Rant: Yeah. I’m beautiful.

Murder Tramp Birthday

artist: Elly Smallwood

He said I was beautiful.

It felt more of a compliment than the guy who snapped a picture of me on his phone at the local supermarket,
then proceeded to call his friends to tell them in a hoarse, frantic voice how “hot” I was.
I just stood there, staring in chock and not even managing to call him out on his hideous action. Did I want to make a scene? No. Better walk away, profoundly ashamed.

The thing is, I hear these things a lot. Me. Beautiful.
I am – beautiful.
I am –

Of course, I immediately started to excuse myself for my runny makeup, messy hair, etcetera. He smiled. Beauty’s not in the makeup, he said.
I pretended to agree.
It is, in my case. I’m just good with the pen, you see. I’m not actually beautiful.
It would be terrifying.

View original post 81 more words

He Blue!

Daffni is my jam.


The thick blue paint oozed down the canvas just the way it did from the tip of his…

I’m not the painter here but he’ll paint on anything. Especially if it makes my pits tingle and drench the sleeves. There was something expanding inside my chest so I took off all my sweaty clothes. After screaming in some funny moon language I asked for a cup of chamomile with extra sweet cream. When he brought it, I scrunched my nose and told him he was beautiful. Everything hurts and the thought of food is overwhelming. I’m thinking about quitting my writers workshop, they just don’t respect the process. Then again maybe I should stop worshiping the process and make some better balanced grammatically correct sentences. If only my minds could stop jumping around the page. Earlier today there was a black cat in the parking lot. It’s tail was up…

View original post 46 more words



Do you remember the story of the monk at the old church?  We took the bus on an icy evening and waited for hours until the moon was warm on our faces and our feet were wet with melted frost, tromping through long grass.  Don’t you remember?

That old church, where the chicken bones were trussed together into crosses, and that teenage lad fell from the tower and broke himself in half over the stone tomb of the priest who’d died in 1886.  We’d gone up there with torches and we heard a noise above, and you shone yours up at him, and he covered his eyes…

….and he came down screaming like a daemon.  And in the dark I thought he had sixteen arms and legs, and his mouth was wide open as though to consume me, and drag me to hell….

….but then he spun around midair as I dived out of the way.  Crack!  On his back, across the raised triangular stone.  Ribs bursting out, blossoming like flower petals opening.  You remember?  The boy gasping, his eyes wide, as we realised he was both alive and dead, until his two parts gently disconnected with a pop and slithered either side to the flagstone floor.

Anyway, I digress. The old monk.  We took that journey so many times.  We read all the books about the monk who flitted around the grounds.  Why do ghosts always flit?  Why don’t they mince or swagger?  That poor boy though.  That poor boy.

Into him


The morning came with green tea and a couple of those free airline biscuits. He’s asleep but I say good morning anyway. He whispers something about writing and fades back into his own. This hangover won’t shift but it’s worth every second. Paced myself last night and fought him off a couple times, as I do when I’m drunk. Begged him not to embarrass me but he finds a thrill in it. Breathing through my teeth I pulled away. The guy next to us was with his wife and while she was nice he kept looking at his phone wondering when this was all going to end. I won’t be surprised to find him in a closed coffin. She was a lover and a beautiful one at that. It’s such a shame. So many lovers and not enough love. He puts his face in mine and when nothing else matters…

View original post 53 more words


5 A.M Decisions

Shut your mouth.

No, seriously, shut your damn mouth, you look retarded. That’s right, RETARDED.

Oh, London.

Friday Night Office Girls in Friday Night Office Uniforms; midnight tights running down the front of a leg. Nuggets and fries and half on the floor. Alcoholic grins, my new best friend, a slump, the sharp screen light, ‘are you OK? You left without saying goodbye!’, she’ll be fine, she’ll be fine, I’m getting off, she’ll be fine.

Oh, London.

With your Monday Morning People in their Monday Morning Gear; polished shoes, optimistic gym kit after the weekly conference call with the head office. Make up application from foundation to eyeliner flick. And emails, and emails and, ‘Yeah, I’m on my way in now’ and ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon’ and ‘I’ll see you tonight, love you, we need milk’. How was your weekend, how was…

View original post 447 more words



Two years forward, the corridors I walked down for years appear so narrow, as if they are closing in on me. Maybe because these walls and the roof sheltered me from the scary world out here and I have finally outgrown them.

I see new changes, there are windows in the place of once open panes, the technology has taken over and they have a face recognition device now. The tiled walls seemed to have seeped in all the cold of the night. Everything has changed at the same time nothing has.

I felt strange standing in front of my old classroom and stare at it blankly. I did not peep inside because I am now an outsider. Time is running fast and it felt like I was zapped back into the past to where it all started, after all the oceans I drowned and sailed through.

The people I…

View original post 48 more words

The Art of Whatever


Once upon a time I worked in a job that paid peanuts but was the best fucking job ever.

I left home a few days before my 18th Birthday and went to live in a bedsit in Aberdeen. My Mum had told me that I shouldn’t leave home, just to get married – so me and my ex drove around Aberdeen one day looking for somewhere for me to live. Within a few hours, we’d found the bedsit. I had to share with a girl called Lyda, who was monumentally pissed off that I was moving in, probably because she’d been hoping her sister could move in to the second bed. Tough shit, I found it first.

It was a family home in a nice street and Lyda and I shared a room which had 2 beds and some tea making facilities. There was a toilet right outside our bedroom…

View original post 1,857 more words