Introduction This was really the first short story I wrote. It started off with only the first part, but I extended it for a competition. Whilst nothing new or groundbreaking, it’s very personal to me and I wrote it from the heart. Originally for the Brick Lane Bookshop Prize, and then extended for the 4th Estate Prize. This is for anyone who’s forever counting down the days until their life is meant to change, because that used to be me. ...
Introduction I wrote this at work. Again, it’s messy, but it’s from the heart. I don’t feel like this often anymore, but… it doesn’t completely go away. This was for the Alpine Fellowship Prize, with the theme ‘fear’. Story In the harsh light of the bathroom mirror, I find that I cannot look away from the person who looks back at me. Without meaning to I lean closer, drawn in like a magnet, until they disappear behind a staining of fog, my own warm breath trying to hide them from me. Something about them repulses me, I want to scream, I don’t want to see them again, but no matter where I go they follow. Even when I do not look they haunt my memory: the large pores, the hair where it shouldn’t be, the flaky skin under the brows, the too small eyes, the double chin that’s beginning to creep in, the stained clothes that don’t hide the ill-fitting bra, the belt that’s beginning to break. I frown, they frown. I purse my lips, they purse theirs. Their skin begins to redden as I pick at it with my nails, trying to make it better. Their lips become more chapped as I lick them. A knock on the door. Shit. It’s been 10 minutes, that’s at least 5 minutes too long. What will they assume I was doing? I prepare a lie: I’m on my period, I needed to sort myself out. Another minute, footsteps, and they’ve gone into another stall. I make my exit, fleeing the scene of the crime, opening the door so little I may as well have walked through it, a ghost. I’m not in a rush. Head tilted upwards, posture straight, long strides across the office to my desk. Nobody is looking at me. It’s fine. Nobody counts down the minutes, tracking my time. Only me. I’ve made it, and now my hand is on the back of my chair. As I pull it out, holding my breath—I’ve nearly gotten away with it—the chair catches on my colleague’s handbag. I look up; she hasn’t yet noticed. I can’t breathe. Another light tug and it’s fine. The faint smell of sweat makes me keep my arms pinned to my sides. My wrists sit awkwardly as I type in my password: I was gone too long, it logged me out. They must’ve noticed, I think. I’m sat here, staring at my screen, smelling of sweat, my skin’s an angry mess. They must sense my panicked eyes, my quiet breaths, the tense posture of someone who has something to hide. My mouth stays closed—I recently had lunch—but I bet they can smell it from here. The silence is heavy, so heavy, what if they were talking before I came back out here? What if they were talking about me? Typing soon fills it. Another team’s laughter wafts over, taunting me. Should we be laughing, too? After all the effort I put in, has my inner turmoil leaked out of me, sticking itself to them, weighing them down? My nails find their way to my skin. It soothes me, scraping at it, smoothing it down, albeit temporarily. Opposite, a colleague looks up at me. I still, a small creature in the gaze of a predator, hoping to blend into the background. Normal people don’t pick at their skin like this, do they? She asks me something simple. My answer is clumsy: I answer correctly, but take too long getting there. It’s met with a quick nod, the head then bowing to continue work. She could smell my breath, couldn’t she? I contemplate the most discreet way to breathe into my palm, why didn’t I check this earlier? Should I ask for gum? I go back to the bathroom. ...
Introduction This was honestly the story I was most proud of for this year. Dedicated to people who constantly chase happiness to the point you question what it is. This was for the Bridport Prize. Story I’ve been back here for four days. As I sit on the dew covered grass, the rising damp sinks its claws into my skirt. My childhood dog, Holly, is enjoying herself more than I. Carefree, rolling around in the grass, staining herself a horrid green that I’ll have to wash off later. Such is the issue of having a white, long haired dog. Frustration fails to take root inside me, however, as she speeds around and around, tongue and tail wagging, happy as can be. I knew the risks. It’s worth the agony of trying to get her into the bathtub later. The cerulean sky does its best to lift my spirits. Fluffy clouds lazily drift on by, streaking across the pristine canvas. They head towards the soft pink sunset, going wherever the wind takes them, and I’m tempted to follow. See where it takes me, away from here. But I am here. I attempt to relish in the quiet, in the pretty picture nature has painted me into. The vibrant green of the trees. The comfort of familiar bird songs. The warmth in the air that caresses my cheek and strokes my hair. The crazy dog that bounces through the long grass like it’s half kangaroo. My stomach grumbles, the adult equivalent of the streetlights turning on. I call Holly a few times before she comes running—her recall really needs some work— and attach her to me again. I leave the field through a thicket only locals know how to traverse, hidden behind a sparse hedge. When I emerge, the beauty of the moment has passed. My mind numbs itself once more. A frown etches onto my face when I notice I’m farther up than I ought to be. I took a wrong turn somewhere. Water has soaked into my shoes, and my hand tingles with the sting of nettles. We’re back on the estate. I’m not that eager to get home, but more than that, I’m not eager to loiter on the street. We pass torn bags of rubbish, seagulls swarming them like birds of prey. The dilapidated neighbourhood centre, with sprawling weeds bursting between the paving stones. The shattered phone box, covered in numbers to call ‘for a good time’. I hasten my pace. At least, I try to, but Holly perceives the world through a different lens: she smells. And the smells here are as interesting as they always are. A small dog in a small world, who doesn’t yearn for the world beyond since she doesn’t know it exists. The city dogs, in their box flats and busy streets and small parks, don’t know great fields exist where they could run freely. I keep my gaze on the floor as she sniffs a lamppost before peeing on it. Laughter wafts in our direction. It’s a foreign sound, instinctively triggering my fight or flight response. I still. It gets louder. Closer. My gaze flickers towards it, to confirm we’re not on a collision course. I identify the source: a lone woman on her phone. Not someone I recognise. I lift up my head. This time, like an insect under a microscope, I examine her: poorly constructed leggings, almost sheer; a jumper with a cartoon reference, cracked, and too short for her lanky frame; white trainers that are not white anymore, one of which is falling apart. In her, I see my mother. In her, I see another version of myself that repulses me, who never got out of this place. In her, I see… happiness. In the life I did not want, that I was too good for, she dares to be happy. She is stuck in this place and yet she smiles, walks with a skip in her step. She pays me no heed as she passes, only smiling at Holly. She laughs again. The last time I laughed, the last time I deigned to talk to a friend on the phone, the last time I had someone to call a friend? I couldn’t say. I’m more than happy. I’ll make friends. Perhaps she has just received good news: she’s been accepted into a university far away. No, she doesn’t look the type. Or, even, she’s won the lottery and can afford to move. Her distant aunt has died and left her an estate. It could be anything. She disappears into a nearby flat block. I turn my microscope to myself: a pleated skirt that doesn’t quite fit; a designer cardigan, with a button dangling off, oversized and hiding the fat bulging out of my bra; new flats that are giving me blisters but are too late to return. My face scrunches in disgust. Four years on and the stench of this place has not quite left me. The poverty still clings on, woven into every fibre, visible if you know where to look. I make a note to do some more online shopping tomorrow with my new credit card. Footfalls echo from behind one of the blocks. I think of my blemishes that refuse to disappear, my curly hair that resents being tamed. When these people look at me with their own inspecting eyes, what do they see, what story do I tell? I need to get off the streets. A few more steps, around a corner, and I make it to the house. Only two stories and yet it looms over me: the greying facade, the patchy roof, the small windows that don’t seal properly. Before you enter, you must walk through a garden depressing enough to deter the pestering slugs, that even the cats won’t do their business in. I slam into the gate, the earlier rain having expanded the wood. How did I forget it does that? I shove it open, and I shove the front door open the same way, barging into a life that is barely mine anymore. I say not a word to my family as I wash the dog and slip into my room. The path to my bed, my refuge, is a treacherous one. This room is no longer my own. The letter on the door is gone, there are patches on the walls from torn down posters, and an abundance of furniture nobody knew what to do with. I tiptoe through the space ignoring as much of it as I can. There are flashes of what this room used to be, and I wonder which of the many boxes certain things have been shoved into. I’m too scared to ask, to look. When I leave this place, I too am shoved into a box to be kept safe. Forgotten. A shaky step, and another. I’m there. I fall onto the bed not bothering to change my clothes. The duvet smells stale, like the cupboard. The smell washes over me as I pull it up over my face, and let it take me far, far away. ...
Introduction This is a very short story that I wrote for a writing class back in November 2023. I’ve edited it after a year of writing experience, and was pleased to see how my writing has already improved! I might revisit this each year to see how my writing has changed 😊 The goal of the piece was to fully immerse yourself in a place—in this case, a train. What do you feel, see, hear, taste? I put myself on a train back home to Cornwall. ...