more. A souvenir. Timeless against seconds ticking. 

 Tick tick. Shorter now, I waddle through rough narrow paths a dot on your technical map, an older pamphlet. Not so worn though, still reckless as the foot traps and travels. And now a seconds still lives within you. 

Corn eater

As you stood, arms apart, 
Clothes bedraggled, 
As if ran through forest wood,
I glared. 
At the pit of nighttime,
I gained a taste of sky-high envy, 
As you laughed. You laughed at my spite. 

And you stood, crooked like that
Through season, come or go
You stayed. Straight up. Non-mover, 
Staring straight at my beady eye.
It took me months, i was not daring so
Until I came down and around my ugly arms I throw.

Now I will stay. You are mad. 
But this has given me taste and fuel, 
For though you scowl and search and claw
My my my stutter is for the revenge seeking scarecrow. 

Vixen Smile and Striking Eyes

It was cold that night and bitter frost had laced itself around. As I pulled on muddied boots and swept them with a cloth my mind drifted into a hazy place. Not foreign for it to do so, my mind was like a tv remote that was incorrectly wired and so suddenly you’d find yourself watching BBC 1, when really you’d wanted to watch the catch up of ‘Mr Frost’ on 1TV. Or maybe it was a ghost, skipping around, pushing buttons.

The day had been long and I had prepared myself for a significant amount of time, acted out this venture, reenacted the last. You were like this to me. A hint of cruelness lived beyond your pretty eyes. I wasn’t sure if this was just my imagination though, I’d always had a wavering confidence, but as I found myself trudging along to the pathway that led me to your home I knew that this was right. I would see you and your unnerving confidence and golden halo would convince me. Yes, pleasure. This was right.

The pathway to your door perhaps should of been covered in candles. Us with our unmeaning full romanticises . I smirked to myself and shook the shoulders before taking my hand out to tap tap tap. Confidence remember? And I would of known them anywhere, those horror movie shoes as they slightly made their clunking sound before reaching the door. From your side I imagine stood a terrible man, intriguging in my enduringness of your sweet cruelty. A turn of the hand and the door was open. You stood before me and I saw the bitter frost had laced itself around you as well. With your vixen smile and striking eyes.

Where you roam.

Where you roam
Has never been the same place 
Where your feet are comfortable,
Your hands warm .
The description of the word 'home',
Is one unknown,
Without explore. 

The way your legs propel
Extensions of you
If you take the time to just look,
Notice how you spill out, 
Take up your space. 

And the people all smile,
They say they do so you might stay awhile,
And think to yourself,
About the truth,
Battleships live under our hair, questions.

Leading you astray is a body,
And the masses 
Of psyched out 
Trance like 
Stick people.

And we all get the mood, and you get it
It is true we feel complete.
As we all move to the same beat. 

It was so drenched with silver droplets, the floor home to their crystallising forms. Tongues drooped and thirsted and stretched forward, atomic forms reaching for a graspThe songbirds and their stop-start song and the feeling of fingers becoming numb. The twisting and entanglement of wires joining, separating, joining. These metaphors added up like a sum to the time my tongue sunk and my body hummed.

The veil of elequence.

From blackened shadowy eyes she gazed forward, looking towards what scenery was heading her way. Looking towards into the distance. Looking to see. Beneath her veil she was hidden, small, untouchable, mysterious. Was she hideous? Was she a beauty? Nobody could see even those with glasses. Now and again, a gaze would meet her, a inquisitive look, a stare.These occasions could be made rare, or more regular as she wished by the movement of her eyes. She was in control beneath the veil of elequence.

Splatters of sincerity

It was cold then. 
We return. To the moment in a neural pathway.
One of a kind. 
Big fur over shuddering bodies and tailored gloves,
Pulled up,
Concealed,

I stole glances.

You stopped in time. 

Looking at me through
Binocular. 
Rare. Special. Or at least that's what you were to me.

And what a heart says is not always
Spoke and what you feel 
My thoughts are never broke. 
Inside your smile lives on in stranger's gaze
A life fixated on a splattered puzzle maze.  

He breathes a word down your ear and 
Sweet whispers into your neck
Deeply curving body’s unwrapped
And under sweet sweet surprise


Not quite reachable 
I guess it’s a feeling inside

I rip your hair.
Pull your shoelaces
Drag you 
Spit 
Fall
Crawl

We entangle and break
Amiss love 
Dismiss hate
And so you write the words
Spill them out to me

Oh sweetness in an act
Wrote in complete misery. 

Admit one, you must admit all

Ticket into a dancing show,
And your wore your stilletos high,
Not as much a lioness, 
But a crystal tiger with a glaring eye

Haunting, pulling.

The people laughed
And you heard not a thing.
Underneath lengths,
A hidden wasp sting. 

Your friend grabbed onto your hand saying? 

Dragging, stilling,

It is as bitter as a punch to the very core,
Yet as though coated in sugar .
Your raised palms lift to your head,
Heart clenching,

You are to the beat
And float 
Your defence dagger beneath 
our trouble; heartless hope.
A knife 
And one by one, your foot, forward, swings. 

And you said your ears opened
Heard a dragging shout beneath. 
But a whispering stranger listens
And in you stems belief. 

‘Here clenched flowers open in fall.

A word.

A word.
Whispering. Slithering.
In your ear.
A maggot inside. Twisting in its warning wrath.

Can you hear?
A blockage, Berlin’s wall.
Stones and a giant, Goliath.
Above you. Fall.

Body a wriggling worm
Inside you still a very core.
A being, admit your shadow inside
a closed tulip, yet petal’s stood tall.


If you’d just listen, surely it’d be clear.
Surely you could feel it all.

Infidelity in the night sky

I spied a handful of sugar
And you sweeter, full of spice.
Shoke me up,
Baked me down
In a kitchen of life.

Squeezed bitter lemon juice
And despising eyes
Reckless truths
Are we merely words or lies?

Beneath the table top
Lies a sheet and yet blank of your scrawl
It’s all over my lips.
Cover them in gloss, quick!
They will not go amiss.
Unless they find out, the truth

It’s a trick.

A verse

For you
I run
To the merry hills,
Through darkness,
Photographic stills,
Or lightening caressed hills. 

For you
My word may
Fall
For you I may tear apart it all 
To you, I am written, still. 

Marching and twisting
With the taste between your tongue
My heart flicked its
Beats and your veins
Alit as our blood raced
And overtook and won.

Turning, intrigued
At the sight
Or spite of lightening,
At the weaven leaves in the foreign forest tree
The sight of everything anew to me
And we overtook starlit ceilings
And terraced cottage roofs
Underneath us flowing rivers
And our blood, loose.

It was with the greatest delight we found ourselves there. Entanglement of two. Our conjoined wires of soul, the repetitive beats of our two overlaced hearts, and our frost bitten lips perhaps sinking into our own pits of lust.
It was with the morning light, when it flicked across our faces we would awake and apart. Our destinations the similar and same throughout this each cockerel call, repeated and shallow. “Breathe. Just breathe.” was the repeated word in which ran through my head as my muddy shoes would launch into a march across marsh.
You were the mirage of sight, the light strewn along my neural pathway. The type of invisible cobbles, still just slightly sunken under pools of blue. You filled my head with its angst and rage yet your light the guiding force, to which like a child I just wanted to cling to.

I thought back on a time, where we writ with flowing pens and tapped our feet on blue carpets. Where we tapped the desk in anticipation, or with our sighing boredom, but then collided into our nighttime dreams.

I’d look intently at the details, the watch on the boys wrist, the shape of his fingers, thinning fingernails. And our rock music, the sound track to it all. The soundtrack to our summer highs, and colluding us with our winter blankets in harsh breezes. There’s nowhere else I’d rather now be. 

Trying to talk to him with my invisible stutter, tongue moving, pushing, daring against firmly closed lips. They didn’t want me to, them in my mind. ‘Not good enough.’ I fought and fought for him to hear me.

And then, the fantastical days when, Breakthrough! And I’d stutter down pencil cases, a hurricane met with a dashing smirk. And so it’s just because of that, of how I’m now in this entanglement, and that how then you drew me alit, your dreamy gazes of magpie eyes, glinting in the stars. I look up for them sometimes, I look up for them still. 

Under his shoes lay a hidden door trap, behind the curtains, weapons lay in his bowler’s hat
Magic tricks and whisperings mixed
He played his game of Chinese
And our faults slapped us to our knees.

He had the mind frame of the devil
Yet still God’s glory and ease
And he practiced his magicians trick, until all of his heart was pleased.
And we repeated the words, what he wanted to hear,
Marianne shouted no longer still, ‘you infuriate me, push me to the brink of uncontrollable, to the violent sorts of explosions of love’
But now gave a triumphant cheer.

And we all ran forward through to the cave
And lay behind us hearts, scattered leaves
hip hip hoorays as we flew into our daze.

Sometimes I see projections
Your face parallel to a sight
Mirrored in an object
Your cheekbones highlighting in an icey glow light. 

To conquer

Parallel twists
For your notes do I please
Then you twist and turn
As you run through
Scrawled alleys
After my devotees

They strangle and strain
As they twist through your veins
The blood that you spilt
And run yourself dry

For though you scramble to turn
The wrath of my chants
And bruise on my knees
Are not erased as you run
And so, cold fallen on forest floor
Still you they attempt to seize

I felt my heart clench, as it tangled. The word repeating in my head. And from it spit out a fire. it blazed through and it burned. I watched, breathless, hand to my chest as it's fumes reflected in the brown circles of your eyes. our feet shuffled beneath, reached. Held. Long curving fingers on bottoms of seats. stuttered spins around to look  without speech, wide shocked face, hearts taking off on a flight.

I frowned and looked forward, not knowing how to speak but we knew forever and onwards from them days, even when faced the chilling heat. 

But with an outcry of laughs
And through your ribs and twisted spine
You roamed through the streets 
At past nine
And the red streetlight gleamed
As you carried on through and in your black jeans pocket carried my heart and smirked did you. 

The moon is arisen
Awakening the depths of my heart
Curtains pulled back, flashing glinting light draws out
With an
Outbreath of shout

Fresh breeze from the curtains,
If they are torn apart,
Filled the room with the air released,
the split in its heart

Spit out fire
Beneath the moons icey glow
Chilling breezes can be much too much so we pull them back aso
And yield our tiny inflatable hearts
To the awakening sun
Though we tremble with the dust, the lust
Of the far away lover, this present one.

AS English assignment piece for ‘The Kite Runner’ by Khaled Hosseini.
 A creak. I stood still, lightening the pressure my foot asserted on the floor, praying to not be given away. My ears could hear their voices, their conversation murmured, their distant voices vibrating off the walls. Behind doors, behind me. 
I knew what it was, the subject of their conversation; Hassan and Ali.

 ”I just can’t believe it.” Baba said, slamming his foot down on some nearby innocent furnishing. “There’s something wrong about this Rahim, something very wrong.” 
“The boys weren’t getting on, we know that.” Rahim replied, and they did know that. My actions had made it very clear. 
“They were so close, him and Hassan. He was treated like another son. not just another Hazara, not Hassan.” My heart panned with guilt. What had I done? What had I done?
“And Ali,” Baba continued. “Ali, I don’t understand why he did this. I ordered him! I ordered!  Do you know Amir asked me if I’d ever consider replacements? Replacements!” His voice was raised. No need for straining ears now. 

 I stood wincing, my whole body stopping, guilt-ridden and hateful. I hated Baba for making me feel so unworthy, for never even bothering to attempt to conceal the shame I brought upon him. I hated everything that had happened, I hated myself for not being the saviour I was meant to be, that Hassan would have been. And that was the worse, I hated Hassan for being everything I could never be. In that moment I was a monster. The monster that had let Hassan walk away.

 Rahim was silent, and this I had come to known. Next to Baba’s hurricanes of fury and emotions Rahim was the peaceful night sky, despite being full of dark he could still find a light. 

 ”Something was going on, I think we know that. They were close, they had almost a brotherhood, and perhaps now, now this has happened they’ll realise that more than ever. Perhaps this is what Amir, what Hassan needed. Perhaps closeness would’ve torn them completely, apart. People need to go sometimes for realisations to happen, but even after storms there may still be redemption”, even after storms there may still be redemption. The words echoed in my head -that night all I thought of was Hassan. And I don’t think I’ve stopped thinking since. 

Nirvana:
A state of pure peace, delight, relish in sunlight. Lean back in satisfaction. Upon perhaps a stool, eyes wide with hope. Love fluttering, two clothes pegs on shoulders, wings a fluttering you off your feet.
 
Swept fresh hair, beneath supple skin. Jaw relaxed, breath in-took. Heaven sent. Nirvana, nirvana that's where we went. 

If your scream like a flower 
Crashed as a petal fell
There would be soft dwindling raindrops
Drenching 
thirst quenching
Under a spell. 

If there were to be roots manoeuvred
 And space redefined 
The tramways of your branching 
May have been inclined
To reach for new enclosure 
Beyond the man-made sign 
And spread out there in tunnels
New places, hunt and find. 

But you'd fear not for the howling wind
Or rusty digger
Nor foreign hound
For under the forest of shadowing leaves
Places were always to be found. 

Etchments Interwined

Weave into me
Oh but a heart,
And words that spill from your mouth,
 Let them evade into a sense of self,

I wanted your hand on the nape of my neck,
The icey whispers of a breath released,
The cooling waves,
 And ever since my heart has been enslaved.

So we etched it on a tree did not we,
How your heart should belong to the wind
Molecules, gust us up from our feet.
And life beckons reminders of a trusted feat.  

Gran-ifique
From the eyes you acquire
To the tips of said feet
Through towers with running chimes
And steps, burrows, it is Gran-ifique. 

We view our prima facie
Where lights hung from trees,
Enchanted Christmas former day.

We roam though, perform great feats,
With our knees, muddied boots,
Shadows in ice-cool heat.

Our stride in tangents,
Body a flow,
Through gates we wonder,
How still do I wonder though.

It was almost insatiable, 
The feeling.
Like boarding a plane,
A balloon dwindling,
Filling up,
Over the boundaries we had once lain.

How light shone down,
Like the light from two curtains drawn back,
A flash drew us alit, 
And below us patches enlaced with a stitch. 

Light circled us in halos above, 
Beneath crowns did we lay,
Golden in shimmering sun,
As we released into the light air,
Fingers laced as one. 
 
It was brilliant, fantastic like being set free
The blue above me
Hopes and dreams below
The stars almost there to see.  

The Magical Mirror

   “Morning dear!” Mrs Povey shouted to her daughter. Ailsa forced herself out of bed, “Morning mother!” she replied yawning. She pulled her pale white curtains open, it was another foggy tuesday morning and the streets were empty, except for a small elderly woman slowly making her way down the street.  

   “Hurry up dear! Your breakfasts ready!” Mrs Povey said impatiently. Ailsa quickly grabbed her hairbrush, swiftly running it through her knotty brown hair, before tying it up in a ribbon.                “Dear! Your toasts going to get cold!”                                                                                                                          “I’m coming mum!” Ailsa snapped before taking one last glance outside her window. It looked like the old woman was heading towards their shop. Ailsa sighed, imagining what lies Mr Berkshire would tell today.

   “Here you go.” Mrs Povey said placing a plate of half burnt toast in front of Ailsa.                           “Thanks mum.” Ailsa smiled unenthusiastically before taking a small bite out of the unburnt half of the toast. “I’m glad you brought that strange Mr Berkshire back here dear,” Mrs Povey grinned “Just think we’re going to make a fortune!”                                                                                                                     “I suppose.” Ailsa said unsurely, taking another bite out her toast before stopping quickly as she heard the squeak of the shop door opening. She took one last bite from her toast before grabbing her school bag and running downstairs. She wasn’t going to let MCC Berkshire tell anymore lies.

   Ailsa stormed down the stair , her mother following closely behind. She found Mr Berkshire speaking to a short elderly woman with white permed hair, pale skin and very large glasses hiding her bloodshot eyes. As Ailsa got closer she could see that one of the womans eyes was green, the other a dark shade of blue. “May I interest you in anything madam?” Mr Berkshire asked ignoring Ailsa’s presence. “Well actually I was looking at that mirror.” The woman said sharply.                       “Oh yes!”  Mr Berkshire said enthusiastically. “Lovely mirror that. Edged with gold that is.” Mr Berkshire said. The woman ran her fingers across its edging, watching the dust collect on her fingers.  “It’s very old.” She mumbled.                                                                                                                              “It’s antique madam! Great condition, and oh! What a story behind it too!” Mr Berkshire said excitedly. Ailsa sighed, before walking out the shop door. She wasn’t going to listen to anymore lies.

   Miss Barkley was never very popular. She was short, plump and getting quite old. It had never bothered her that she didn’t have any friends. She didn’t need friends. She had money. Lots of it. Every year when it was her birthday she would treat herself to a very expensive present and this year, for her 70^th, Mrs Barkley decided to treat herself to a nice new house.

    There was one house in particular Miss Barkley was interested in. It was large and tucked away from the noise of the town. It was perfect for Miss Barkley and so it was decided that this house was to be her future home. Soon the day of her 70^th birthday arrived and she found herself standing outside her new house the keys dangling from her long fingers.

   The house hadn’t been lived in for years and was completely empty on the inside. Well it seemed to be. A few old paintings decorated the hallway and when Miss Barkley finally reached the top of the old winding staircase she saw there wasn’t much more upstairs either. There was a few dim lamps dotted about the place but other than that an air of eerie darkness hung over the house. There was one room however that seemed strangely bright. With slight hesitation Mrs Barkley entered the odd room.

   A large fireplace sat in the corner of the room and a small rug lay in the centre of the room. A pair of moth-bitten white curtains covered a small window and next to it stood a big object covered by a black cloth. Miss Barkley walked over to the object and carefully removed the cloth.

   A large magnificent mirror stood in front of Miss Barkley. She ran her fingers across its gold edging before daring to take a peek at her reflection. But Miss Barkley did not see her reflection. Instead her whole life stared back at her.

   She saw the time when she was at nursery school and she nicked another child’s red crayon even though she already had a red crayon herself. She saw the time she got expelled at school, for smoking in the toilets, and she saw the time her mother chucked her out the house to walk the streets. She saw the day of her marriage and the then the times she cheated on him behind his back while he still loved her dearly. She saw the time when she ran over a cat and drove on without care. She saw the mirror in front of her crack and felt the sharp glass hit her in the eye. She felt the sharp glass hit her in the eye. She felt her head hit the cold stone floor and then she saw her grave.

   MCC Berkshire finished his story. The elderly woman looked very excited. “What a wonderful story!” She exclaimed with a high pitched squeak. “How much?” She asked, glancing at the mirror. Mr Berkshire calculated a price in his head, “hmmm….. £650?” Mr Berkshire guessed.                   “Deal.” The woman fiddled in her handbag before pulling out a leather purse. “There you go, £650.” She said counting out the notes into Mr Berkshires hand. “Another satisfied customer.” Mrs Povey mumbled to herself with a grin.

Mr Crook's twisted figure contorted against the brown bricked wall, a zig-zagging shape of a strange figure, bent back. His protruding nose stuck out like a hawks, lit up by the closest lamplight, and his hawk eyes and sharpened thin eyebrows fell back, hunters in the shadows.  His arm reached down holding onto his stick, his breath gasping as it did so. He was weak, twisted. Anger feeding a criminal mindset. His stern gaze retreated towards the vanishing moon. He, merely a rotting crow, never dared meet the sun's glare though it,  

thirsted. 

It looked to bathe any object below it in it's glow, to light up the shadows behind the alleyways, to pull the cloak from the surface. Mr Crook, a hidden enemy, a once friend, embodied both that which was hatred and that which was the opposite of that. Mr Crook remained the sun's number one goal, and yet was firmly acquainted by its enemies lightning strike.  
 
The moon.
The brother of the sun, icey, frosty, light-footed. It dances in the night sky, shimming as glowing light shot down from it's arms into the night. It captured Mr Crook and those of the nocturnal creatures, captivated them with a swoop from the feet. They were it's shadowy hunters, roaming across the earth.
It's nightmare knights. It's poisoned potion.

The planets tug of war evoked  for years, continuous in it's patterning, shaking the planets life, yin and yang, for Mr Crook. His jagged component of a body roams corners, always still  looking, checking, looking. Mr Crook, the charger of the sun, the moon, the fight. Mr Crook,  the fuel of life. 

“I’d be a lightbulb,” she said. “Yes, a lightbulb, full of light yet with an ability to be dark. A device able to transform into two binary opposites. Dark and light, Yes that’s me.” She gave a smile. “Sometimes I need a hand to flick the switch you know? Sometimes I need assistance to help me be bright again…”

Concrete feet and battered wings,
Make no entrance for defeat,
For when your fluttering fleat of ships arrived,
They sailed me to the shore,
And that I adore.

Oh how the sun glinted and shone,
As my heart which was tied up. Tied down.
It unwrapped and came undone.
You were the one.

With teeth glittering gold, And chattering in bitter cold, Icey kissed thighs, And lust in our eyes, with a fire a rage, And a storm astray , Did not we release our hearts from a cage, And wasn’t that, my love, our day?
 

He fell at my feet and I wriggled, twisted as I reached out my arm and he clenched onto me, his eagle claw.

Avant Garde Artist

And in your eyes, she twisted and wriggled. A snake slithering through the path in front of you. She, an electrically charged molecule that shook and exploded, a whole planet hotter than mars, a hiss with a sting. A bite with delight.

Through these eyes the picture grew through mist. Extended through fingertips. Fell upon paper, and with a swish what the artist had drawn, became what we once had mourned.

That the day we saw beauty like a thorn.

The Class

It had been my old friend Louise who had persuaded me to take the class. Although at first unsure whether the experience would be enjoyable, it didn’t take me long to decide. Tuesday morning soon arrived and I found myself walking down the dreary streets trying to follow the scrawled directions on the crinkled paper clenched between my fingers. I couldn’t remember how I could have forgotten where it was. I couldn’t remember how I’d forgotten my memory.

 It was a most unwelcoming setting. Tall brass gates leered at me as I entered the grounds not knowing if I wanted to turn back. Not knowing if I could. The building was large, its towers of grey bricks contrasted grotesquely against the blue skies, while I drifted towards the entrance. My feet led me without my brain sending any signal. I did not need to think about where I was going. My memories flooded back into my mind in a flash.

      Harsh laughs. Glinting teeth.  A knock to the head. Pointing. Staring. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t. He couldn’t. I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t.

 The future wasn’t all that better. Average grades, a job at the old post office.... wrinkles. I make myself laugh. The seat pulled out in front of me and down I sat. A wide eyed woman with blonde hair, complete with grey roots, stood casually in front of me. The teacher.

    Awful behaviour. Bad attitude. Doesn’t seem to care about the work. Unwilling to try hard. Won’t get anywhere. Nowhere.

 “Today we will start with the basics.” she spoke, tapping the board with her pen, “I am Mrs Florentine; Mr Grimsby is stuck in traffic so I will be teaching you today.” Thank god. My sudden flash of memory told me that Mr Grimsby wouldn’t be the most pleasurable person to be of acquaintance to.

 Mrs Florentine was writing things now. My pen darted across my paper enthusiastically taking notes. I wasn’t sure what the rest of the class was doing. I gazed around counting, five women and two men. None of whom I recognised.

“Everyone knows who you are. ”

I watched for a while. Three of the girls were huddled in the corner, whispering together, their eyes shooting across the room ready to fall on their next victim. The two boys sat apart, tapping their pens onto the paper, wracking their brains. One girl sat near them twirling her hair and gazing into space, her paintbrush gripped tightly in the palm of her hand. The last girl sat at the back staring coldly, blindly, at the ornament we were meant to be sketching. Her thick black hair fell over her face, shading her watery eyes.

*You won’t be able to hide.”

The clock ticked as I sketched hopelessly, trying to make the lines on my page resemble the ornament before me. Why did I bother? My already drifting concentration was even more disturbed by the entry of a latecomer. The wooden doors eased open with a creak as a slouched figure entered.

“You’re always going to be fat and ugly.” He told me -Jordan Hansen.

The small man tottered in, his shaky hand firmly gripping onto his walking stick. “Take a seat.” Mrs Florentine demanded. The man showed no recognition of hearing her voice, his eyes simply trailed along the floor. He took a seat to my left and finally looked up with sunken eyes, from beneath a mountain of prematurely grey tousled hair. “Good afternoon Mr Hansen.”

Jordan Hansen.

Class dismissed.

Summer beach

  July. The beach is a storm of people, their tanned bodies scattered across the sand already burnt from the sun’s poisonous glare. Sandcastles line the middle of the beach, like soldiers prepared for brutal battling, indifferent to the screaming children pacing around them.

       In the background the crowded high street is full of shoppers, and the shoppers are dashing in and out of the many odd little shops before racing each other back to the sandy floor. The parents’ noisy mutterings, children’s joyful squeals, squawking seagulls and swimmers splashes’ all greet me as I stroll down the beach. I watch the sun’s reflection glitter in the sea, showering the many swimmers in its sparkle.

       Waddling about in front of me, small children dash in and out through the maze of sandcastles, devouring their melting ice-cream in a dozen of small bites. By my feet litter lays, scattered across the floor in messy piles, left for some poor person to pick up later.

       I walk forward, pushing past the grumbling strangers and stepping over the lazy sun bathers and piles of litter, until I reach the sea. I remove my flip flops and let the tingly cold salty sea water drench them. To my right I spy a group of climbers shimming up the side of the rugged rocks. They pull on their ropes, pausing every now and then to make the important decision of where to place their feet, whilst I watch, a dot on their landscape, soaking its feet in the chilly waves beneath them.

      A welcoming gust of cool wind ruffles through my hair as I gaze at the magnificent sea, now oblivious to the wittering behind me. Swimmers cling on to their floats, fighting the waves that crash over them. Children run together into the sea, their armband wrapped tightly around their skin, like vibrant inflatable bracelets. Behind them, somewhere within the blur of the busy beach, I spot their parents watching them intently, as though they are a pair of hawks eyeing up their pray. Annoyed, the pair of hawks glide to a new spot to perch on the rocky wall, whilst the elderly couple crawl by, innocently munching on their vinegary fish and chips.

        I notice the fish and chip van parked behind the rugged rocks and my nose picks up the scent of the vinegar spread generously on another family’s chips. Another icy cool wave of the sea soaks my feet, distracting me from my sudden hunger. Straight ahead I watch the tourist boats cruising along the blue depths, its tiresome passengers pretending to be interested in the tour guide’s informative speech.

          Time passes quickly as I bathe my feet, dreaming vividly of magical mermaids and colourful fish. The sun lowers its position in the clear blue sky, a king retiring from his throne for another night, and I lift my feet out of the water and stroll back down the quieter beach, away from the sandy floor beneath me.

Winter Beach

           Cold scattered snow is all that greets me as I take a first few steps onto the crispy surface below me. Its cold white body lies in layers across the rocks and sand, like icing on a Christmas cake. There is not a murmur, no sign of life, as my eyes avert across the lonesome land. The grey sea waves at me as I continue forward, stumbling over the rocky ground. I reach out a greeting hand and shocked, quickly remove it, unsurprised but still stunned at its coldness. Layers of groggy unloved depths leer back at me, angry and confused by people’s strange reactions to it, like a once loved puppy scolded for growing into an old tiresome dog.   

              But the sea is not completely alone. Squinting far to my left I make out an approaching shadow. It moves drearily towards me, each step seemingly slower than the previous. In front of it a dog shaped shadow totters eagerly from left to right, its nose covered in snow from the icy floors.

            Fixated on the foggy shadows approaching me I watch, ignoring the angered sea. A short man with a bitter expression emerges from my left, clinching onto his fluttering coat. His dog totters on, oblivious to his owner and oblivious to the idea of manners as he licks my shoe. With a grunt of his owner the dog vanishes, leaving me alienated once again.

           The breeze of the wind is my only companion as I avert back to staring at the icy waves. I remember its coldness and imagine the summer swimmers attempting to glide through its icy waves. The dull skies cover the beach in a blanket of clouds, like your box of summer toys packed away, left simply to pick up the dust.

          Droplets of rain drip on the top of my head, whilst the rough sea crashes against the rocks, spluttering droplets of water over the nearby sand. Glancing around the wide open area, the muted colours and the desolate sea, the eeriness of the place hits me, like a hidden stone in a snowball, exploding with a crash.

           The loud silence bangs against my ear drums as the wind ruffles through my coat, a pickpocket desperate to find something worthy of stealing. I clamber over the sharp heavy rocks, heading back to my starting point, no longer feeling trapped in the miserable place. Droplets drip harder from the sky, wet tears evaporating into a scuffled tissue. My pace quickens as I step over the last few rocks. Behind me the lonely sea’s waves crash half-heartedly with disintegrating anger, as I continue forward, back to the harmless reality of the tarmac road. The sea’s waves ring in my ears, as it fades away, a forgotten friend drifting into the distance.

I knew you were under there.

Twisting. Tangled. I spun around my lions chase.
And then we stood there two soldiers. Glinting eye. Your haste.
Oh how your deer legs roamed, and how I bowed my head forward,
How we set out our snakes hiss and how I bruised your neck with teeth.
Battles bruise, our foreign cruise.

And we stood forward, and wrestled til I pulled from your grasp.
Dancing shoots from my veins,
Your heart entranced. And your eyes hid under dreary hoods and beer and tonic and flooding ideas, ‘oh i should’s’
Our battle bruising and bloody, but still,
Around and around did we dance,
Never quit our butterfly trance.

In the simplest terminology.

Her eyes are thunderstorms.
Lit up like a red sky,
She sees storms as mountaintops,
That swoop and make her fly

Her heart is a lioncage,
Inside it we don’t know what roams free
She is everything I want though
All that I can see.

True life I know is beautiful,
True love only pure,
From widened lids and baffling twists ,
Circumstance makes me delve for more.
 

She.

She was bold. Strong, a fighter with chopped up hair. Her wild roaming eyes glinted with kohl as she ran under moonlight. I watched as I saw the arch of her back, and the growling moan draw out from her alike to a sigh. Watched as her wrath filled body twisted and turned along Forgate Street.

 I watched often, did I. I was a watcher, a ghost in a shallow constraining room, behind the glass panel, the arched window. My eyes deeply carved black circles and my senses to the quality any good hunters should be. Yet I has been constrained. Tugged at, pushed away, from her, from my realm. Restricted from reaching the cobbled path. 

Dagger through the heart.

 Watching gave a sense of something to me yet still.  And though chained to chains I maybe in a few seconds would feel like I could see again. Watching, the best inspiration to me. I'd taste it, see it, almost touch. Freedom was still out there for me. 

And travelling delicate through our spines. A singular spark fell and


Fell. Reaching the pits of our tiny hearts.

Midas.

Mrs Midas, My love.
I write to you my apology,
I had touched the yellowed pear and I had seen it turn to gold,
I had seen the glimmering furnishings light up our abode,
And my chair, I turned it into my throne.
I had felt the power of a gift shoot to my head from fingertips.
Oh, how power turned my soul to a shallow pit.

So now I am sat surrounded by my golden prizes,
Glimmering statues around a greying hungered figure that has become myself,
And I write to you out of regret,
Regret of greed, of cursed wealth,
And how now I know all these riches that are gold, are not obtaining of worth to me you hold.
 

Trapped.

Bared and torn I reached out an inadequate arm through rounded metal strips to reach this to you. And as I am caged still my emotion is not and it runs wild like the hunting instinct of a lion, wild and free it roams to you.

Hurricane.
A entanglement of desires, hopes and dreams, a stem of a Rose from behind a forest of leaves.
You were.

What left my eyes wide alit?, what left my heart in it’s paralytic fit?

You did.

Voices Project.
Old heart.
Love is what makes the heart young and what makes being alive worthwhile. Meeting in the 20s I remember, he led me onto the floor. I had ringlets then, now my face and skin curls instead, I a monstrosity of my years remain unchanging throughout this. The skip in my heart shows me I can have youth again.

Young heart.
I sit there, crayons in my hands, hair scrunched in braids over my shoulders, tissue on standby for spillages. You stand there also, and you are the tall tall tree that hovers above me. Always near, and always covering me in your blanket of shadow. I am minuscular under this shelter of your branches, together we are the perfection of companionship. You, the shade from the rain and I, the glue of pieces of your broken spirit, the picker-upper of leaves that break off from you. The tie of purpose in your heart.

Abandonment.
I crawl. Scream. Scratch. Tunnels and doorways and train-rides I travel I’m the depth of the night. Hands clawed like a wolf I am outstretched and I stop nowhere.

Voice of Enchantment.
She spoke to me. Crystal clear voice of light and air. Her body shuddered forward as the words fell out and her heart leaped as she spilt out the words ‘love conquers all.’

Stacks and stacks of books her hands flicked through as I gazed onwards. I saw the flick of her nose, the protruding veins in her neck, pumping blood furiously around her body. Her eyes focused and filled with intent, yet remaining un-spotting of me every-time. I was a still child in a game of hide and seek in which I mustn’t grow fed up of playing. The reaching out of my heart I had learnt to stop with time. I was simply here to look, not touch. I heard the breath release from her mouth in its small gasps. I knew straight away, she was trying to calm herself. ‘You paranoid girl’ I heard the voice in her head, every detail, every molecule, every cell was open for my interpretation, for my acknowledgement. Yet her soul, a treasurable rarity, findable only somewhere admist her being, was hardly heard. Glimpses of it arose time to time. Magical sparks unveiling true nature. Isolated she was who she is.

Yet who am I you ask?, I am the watcher.

The Magician.

Did you ever hear of the story of the unknown magician?
“It starts like this," my grandfather’s voice stated to me. I snuggled up closer, against the greying man, my grandfather. He sat and his white beard was protruding over textured covers and bedspreads he clenched around him. My grandfather's mouth rattled out words of adventure. 
“Isn’t it funny things come back to us, and when we are not looking as well” he said to conclude the story, and then he had fallen asleep.
I sat upright though, thinking isn’t it funny how my grandfather could come out with such wisdom filled stories, and then just sleep, like nothing had happened. Like nothing had changed. Life does that too you right, makes you grow unexpectedly. 
 
So now, I guess you’re wondering, so here’s how it went. There was a boy. Young, bright, violent .Bang bang bang. The shots from his toy gun could be heard for miles and miles around the stretch of land that surrounded his abadnoned abode. Everyday the boy’s mother would carry him out (he was most unwilling to oblige to things he did not want to do) and carry him off to the car for school. School. It was a big place and here for many years was where the boy grew taller. He found it strange, he seemingly had grown inches over months, how strange a ability of the human body to grow whilst we don’t notice. 
Gowth was a unseemingly interesting facts of life to the boy who could also of been described as ‘interesting’, the children at the school around him would laugh and laugh quite often at his weird ideas. Baffling concepts in his head all day long made him vulnerable to spitting out what was often considered nonsense. It was when he had told his mum about his fascination with frogs and how they could  be considered as being under the  'flying creatures' category (the ones he saw could leap the length of whole 30cm rulers) it was realised that the boy was not like other kids.

  He, not like other kids, had strange ideas in his head of which they did not uphold. This was where I had interrupted my grandfather’s story, which he did not often like, ‘So this was a boy who was an outsider?' I had said bravely. My grandfather’s response? a frown, and then an answer. “No, not an outsider the boy was an adventurer. It is where an observer makes a mistake you see, they, by watching do not get experience. You can absorb only so much information. By joining in, a person gains so much more.”
Next a continuation, ‘The boy was brought strange gifts, or at least gifts which were uncommon, his friends got bikes, action men, sweets, toy guns, and he was the recipient of magnifying glasses, books about adventures and maps. One year he got a magician’s hat.
The boy liked to think that the magicians hat could transport him anywhere, uninterested in the traditional trickery of magic the boy would instead use the hat as a transport tool. All he had to do was place the hat on his head and bang. He was there. 
He found many different places he could go and many differing adventures he could have. He fought battles oversea, him along with his friends. Them with their toy guns assisting him often. 
Again, I interrupt. “But he didn’t really go anywhere?”
“No” my grandfather answered. “He did. In his mind.” 
Years later after the wars were fought and the boy grew up and married and such he went routing back through his cupboards on those days that you do, feeling the call of nostalgia. He found there stacks of boxes, photo frames enlaced with a thin dust and, no hat.
It was a mystery. The hat was not found.
I couldn’t help interrupting here again, “Not ever?”
My grandfather had smiled. And that, was when I was told, that yes the hat did come around, yes. One year the boy found himself on a stage, performing a trick and as the crowd roared as the bunny vanished, he called back the bunny to the room and found himself with a hat instead. My grandfather did not explain how when I interrupted here, just smiling knowingly. The story ended with a bow forward, and the sound of colliding hands.

A chime of the old grandfather clock had ended the end of this. My grandfather slept and I sat and here we are, and here we were, full circle.  
 

He fell at my feet and I wriggled, twisted as I reached out my arm and he clenched onto me, his eagle claw.
 

Prior Present.

I grabbed hold of the photo book and spread it out front of me, over patterned carpets I laid the array of moments. Smiling faces, shocked expressions and bad hairdos lay before me, documenting years. Time had flown. It was odd, unnerving perhaps to look back at, to see who I was from who I had become's perspective. I looked still, seeing with clear vision.

 Many a time I had sat and looked through the book, following a repetitive routine, giggling at some photos, sighing at others. It was on May 5th when this changed. I noticed a particular photo standing out from  the rest.  I awoke that morning, fresh eyed and fuzzy haired and had walked down to the kitchen my mother had recently had installed between her weekly hours fortune telling. I had spotted that leather-backed book and ran my fingertips across its grey pages, aimlessly gazing through it. I had passed through one picture when I spotted a face I hadn't recognised before. A face with pure slightly bronzed skin and big owl like eyes. 'Who's this?' I asked. My mum reached over the table from behind her magazine and as her eyes took in what iIhad seen she quickly stammered, 'Not sure my love. Eat up your breakfast.'

 The frayed edged image never left my mind. I stumbled around for a week, the face floating around in my head. Maths homework, high fives with friends, dancing to stereos- it never left despite any of my actions.
'I had an interesting day love', my mum told me that evening. "One woman brought in a newspaper today saying she felt drawn to a face in an audience of a recent protest. She couldn't explain why so I got her to choose some cards.  They all suggested someone new would be arriving in her life." Interested I was not, I had just got back from a busy day and so the only reply my mum earned was a brief 'yeah mum'. I then ran upstairs.

  And that was when I had the dream. I dreamt of swimming and dancing and jiving and whooping at night clubs. I dreamt I was drinking and sinking and sinking, and then, then falling down stairs, an angry face, a door closing and then a jumbled night sky. I was crying and running through curving alleys and I ran into it. The face. It smiled at me, smirked and reached out. I reached out too, and then realised I was reaching to pick up a frayed edged image of off the floor. It was him. It was the picture.