Fresh Meat.

three counties

one week

peterborough 

the east coast 

it's my first day

in the office

hardly the life

of a traveller

yet I'm still

determined 

to make you

proud of me 

breaking down 

as I lose myself

in the hustle

and bustle 

of the working city  

pushing past

all the insecurity 

in a leap of faith

that's turned more

into a dive

except I land

in jetwashed portaloos 

and sodden toilet tissue 

with no seat to rest

feeling trapped 

in the middle

of nowhere with

only a smeared mirror 

and a run down sink for company

Do I battle through or just walk away?

Revelation.

*Possible documentary idea.

A little something that has inspired me to look deeper into my ancestry.

First family funeral, 

But I don't feel sad, 

Because honestly, 

I hardly knew you, 

My biological grandmother.

I can't imagine what it must have been like for you. Growing up with the knowledge that you were given away at birth.

I imagine it must feel like the highest form of rejection. You're the puzzle piece that has never quite fit, even after a lifetime of trying to finish it.

Perhaps that's why I've had such a sheltered upbringing. You wrap me up in cotton wool so nothing like that can ever hurt me the way it hurt you.

I understand now and I'm glad I came to support you that day. And I'm happy that after all these years you're finally finding who you are. 

Yes I was sad, but not because of her but because of you.

From death brings a new life and I say embrace it.

Where Is My Safe Haven?

Creative Writing.
Written 29/07/2013.

After reading the recent script to screen adaptation of the Nicholas Sparks novel a couple weeks back, it got me thinking... I don't really know.

Perhaps it bleeds into the diary written in Shorthand, with the cryptic messages updated whenever the heck I feel like it. Engulfed in the heavy workload and tasks that begin but always seem so far from completion. Headphones in. Music loud. This is what it feels like. Drawing inspiration from just about anything, seeking confirmation that I'm doing the right thing or following the right path. Ignoring that sucker of doubt that sticks with you like a limpet to a moss infested rock, never quite washed away by the infrequent seas of success.

The life that's been left behind. Immersed in the fictitious world of gaming whilst in the attic climbed after a hard days moping. Even technology can be unreliable. You let the darkness swallow you whole as you lay there, lost in thoughts of what could have been. Memories captured in a photograph that you can't bring yourself to look at. And spending time with family that barely recognise your face. Time invested in a Journalist who can't even bring themselves to write. And it's in our nature to help these people, but how can we when they're not even willing to help themselves?

"I thought you'd be more sympathetic." It's a selfless crime, not a selfish one. My life is a collection of lost puzzle pieces that my OCD can't bear. That constant nagging element of choice that people feel the need to complain about. I'm an optimist who has her bad days. Often wondering if she's running from something or someone. With the added responsibility of being forced to function in the real world. But unlike Alex and Katie, my life is far from a love story. My cobbled path could take me anywhere, it's all a matter of time.

My nanna always said I was the dreaming type.

Wintershall Nativity (19/12/11)

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

As we embarked upon a muddy trench with umbrellas in hand, we anticipated the Christmas spirit brought about by the annual nativity play. The sky was a translucent burn't blue. Typical as the rain continued to pour down.

The breeze was chilling as we passed beacons of fire orientated on both sides of the path. Their essence filled the smoky air comforted by their warmth. My shoes were an inconvenience as they moulded into the clay-like mud that blanketed the pathway.

The service began at the top of the hill with Mary riding a donkey that was guided by Joseph. The crowd, like a swarm, were led east by a star to a near-by barn. I was more concerned about falling into the sticky mud that was now riddled with shoe impressions.

When the service finished we were guided along a walkway scattered with hay and were given the opportunity to interact with the cast. This was the highlight of Mum's evening as she got the opportunity to shake the hand of the man who played Jesus in the previous production.

The service was performed by a troupe of Christian volunteers and was mildly compelling. I'd seen them earlier this year in The Passion Of Christ (a reenactment of the Easter story) and even then, by their presence alone you could tell they had the passion.

How will you be celebrating Christmas this year?

A Report From Crown Court (19/10/11).

Law is a common language among Journalists mainly outlining how not to get sued.

I admit, common sense doesn't come naturally to me. I put this down to lack of worldly experience. However when properly put into practice, there's no doubt it plays a crucial part in the everyday life of a Journalist.

For this module I was set the task of visiting Winchester Crown Court.

We walked through steel doors engraved with metal shields that when closed, faced out towards the town. We tread on mosaic flooring up towards a varnished desk where an older man requests to search our belongings. Camera's confiscated as I step through the plastic archway. A red light flashes on the portal. Another man, a similar age to the latter, approaches and scans me. They both wore navy jerseys, like policemen, only without the knock, knock hats. All clear we proceed to the reception.

Waiting outside courtroom one, we squint at a tiny TV screen situated next to a set of double doors. A rape case. Three judges in wigs and black overalls pass by. Walking through the double doors we become overwhelmed by the clinical yet rustic feel of the place. We nervously hold onto the narrow banisters as we climb up three flights of stairs. The public gallery awaits.

We sat observing. We were at the highest level in the courtroom. The kind of level I would assume belongs to the judge. Instead, he is orientated directly below a bronze plaque that hangs directly in front of us. Another shield. Lion on the left, unicorn on the right. Fighting. Fighting over power perhaps? Or Justice? The rule "justice must be seen to be done" comes to mind. 

We sit on pinkish/purple chairs. The kind of colour that will now provoke a feeling of isolation and awkwardness. A quiet voice echoes through the courtroom. The voice of a young woman. A mild typing is heard in the background reflecting the emptiness of this place. The jury appear anonymous, saddened, concerned. The Judge, surprisingly cheerful in his tone, demands they reconvene tomorrow morning.

We get up to leave. I notice the orange carpet quite retro in design. Historical much like the rest of this place. Strange for a relatively modern building.

"Inside The Mind Of A Murderer"

Paul is a middle aged man. His wife left him 20 years ago making him feel incompetent. He is recently unemployed and is wanted by the police for murdering 10 young women over a 20 year period. He wants to be noticed but to the rest of the world he is Anonymous.

Fade In.

It is late. Paul is sitting at a table in a strip club in Brighton. He is obsessively chewing on his nails. His attention is drawn to a scantily clad lady dancing on a platform nearby. Pounding music plays in the background.

“I come here to escape you know. This place just gives me a sense of freedom. A way of escaping from my separate life. Here I am a nobody He places his hands gently into his lap. He turns to observe the blood on the surface of his fingertips. Paul begins to mutter to himself. We live in a stinking, corrupt society full of hatred and greed. If people knew what was out there hunting them, they’d never leave the house. The world is a stinking pit of darkness (pause) people live their stupid little lives. Paul briefly turns his attention to camera. People lie. Everybody lies (pause) and death (pause) death gives me a release. It makes me feel powerful (pause) invincible (smiles) like nothing in this world could ever touch me. Paul looks back at his lap, muttering. It’s only a matter of time before that power gets taken away (pause) corrupted (long pause) Yeah. I know where I’m headed. He looks back at the dancer. They call me “Anonymous” you know. The cops or “detectives”.  The one that got away. (pause) I remember my first. A young college student (pause) Another insignificant being poisoned by the world around her. I remember her long flowing hair (smiles) I remember. It reminded me of… and the look in her eyes. She chose me (pause) She wanted me (pause) and I gave her the time of her life. Smiles to himself.”

Fade Out.

Fade In.

Paul is walking along an empty street at night. His hands are thrust deeply into his pockets. He is looking directly at the camera.

"You know (pause) to outsmart a detective you have to think like one.  Tiny details that only they notice. Because without the evidence there would be no case. The only alternative (long pause) suicide. He looks at the floor as he walks. Suicide is a funny word. The final act of selfishness (pause) like a speeding bullet. One minute you’re flying. The next. He looks back at the camera, his hands briefly removed from his pockets and gestures. BANG! The camera holds his gaze until he places his hands back into his pockets, his gaze drifting back downwards. Me (pause) I use the evidence to tell a story. You know (pause) planting fingerprints (pause) hair. I could be anybody. Smiles to himself. I've always liked to draw. Ever since I was a child. There was this one piece. A portrait. It’s a sketch of my face. One half perfect (pause) untouched. The other (pause) distorted (pause) dripping (pause) like I have just set fire to my face and all that’s left are loose bits of flesh and the outline of my skull. They say it’s a way of showing both sides. But what happens to a person if those two sides (pause) entities collide? I guess you could say that Evil overpowers the good and slowly (pause) slowly takes control. Once this happens (pause) there’s not going back. Looks at camera. You’re dead inside."

Fade Out.

Fade In.

Paul is leaning against a wall outside a police station. He is casually observing who enters.

"I guess it’s in my blood. Taking lives. Kind of God-like don’t you think? (pause) My Mum always said I was an angel sent down from heaven (pause) but what happens when an angel loses its wings? Does it wither and die? (pause) One insignificant life imposing itself on another. And the consequences (pause) somebody has to pay… Tonight is a very special night (pause) Tonight I prove them all wrong. So much anger. So much suffering (pause) None of it matters. He separates himself from the wall, hands in his pockets. I know where I’m headed…"

Fade Out.

Inspired by US Crime Show "CSI". This particular character was based on the serial killer Paul Millander.

I studied English Language at college and this was part of my first year coursework. I love Creative Writing and hope to pick it up at University alongside my Journalism course.

A few adjustments have been made now I don't have the 750 word limit. 

Seeing The New In The Old.

Creative Writing Enrichment.


The Booth.

A broken clock hangs on the neatly varnished wall next to me. It's stuck on 8:46. I can't help but feel a sense of security in this place; enclosure. I can hear distant voices and there is a wooden kind of authentic smell in the air. Patterns have become carved into the woodwork on the walls. My eye is drawn to a piece of torn cloth swaying in the breeze from an open window. To me it reflects the emptiness of this place. It shouldn't be here. Numbers and sequences surround me. Everything has it's place. Everything fits. I am the only thing that doesn't. 

I am clutter in a clean house. I am a hunter in the rainforest. The distant voices have stopped and all there is is silence. I am alone in this foreign place yet I decide to explore. I take a book from the shelf behind me. A little blue book. It has an inscription on the front that appears to be a shield with wings. I wonder what this can mean? I turn the pages carefully. They are flaky and worn. I put it back, trying not to leave my imprint on this delicate synthetic world. The sense of security I had has now turned into a sense of intrusion. I must leave now. But I will return soon.

'My Village' by H M Cobby.

My grandfather introduced me to this poem a while back. It was written by his mother (my great grandmother). She was a gypsy.

I came to this village
When I was ten,
'Tween the downs and
The sea. And then
Who would have thought
It would change so much,
No little cottages
Graced with thatch.
No clear roads
With a horse to catch!
The one village shop
Has long since gone.
Now supermarkets reign
Alright for some.
The fields have all gone
We have houses galore
And by what I hear,
There may be more.
My little green village
Is fading away.
But the pub and the church managed to stay!
Now, the old ones say
Oh! For the days
When life was slower
Before we had this thing
Called power!
Were it to stop
Would the world stop too?
I wonder wouldn't you!

Taken from 'Poems From The South East'. 
Published in 1995. Edited by Glenn Jones.