Today’s words: Roam, Fields, Compute, Integrity
Word count: 575
Completion time: 59 minutes
Summary: You’re in control of your own life, whether you choose to mess it up or come out on top
--
My mother was the strongest influence in my life. She always told me that, even if things seemed hopeless or out of reach, that it was my job to turn things around, it was up to me to push my life in the right direction. Sometimes you just need someone to remind you that you are in control. The welcoming fields of green where carefree children roam and pretty flowers bloom aren’t just for the privileged, they’re for the hard-workers who know what they want and strive to get it. There is no fate, no lady luck, no destiny, it is us who decide the lives we want to lead.
She was a woman of intelligence, logic, and aggressive, but amazing, integrity. Dishonesty didn’t compute with her...it was like she physically couldn’t lie to anyone. After school one afternoon, after a bit of nudging and blushing, a friend and I encouraged each other to ask my mum about sex. The first thing she asked us was,
“Where did you hear about sex?”
“At school,” my friend said almost immediately.
My mum nodded as if she expected it but she needed to hear it out loud. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“What is it? What happens when you do it?”
“And what are you supposed to do?”
“Does it hurt?”
“When do you do it?”
My mum switched off the TV and beckoned us to sit on the sofa either side of her. There was no ‘ready, set, go’, she just dove right in without armbands. We were only seven, but she spoke to us almost like she’d speak to me now. I heard terms I didn’t understand, even with a dictionary, and it only made me more confused. The main things I got from it was that it’s not a choice that everyone makes, only do it with someone you trust, and that it isn’t just the boy that gets to decide where he ‘finishes’.
My friend got in trouble the week after by squeezing packets of mayo on her face and telling everyone that she’d been spermed on. She thought they’d be jealous that she was so advanced for her age and some were, but most were just humoured and wanted to know more about what she’d learned. When questioned by the school, my mum’s defence was that she was only being honest and that at least Alex was in a better position to make informed life choices.
When I was in my first year of uni, my mum’s wife cheated on her a year before she actually found out. As a life-long sufferer of depression, it hit her even harder; I could visibly see the light in her face fade as if someone had used a dimmer switch on her entire being. She still tried to be a good person, but it was a struggle that she lost two years later.
“You’re in control, you’re responsible for the way you live your life.” That’s what she said, and that’s the only way I will ever come close to understanding what she did.
She didn’t want to leave it to her ex, her illness, or outside influences that she couldn’t control to beat her, so she didn’t – she did it herself.
Every damn day, I remember what she taught me and will strive to make her proud because I know that she would never forgive herself if I failed because of her.
Thursday 31 July 2014
Saturday 26 July 2014
#111 - Modern Segregation
Today’s words: Amend, Elite, Use, Define
Word count: 194
Completion time: 27 minutes
Summary: Representation from a young age matters.
--
She knows how to talk
But not how to use her voice
She knows how to walk
But not how to prevent others
From walking over her
She knows how to add, subtract, divide
But the collision caused by the division
Of black versus white is something
No child can fight...alone
Children will copy what they see
Like to be whatever stars are on TV
But it’s the elite who choose who to use
On the big screen in Vue.
...Take 2
I’ll amend what I said
and begin with this instead:
When that child came home one night
She said, “Mummy, I want to be white.”
“Child, why?”
“White people are beautiful.”
Who put this in her head?
Who sat down with her on their lap
And told her she wasn’t all that?
No-one needed to.
It doesn’t need to be explicit
For someone to exhibit self-loathing
If beauty is all around and it’s wearing white
The other colours don’t shine as bright
The dictionary can define ‘beauty’ and it won’t
have a race
But nearly every beautiful face we see looks the
same to me
And barely any will look like me
Saturday 19 July 2014
#110 - What's Sex Got to do With it?
Today’s words: Physical, Honeymoon, Gin, Snow
Word count: 517
Completion time: 50 minutes
Summary: Sex is not mandatory, and it never will be.
--
Somebody once told me it didn’t count as a real relationship unless things got physical...you know, if they had sex. They said it may as well be another form of friendship, something masquerading as romance. Masquerading, heh.
I imagined a masked ball full of elegantly-dressed couples dancing under chandeliers, maroon and gold curtains lacing the walls. Everybody’s having a great time when suddenly, someone shrieks. The music stops, and all eyes are on a couple whose masks have fallen off. Underneath the masks are a couple who were not supposed to be there – the ball was strictly Real Couples Only, and everyone knew that they hadn’t had sex.
Next level is off-limits; please touch genitals to advance.
This fool masquerading as a relationship guru happened to be dating my friend, and after the “painful, sexless” honeymoon period, only one thing was on his mind. So, over a bottle of gin, he asked as casually as he could, when they were going to do it – not if, but when. I was there when this happened, him thinking nothing of discussing it in my presence.
“You said you’d think about it, so what’s your answer?”
My friend knotted her eyebrows and looked at the table. “Could we discuss this later?” Her blue eyes looked towards the exit.
“You always say that. If I keep going along with this, I’ll never get laid.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You’re like the sun...and I’m like snow. You’re killing me, baby.”
How poetic.
Her eyes widened and it felt like my jaw locked; I wanted to tell him to fuck off, to leave my poor friend alone, but I couldn’t get the words out.
She looked like a defenceless mouse but managed to say: “I’m not doing this here.”
Two months ago, she told me about meeting this “really sweet guy” on Tinder. He asked for her bra size before he asked how she was, but apparently that’s just what guys were like on there. Aside from that, I was assured that he was extremely sweet.
“You’re not doing it at all, apparently,” he continued.
I put a hand on his arm. “If you want sex so bad, why not find someone who actually wants it?”
“I know she wants it,” he said quickly. “She said ‘maybe’ so many times...’maybe’s turn into ‘yes’s eventually.”
“No they don’t,” she said. “’Maybe’ means ‘maybe’. I’m not comfortable with it, so drop it.”
“Look.” I still held onto his arm. “Clearly she doesn’t want to. Your words aren’t magic dust, so stop trying to convince her.”
He looked at me like I was speaking Korean, but I continued.
“Maybe she’ll change her mind, maybe she won’t, but don’t you dare act like you deserve it.”
She stopped running her fingers through her hair and smiled. “Thanks.” Her facial expression changed when she looked at him. “You knew what I was like before you got with me, so why are you being like this? You can’t change me.”
Thankfully, they broke up a few days later.
Sex is not mandatory, and it never will be.
Word count: 517
Completion time: 50 minutes
Summary: Sex is not mandatory, and it never will be.
--
Somebody once told me it didn’t count as a real relationship unless things got physical...you know, if they had sex. They said it may as well be another form of friendship, something masquerading as romance. Masquerading, heh.
I imagined a masked ball full of elegantly-dressed couples dancing under chandeliers, maroon and gold curtains lacing the walls. Everybody’s having a great time when suddenly, someone shrieks. The music stops, and all eyes are on a couple whose masks have fallen off. Underneath the masks are a couple who were not supposed to be there – the ball was strictly Real Couples Only, and everyone knew that they hadn’t had sex.
Next level is off-limits; please touch genitals to advance.
This fool masquerading as a relationship guru happened to be dating my friend, and after the “painful, sexless” honeymoon period, only one thing was on his mind. So, over a bottle of gin, he asked as casually as he could, when they were going to do it – not if, but when. I was there when this happened, him thinking nothing of discussing it in my presence.
“You said you’d think about it, so what’s your answer?”
My friend knotted her eyebrows and looked at the table. “Could we discuss this later?” Her blue eyes looked towards the exit.
“You always say that. If I keep going along with this, I’ll never get laid.” He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You’re like the sun...and I’m like snow. You’re killing me, baby.”
How poetic.
Her eyes widened and it felt like my jaw locked; I wanted to tell him to fuck off, to leave my poor friend alone, but I couldn’t get the words out.
She looked like a defenceless mouse but managed to say: “I’m not doing this here.”
Two months ago, she told me about meeting this “really sweet guy” on Tinder. He asked for her bra size before he asked how she was, but apparently that’s just what guys were like on there. Aside from that, I was assured that he was extremely sweet.
“You’re not doing it at all, apparently,” he continued.
I put a hand on his arm. “If you want sex so bad, why not find someone who actually wants it?”
“I know she wants it,” he said quickly. “She said ‘maybe’ so many times...’maybe’s turn into ‘yes’s eventually.”
“No they don’t,” she said. “’Maybe’ means ‘maybe’. I’m not comfortable with it, so drop it.”
“Look.” I still held onto his arm. “Clearly she doesn’t want to. Your words aren’t magic dust, so stop trying to convince her.”
He looked at me like I was speaking Korean, but I continued.
“Maybe she’ll change her mind, maybe she won’t, but don’t you dare act like you deserve it.”
She stopped running her fingers through her hair and smiled. “Thanks.” Her facial expression changed when she looked at him. “You knew what I was like before you got with me, so why are you being like this? You can’t change me.”
Thankfully, they broke up a few days later.
Sex is not mandatory, and it never will be.
Last chance to get in a story
I'll be doing my piece later on today, so if anyone wants to be in it, check the post below for more info and get back to me in a few hours!
x
x
Tuesday 15 July 2014
Want to be in my next piece?
First of all - I am so sorry it’s been so long! I got caught up with uni work and a new relationship!
Second of all - here’s the deal. If you give me 4 random words for my next piece, I’ll note whoever replies, pick them at random in a few days, use their words, and ask if they’d like to be a character or use a life experience of theirs to shape my story.
It can’t be an anonymous reply unless there’s a way to get in contact with you again. If not, I can’t include you.
So, go ahead!
Second of all - here’s the deal. If you give me 4 random words for my next piece, I’ll note whoever replies, pick them at random in a few days, use their words, and ask if they’d like to be a character or use a life experience of theirs to shape my story.
It can’t be an anonymous reply unless there’s a way to get in contact with you again. If not, I can’t include you.
So, go ahead!
Saturday 3 May 2014
#109 - Cake
Today’s words: Guilt, Life, Cake, Implode
Word count: 358
Completion time: 22 minutes
Summary: Don’t blindly digest everything that people tell you
--
Every week, a slice of cake was delivered to every family around the world.
No-one knew what the ingredients were (Was it vanilla? Tony swore there was a hint of lemon. It reminded some of us of yoghurt....surely that was a mistake?), but every week, without fail, the cake would come.
People of all ages would wait at the front door in anticipation for the mysterious but incredibly tasty treat. No-one was spared; even babies were given their share, regardless of whether they had teeth to process it or not. Cake didn’t discriminate, cake was for everyone.
That was life, that was what we were used to. To question where the cake came from or what was inside of it was seriously frowned upon. “Shut up and eat your cake.” “Be grateful, don’t ask questions.” “Just don’t.” Everyone in our area knows of these kids who set up their own private investigation about the origins of the cake but eventually, they just disappeared and they’ve not been heard of in close to fifty years. It’s our urban legend. People tell their own kids not to do what they did and that if they do, they’ll mess up the balance of the world and cause it to implode or something. I don’t believe that, I never did, that’s why I want to do my own investigation.
I don’t want to drag anyone else into it or share any guilt, I want to find out for myself and if I don’t come back, so be it. There was something that people weren’t telling us, and I wasn’t going to be bribed with sweet treats – I could make my own cake, and it tasted better anyway.
Some people had stopped baking altogether because they didn’t believe in any other cake but The Cake. The question was: whose cake was it?! Would you eat cake from the side of the road if a stranger told you it was okay to eat?
If I don’t make it back, I want to leave with one last message: you don’t need to rely on anyone for sustenance, be your own person, make your own cake.
Tuesday 29 April 2014
#108 - You and I
Today’s words: Pigeon, China, Satan, Scallop
Word count: 250
Completion time: 23 minutes
--
Why do we torment and criticise other animals
For being inferior? Looking at the world through different eyes,
See, they aren’t like you and I, they don’t feel like we feel
Their pain isn’t recognised, who cares if they die?
People screw their faces up, at little pups in China
Who get served alongside a variety of food.
Not to be rude, but I’m over the line of thought
That is shocked and appalled by yet another animal...
Yet another innocent life we carve up with knives
And say it’s alright, it’s justified, because
They don’t feel like you and I.
A pigeon was sat on a bench the other day
And someone kicked it away like it could contaminate,
Like it would be great if they could be cast away
Like Satan from the heavens. Why?
They didn’t disobey but they have no say because why?
They can’t speak like you and I?
Judge like you and I?
We don’t need to buy something to think that we own it
No cash needs to change hands to know we can have it
The scallops on the beach, the ocean deep
Everything we see, we claim just by looking.
We take parts of the world and reduce them to nothing
Just by looking
I look to you and see myself reflected right back
We’re on the attack, you and I
We don’t give a fuck, you and I
It’s in our nature to rely
On things that can’t fight back.
Word count: 250
Completion time: 23 minutes
--
Why do we torment and criticise other animals
For being inferior? Looking at the world through different eyes,
See, they aren’t like you and I, they don’t feel like we feel
Their pain isn’t recognised, who cares if they die?
People screw their faces up, at little pups in China
Who get served alongside a variety of food.
Not to be rude, but I’m over the line of thought
That is shocked and appalled by yet another animal...
Yet another innocent life we carve up with knives
And say it’s alright, it’s justified, because
They don’t feel like you and I.
A pigeon was sat on a bench the other day
And someone kicked it away like it could contaminate,
Like it would be great if they could be cast away
Like Satan from the heavens. Why?
They didn’t disobey but they have no say because why?
They can’t speak like you and I?
Judge like you and I?
We don’t need to buy something to think that we own it
No cash needs to change hands to know we can have it
The scallops on the beach, the ocean deep
Everything we see, we claim just by looking.
We take parts of the world and reduce them to nothing
Just by looking
I look to you and see myself reflected right back
We’re on the attack, you and I
We don’t give a fuck, you and I
It’s in our nature to rely
On things that can’t fight back.
Wednesday 23 April 2014
#107 - Monkey
Today’s words: Sausages, Monkey, Ambivalent, Hearty
Word count: 117
Completion time: 17 minutes
--
You’ll find me on the monkey bars
I’ll have a banana between my teeth
And my dress will have a roll of fabric
Cellotaped to the skirt
Because I am a monkey
I can be as hearty as I want
I can say I want ten sausages
For breakfast
And no-one will find that weird
Because kids are silly
Kids are allowed to be ambivalent
Kids are allowed to have no direction
Allowed to run around in circles
And collapse wherever they like
Because they have no responsibilities
So that’s why you’ll find me in the park
On the climbing frame
Holding my head high with pride
As I cross the monkey bars
For the ninth time
Word count: 117
Completion time: 17 minutes
--
You’ll find me on the monkey bars
I’ll have a banana between my teeth
And my dress will have a roll of fabric
Cellotaped to the skirt
Because I am a monkey
I can be as hearty as I want
I can say I want ten sausages
For breakfast
And no-one will find that weird
Because kids are silly
Kids are allowed to be ambivalent
Kids are allowed to have no direction
Allowed to run around in circles
And collapse wherever they like
Because they have no responsibilities
So that’s why you’ll find me in the park
On the climbing frame
Holding my head high with pride
As I cross the monkey bars
For the ninth time
Friday 18 April 2014
#106 - Goodbye, Camp, Gay Male
Today’s words: Exorcism, piercing, rainbow, Chanel
Word count: 108
Completion time: 19 minutes
Summary: Stupid stereotypes
--
Hello, camp, gay man trope
Hello to your feminine style
Tight jeans, tight top
Fashion designer look
Chanel, Armani, Gucci
Hello, epitome of rainbows
Everything fabulous
Flamboyant
Hello, flick of the wrist
Hello, high pitched laugh
Hello, right ear right queer piercing
I want to perform an exorcism on you
I want everyone to see
That underneath that feminine fashion
It’s possible to be gay
Without being camp.
I want to force the two apart
Stop them from being synonymous
Because when you say someone’s ‘really gay’
You mean camp
And when you say someone’s camp
You think they’re gay
Stop.
This is not accurate gay representation
...Stop.
Word count: 108
Completion time: 19 minutes
Summary: Stupid stereotypes
--
Hello, camp, gay man trope
Hello to your feminine style
Tight jeans, tight top
Fashion designer look
Chanel, Armani, Gucci
Hello, epitome of rainbows
Everything fabulous
Flamboyant
Hello, flick of the wrist
Hello, high pitched laugh
Hello, right ear right queer piercing
I want to perform an exorcism on you
I want everyone to see
That underneath that feminine fashion
It’s possible to be gay
Without being camp.
I want to force the two apart
Stop them from being synonymous
Because when you say someone’s ‘really gay’
You mean camp
And when you say someone’s camp
You think they’re gay
Stop.
This is not accurate gay representation
...Stop.
Tuesday 15 April 2014
#105 - Full Moon
Today’s words: Hermit, Obsequious, Moscow, Squelch
Word count: 126
Completion time: 9 minutes
--
We all want approval.
It’s human nature to
Want to be accepted;
From the obsequious teacher’s pet
To the condemned hermit
Who longs to possess the social skills
Required to make and sustain friendships.
There is always a social hierarchy
No matter how much you ignore it.
If you’re ‘normal’, you’ll probably be okay
If you’re ‘unusual’, you get pushed away
Given less opportunities
To make an impression.
Sometimes it feels like
Being yourself isn’t enough;
Whether you’re a lesbian in Moscow
Or a teenaged girl being looked down on.
Squelch.
They walk all over you.
Tell you what you should be
Even though you can’t be
You
...You’re worth so much more than
Public opinion.
You’re a full moon
In a stream of falling stars.
Word count: 126
Completion time: 9 minutes
--
We all want approval.
It’s human nature to
Want to be accepted;
From the obsequious teacher’s pet
To the condemned hermit
Who longs to possess the social skills
Required to make and sustain friendships.
There is always a social hierarchy
No matter how much you ignore it.
If you’re ‘normal’, you’ll probably be okay
If you’re ‘unusual’, you get pushed away
Given less opportunities
To make an impression.
Sometimes it feels like
Being yourself isn’t enough;
Whether you’re a lesbian in Moscow
Or a teenaged girl being looked down on.
Squelch.
They walk all over you.
Tell you what you should be
Even though you can’t be
You
...You’re worth so much more than
Public opinion.
You’re a full moon
In a stream of falling stars.
Friday 11 April 2014
#104 - Girls Only
Today’s words: Lesbian, Melancholy, Sorbet, Submission
Word count: 400
Completion time: 26 minutes
Summary: Sexuality isn’t as black and white as it seems
--
I’m sat in the conservatory, listening to the stabbing drops of rain and spooning strawberry sorbet, pretending that it’s summer. Everything seems a little brighter then.
My eyes are closed to forget the melancholy mood and I’m sat on a beach under a parasol, watching children run around in swimsuits that are too big for them, hair stuck to their faces from the sea and sweat, and, as if to interrupt me, he pops into my head again.
I’m forced to submission as the cold dessert hits my back tooth and a sharp, searing pain runs through my mouth. Winching, I tilt my head and try to focus on the beach again, eyes squinted in the thirty-degree sun. My skin prickles with goosebumps and I think harder – the excited voices, the sandcastles, the sea, him emerging from it, eyes glinting as he stares at me.
I drop the spoon and suck the sweet flavour from my tongue.
I’m not supposed to have these feelings. I told everyone that I was a lesbian years ago, so I can’t go back on it now. I can’t let them think that I did it just for attention, to get guys to like me, or because I wanted a free pass to make out with girls. It had been seven months now, seven months since I first met him, seven months since I tried to stop him from entering my head. Out of bounds, you know? Girls only.
Once you come out, it feels like there’s no going back. You’ve said it, out loud. You’ve told everyone you’re this, meaning you’re not anything else. What’s worse is...the people who said it was just a phase...they’ll think they were right all along when that isn’t the case. I can tell them that they don’t know me at all, they’ll reply with, “You don’t even know yourself.”
I wrap my hands around myself and lightly squeeze my upper arms.
Fuck it. Fuck labels. I’m not going to restrict myself just because the ‘lesbian’ tag says I’m not allowed. Do Not Remove. Like the label on mattresses. Fuck, I’m not a mattress, I’m a person...a person who has the ability to change her mind, no matter what people conclude.
Picking up the spoon again, I scoop the last sloshy red bits from the cup and press them against the roof of my mouth.
I’ll tell him tomorrow.
Word count: 400
Completion time: 26 minutes
Summary: Sexuality isn’t as black and white as it seems
--
I’m sat in the conservatory, listening to the stabbing drops of rain and spooning strawberry sorbet, pretending that it’s summer. Everything seems a little brighter then.
My eyes are closed to forget the melancholy mood and I’m sat on a beach under a parasol, watching children run around in swimsuits that are too big for them, hair stuck to their faces from the sea and sweat, and, as if to interrupt me, he pops into my head again.
I’m forced to submission as the cold dessert hits my back tooth and a sharp, searing pain runs through my mouth. Winching, I tilt my head and try to focus on the beach again, eyes squinted in the thirty-degree sun. My skin prickles with goosebumps and I think harder – the excited voices, the sandcastles, the sea, him emerging from it, eyes glinting as he stares at me.
I drop the spoon and suck the sweet flavour from my tongue.
I’m not supposed to have these feelings. I told everyone that I was a lesbian years ago, so I can’t go back on it now. I can’t let them think that I did it just for attention, to get guys to like me, or because I wanted a free pass to make out with girls. It had been seven months now, seven months since I first met him, seven months since I tried to stop him from entering my head. Out of bounds, you know? Girls only.
Once you come out, it feels like there’s no going back. You’ve said it, out loud. You’ve told everyone you’re this, meaning you’re not anything else. What’s worse is...the people who said it was just a phase...they’ll think they were right all along when that isn’t the case. I can tell them that they don’t know me at all, they’ll reply with, “You don’t even know yourself.”
I wrap my hands around myself and lightly squeeze my upper arms.
Fuck it. Fuck labels. I’m not going to restrict myself just because the ‘lesbian’ tag says I’m not allowed. Do Not Remove. Like the label on mattresses. Fuck, I’m not a mattress, I’m a person...a person who has the ability to change her mind, no matter what people conclude.
Picking up the spoon again, I scoop the last sloshy red bits from the cup and press them against the roof of my mouth.
I’ll tell him tomorrow.
Wednesday 9 April 2014
#103 - You Let Me Fall
Today’s words: Arm, Waterfall, Wood, Paddock
Word count: 980
Completion time: 43 minutes
Summary: We’re free to let anyone in, but it always come with a risk
--
Based on a true story...
I don’t think that people realise the power they have over other people. In this big ol’ world with infinite planets, stars, and galaxies, how can one insignificant person cause another to change their entire outlook, see things through a brand new pair of eyes? I don’t know; but they can. One person’s words or actions can mean the difference between a trickle of water from a tap and a waterfall plunging into an ocean.
As a kid, my life was far from great. I bet a ton of people say that, right? Same old sob stories: I was never popular, I was bullied, I couldn’t fit in etcetera but just because so many of them exist doesn’t stop them from being less important. Yes, I was at the bottom of the social pile, yes I was bullied, and yes I definitely didn’t fit it. It was horrible, something you won’t understand until you’ve lived it.
Anyway, I didn’t have anyone to turn to (no friends, nothing) until I met him in year eight. Oliver. He sort of changed my life, that boy. We had a wood surrounding our school that we weren’t really allowed in during school hours, but the teachers didn’t do anything because it was still on the school grounds. It was there that I saw a blonde-haired boy with sitting on a fallen log, bent over something. I stopped walking so as not to disturb him, but my heel came into contact with a twig that snapped when I put it down. He immediately turned around.
We didn’t say anything to each other for a while, just stared. I didn’t know what to say and he was probably thinking the same.
He stood, picked a book up, and started to walk swiftly in the opposite direction.
“Hey, wait, what are you reading?” I don’t know why I called out to him: I didn’t know who he was and I didn’t really want company, either.
He stopped. “Romeo and Juliet,” he replied, confused. Maybe he didn’t know why he was talking to me, either. “What do you want?”
I didn’t know. I should have just let him walk on, maybe that would have changed everything. “Are you always hanging out here on your own?”
Now he looked suspicious. “...Are you?”
“Sometimes.”
We both just stared at each other again.
“I’m Emily.”
“I’m Oliver.”
Oliver didn’t have many friends either, so we got close. Soon enough, he became my best friend (even though I had no others to compare him to). People would make fun of him for hanging out with me because I was ‘the weird kid’ but he just took my arm and walked to our favourite lunch spot. I felt free when I was with him, like I could do anything ‘weird’ and he’d always have my back.
A few months later, he told me that he was gay. All I did was smile and hug him, seeing that it was obviously hard to say out loud.
“You don’t hate me?”
“Why would I hate you? You’re my best friend.” I loved calling him my best friend out loud, and I loved him just the same.
He exhaled and hugged me tighter. I never wanted to let him go, not ever. I would protect him just as much as he protected me.
His parents were not so sympathetic, being strict Christians who opposed anything that deviated from heterosexuality. There was no way that he could tell them – he’d probably be kicked out or worse. Things don’t always go the way we plan them though – after looking through his room one day, his dad found his diary and all hell broke loose.
He was no longer safe in his own home, so I offered him my place to stay but his parents wouldn’t allow it. They didn’t want him around but at the same time, they didn’t want him to leave. Then, they announced that they were moving to Cornwall, a whole county away.
I kept in touch with him though, we emailed or texted every day for a couple of years and he was still my best friend. We met in person several times too, which was always something to look forward to.
After a while, he started to become sarcastic towards me, and he’d say nasty things but follow them with a tongue smiley so it’d come across as a joke. I waved it off, blaming his family situation or his frustration at having to hide his sexuality...but they got worse.
He would make ‘jokes’ about things I told him years ago, things that I was still trying to get over, things that people would say in the playground, personal shit that I haven’t told anyone else, things that he knew would hurt me more than anything else he could say. I didn’t break until he blamed my personality and my size for my lack of friends, real friends. All I remember after hearing that is smashing my phone and opening my front door. When my mind caught up with me, I was six miles out of town, barefoot, in a horse paddock.
It took a while for me to delete him permanently from my life, because he was the first person who sincerely wanted to be a part of it in the first place, but I had to. He was toxic and I needed to get rid of him before I got rid of myself.
Ever since, I’ve been very careful who I tell things to, and I won’t let people get close until I’ve known them for years. I wish it didn’t have to be that way, but it is.
You all...you have so much power, more than you know...so please be careful with how you use it, because I would never wish the pain I felt on anyone, not even him.
Word count: 980
Completion time: 43 minutes
Summary: We’re free to let anyone in, but it always come with a risk
--
Based on a true story...
I don’t think that people realise the power they have over other people. In this big ol’ world with infinite planets, stars, and galaxies, how can one insignificant person cause another to change their entire outlook, see things through a brand new pair of eyes? I don’t know; but they can. One person’s words or actions can mean the difference between a trickle of water from a tap and a waterfall plunging into an ocean.
As a kid, my life was far from great. I bet a ton of people say that, right? Same old sob stories: I was never popular, I was bullied, I couldn’t fit in etcetera but just because so many of them exist doesn’t stop them from being less important. Yes, I was at the bottom of the social pile, yes I was bullied, and yes I definitely didn’t fit it. It was horrible, something you won’t understand until you’ve lived it.
Anyway, I didn’t have anyone to turn to (no friends, nothing) until I met him in year eight. Oliver. He sort of changed my life, that boy. We had a wood surrounding our school that we weren’t really allowed in during school hours, but the teachers didn’t do anything because it was still on the school grounds. It was there that I saw a blonde-haired boy with sitting on a fallen log, bent over something. I stopped walking so as not to disturb him, but my heel came into contact with a twig that snapped when I put it down. He immediately turned around.
We didn’t say anything to each other for a while, just stared. I didn’t know what to say and he was probably thinking the same.
He stood, picked a book up, and started to walk swiftly in the opposite direction.
“Hey, wait, what are you reading?” I don’t know why I called out to him: I didn’t know who he was and I didn’t really want company, either.
He stopped. “Romeo and Juliet,” he replied, confused. Maybe he didn’t know why he was talking to me, either. “What do you want?”
I didn’t know. I should have just let him walk on, maybe that would have changed everything. “Are you always hanging out here on your own?”
Now he looked suspicious. “...Are you?”
“Sometimes.”
We both just stared at each other again.
“I’m Emily.”
“I’m Oliver.”
Oliver didn’t have many friends either, so we got close. Soon enough, he became my best friend (even though I had no others to compare him to). People would make fun of him for hanging out with me because I was ‘the weird kid’ but he just took my arm and walked to our favourite lunch spot. I felt free when I was with him, like I could do anything ‘weird’ and he’d always have my back.
A few months later, he told me that he was gay. All I did was smile and hug him, seeing that it was obviously hard to say out loud.
“You don’t hate me?”
“Why would I hate you? You’re my best friend.” I loved calling him my best friend out loud, and I loved him just the same.
He exhaled and hugged me tighter. I never wanted to let him go, not ever. I would protect him just as much as he protected me.
His parents were not so sympathetic, being strict Christians who opposed anything that deviated from heterosexuality. There was no way that he could tell them – he’d probably be kicked out or worse. Things don’t always go the way we plan them though – after looking through his room one day, his dad found his diary and all hell broke loose.
He was no longer safe in his own home, so I offered him my place to stay but his parents wouldn’t allow it. They didn’t want him around but at the same time, they didn’t want him to leave. Then, they announced that they were moving to Cornwall, a whole county away.
I kept in touch with him though, we emailed or texted every day for a couple of years and he was still my best friend. We met in person several times too, which was always something to look forward to.
After a while, he started to become sarcastic towards me, and he’d say nasty things but follow them with a tongue smiley so it’d come across as a joke. I waved it off, blaming his family situation or his frustration at having to hide his sexuality...but they got worse.
He would make ‘jokes’ about things I told him years ago, things that I was still trying to get over, things that people would say in the playground, personal shit that I haven’t told anyone else, things that he knew would hurt me more than anything else he could say. I didn’t break until he blamed my personality and my size for my lack of friends, real friends. All I remember after hearing that is smashing my phone and opening my front door. When my mind caught up with me, I was six miles out of town, barefoot, in a horse paddock.
It took a while for me to delete him permanently from my life, because he was the first person who sincerely wanted to be a part of it in the first place, but I had to. He was toxic and I needed to get rid of him before I got rid of myself.
Ever since, I’ve been very careful who I tell things to, and I won’t let people get close until I’ve known them for years. I wish it didn’t have to be that way, but it is.
You all...you have so much power, more than you know...so please be careful with how you use it, because I would never wish the pain I felt on anyone, not even him.
Sunday 6 April 2014
#102 - Say Something
Today’s words: Candle, Rash, Clown, Turf
Word count: 844
Completion time: 48 minutes
Summary: It’s easy to joke about rape, it’s even easier to be a rape apologist, but if you don’t say something...all you’re doing is saying it’s okay.
TW: mentions of sexual assault
--
Based on a true story...
The first time, it was whilst you were playing a video game:
“Man, I am raping you so hard right now! I own you, man!”
“Hey shut up, I’m just out of practice...”
“You’re on my turf now and you’re about to die. Take that!”
The second time, you were on your way home from a club:
“Oh man, stop being such a... a....”
“A what?”
“I dunno, a clown.”
“Haha, what? You see a red nose and a big bow tie? I’m being serious. Wouldn’t you want to touch a girl if they were wearing a short skirt? Come on, you know they want it, I’ve seen the way they dance. That’s what grinding means – they want your dick, so you give it to them.”
The third time, you were watching a movie:
“If a girl ever disrespected me like this bitch, I’d stick it so far up her ass she’d be tasting my cum for months.”
“If she’d even let you near her ass.”
“Like I’d let her get away, more like it.”
All innocent comments. Neil would never actually do anything like that, you thought, because he was your friend...your best friend, in fact. Why would someone you have so much fun with ever do something like that? Everyone jokes, you can’t have a go at someone for a joke, no matter how offensive and misogynistic they are.
The fourth time though, that was different.
One night, Neil decided to invite everyone back to his house after a warehouse party got cancelled. It was you, Neil, Jessica, and Katie, plus some other mates that you didn’t know that well. There was only a bottle of wine in the house, so everyone made do and sucked from the same bottle all night. Not you though, you were more interested in talking to a girl that had started coming onto you.
After a few hours, the ‘party’ dispersed and only the four of you were left. Since it was getting pretty late, you all decided to go to bed – you and Neil in his room, Jessica and Katie in the spare room. All you could think about was the girl that had somehow disappeared with the rest of the party, so you spilled everything to Neil, asking him if he knew her, if he thought you had a chance with her, how goddamn pretty she was.
“Oh, will you shut up?” Neil said, getting out of bed and scratching his back. “Fucking rash... Listen, I’m gonna see how the girls are doing so just go to sleep, okay?”
In the morning, you were woken by a feminine voice shouting in the next room, shortly followed by Neil’s voice. Confused and not quite awake, you stayed in bed and listened to what they were shouting about. All you could figure out was that Neil had done something bad that the girl was angry about. Typical really, you thought.
When the shouting was over, a door slammed shut and Neil came into the bedroom again.
“What was that about? Who was that?” you asked.
Neil waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the inquiry. “Just Nadine. Christ...”
“What did you do?”
“You know Katie? I ended up in bed next to her, touched her a bit, and now they’re all angry.” He started pacing up and down the room, kicking at the rug.
“What do you mean?”
“I had Nadine banging on my front door at eight in the morning because Katie had texted her about it.”
“Why was she so angry?”
“Frigid or whatever. I can tell when a girl wants it, can’t I? So this really isn’t my fault.”
It took a while before it clicked. “How...how did you know she wanted it?”
“I just knew!”
You stopped talking. You knew exactly what had happened, but you didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Neil was your oldest friend, he was a good guy deep down, you assured yourself...and plus, did that really even count as...? You waved the word away like you were blowing out a candle.
If Neil got in trouble over it, you’d lose your best friend, so everyone had to keep quiet, especially Katie.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You really picked your rapist friend over a girl who had been touched without consent? He knows that he got away with that, and he knows that he could probably do it again to someone else. You really chose your own feelings over those of any number of girls he could assault?
This is one of the reasons why things like that don’t get reported; it isn’t always because the victim is too scared to speak up, it’s because people don’t want others to get in trouble so they do what you did – beg the girl not to say anything more.
Have some sympathy, you say, look at it from his shoes, you say. What about her shoes? Or do they not matter? Do the other potential victims not matter?
Think about it. Speak up.
Word count: 844
Completion time: 48 minutes
Summary: It’s easy to joke about rape, it’s even easier to be a rape apologist, but if you don’t say something...all you’re doing is saying it’s okay.
TW: mentions of sexual assault
--
Based on a true story...
The first time, it was whilst you were playing a video game:
“Man, I am raping you so hard right now! I own you, man!”
“Hey shut up, I’m just out of practice...”
“You’re on my turf now and you’re about to die. Take that!”
The second time, you were on your way home from a club:
“Oh man, stop being such a... a....”
“A what?”
“I dunno, a clown.”
“Haha, what? You see a red nose and a big bow tie? I’m being serious. Wouldn’t you want to touch a girl if they were wearing a short skirt? Come on, you know they want it, I’ve seen the way they dance. That’s what grinding means – they want your dick, so you give it to them.”
The third time, you were watching a movie:
“If a girl ever disrespected me like this bitch, I’d stick it so far up her ass she’d be tasting my cum for months.”
“If she’d even let you near her ass.”
“Like I’d let her get away, more like it.”
All innocent comments. Neil would never actually do anything like that, you thought, because he was your friend...your best friend, in fact. Why would someone you have so much fun with ever do something like that? Everyone jokes, you can’t have a go at someone for a joke, no matter how offensive and misogynistic they are.
The fourth time though, that was different.
One night, Neil decided to invite everyone back to his house after a warehouse party got cancelled. It was you, Neil, Jessica, and Katie, plus some other mates that you didn’t know that well. There was only a bottle of wine in the house, so everyone made do and sucked from the same bottle all night. Not you though, you were more interested in talking to a girl that had started coming onto you.
After a few hours, the ‘party’ dispersed and only the four of you were left. Since it was getting pretty late, you all decided to go to bed – you and Neil in his room, Jessica and Katie in the spare room. All you could think about was the girl that had somehow disappeared with the rest of the party, so you spilled everything to Neil, asking him if he knew her, if he thought you had a chance with her, how goddamn pretty she was.
“Oh, will you shut up?” Neil said, getting out of bed and scratching his back. “Fucking rash... Listen, I’m gonna see how the girls are doing so just go to sleep, okay?”
In the morning, you were woken by a feminine voice shouting in the next room, shortly followed by Neil’s voice. Confused and not quite awake, you stayed in bed and listened to what they were shouting about. All you could figure out was that Neil had done something bad that the girl was angry about. Typical really, you thought.
When the shouting was over, a door slammed shut and Neil came into the bedroom again.
“What was that about? Who was that?” you asked.
Neil waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss the inquiry. “Just Nadine. Christ...”
“What did you do?”
“You know Katie? I ended up in bed next to her, touched her a bit, and now they’re all angry.” He started pacing up and down the room, kicking at the rug.
“What do you mean?”
“I had Nadine banging on my front door at eight in the morning because Katie had texted her about it.”
“Why was she so angry?”
“Frigid or whatever. I can tell when a girl wants it, can’t I? So this really isn’t my fault.”
It took a while before it clicked. “How...how did you know she wanted it?”
“I just knew!”
You stopped talking. You knew exactly what had happened, but you didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Neil was your oldest friend, he was a good guy deep down, you assured yourself...and plus, did that really even count as...? You waved the word away like you were blowing out a candle.
If Neil got in trouble over it, you’d lose your best friend, so everyone had to keep quiet, especially Katie.
What the fuck is wrong with you? You really picked your rapist friend over a girl who had been touched without consent? He knows that he got away with that, and he knows that he could probably do it again to someone else. You really chose your own feelings over those of any number of girls he could assault?
This is one of the reasons why things like that don’t get reported; it isn’t always because the victim is too scared to speak up, it’s because people don’t want others to get in trouble so they do what you did – beg the girl not to say anything more.
Have some sympathy, you say, look at it from his shoes, you say. What about her shoes? Or do they not matter? Do the other potential victims not matter?
Think about it. Speak up.
Thursday 3 April 2014
#101 - Speak?
Today’s words: Asylum, iPod, Night, Showcase
Word count: 821
Completion time: 50 minutes
Summary: Ron had no idea how to initiate a friendship, so how was he going to start a relationship with someone he’d never spoken to before?
--
Every lunch or break time that Ron had between lessons would be spent watching Brandon. What were people saying to him? How was he reacting? What kind of things made him laugh? He wanted to make him laugh...but he was no good at jokes, and he didn’t understand why the things that people were saying to him were funny either.
It felt like he was looking through glass walls at everyone but they couldn’t see him because he lived in a different world. People thought he was strange, but to be honest, he thought that everyone else had recently been released from an asylum. His wires weren’t connected differently, theirs were. Everyone else was so...different, even Brandon. So why did he intrigue him so much? Maybe it was because he wore an Adventure Time t-shirt once, or that he’s good on a BMX, or maybe because he makes his own lunches from scratch. He was only sixteen, how could he cook so well?
Every break time, Ron would turn on his iPod, put some soft jazz on and just observe. He found out pretty quickly that people don’t really talk to you if you’ve got your earphones in, even if no music is playing, but jazz made him feel at ease so that would usually be playing. It felt good to live in his own head, but Ron desperately wanted to make friends...but how did people do that?
At night before bed, he would stand in front of his bedroom mirror and initiate conversations with himself. He said a few things, imagined how Brandon would react, and beamed at his reflection before letting it fall into an irritated frown. It took Ron another year before he admitted his true feelings – he wanted to get together with Brandon.
“How can I make this happen if I can’t even talk to him?”
Ron thought about romance movies: usually people flirt a little even if they’re not proper friends, they ask them on a date, then they kiss. It sounded pretty basic, but he may as well have been trying to figure out the meaning of life.
The following week at college...
“I like your top.” Ron began the first conversation he ever had with Brandon. “It’s...nice.”
He smiled and looked down at the t-shirt he was wearing. “Thank you...? Hey, have we met before, or...?”
“No. Well, we go to the same college, but, we haven’t spoken yet. I’m Ron.”
Brandon tilted his head. “...Brandon.” Ron held his hand out and Brandon took it, shaking it gently. “So what’s up? How can I help you?”
“Help...” he silently pondered the question. There were several ways that Brandon could help him, so it was lucky that he asked. “You could go on a date with me, that would help me out. Only if you want to.”
Brandon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t know how to word it. “Um...is this a joke?”
“No. Why, was it funny?” he looked at him expectantly but couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.
“It’s ‘Ron’, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen Ron,” he leaned down and put his mouth close to Ron’s ear. “I don’t know how you found out, but I am not cool with a showcase of my sexuality hanging in every corridor of this institution. As far as you know, I’m not into guys, I’ll never be into guys, I date girls, do you understand? I don’t like guys. At all.” He stood upright again and smiled. “Are we clear?”
“Not really. Found out what? Are you straight? I didn’t know. I just didn’t know how to tell you...I’ve never been in this situation before.”
“Like I said, as far as you know, I’m straight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Fucking hell!” Brandon sighed, pushing past Ron. “Stay away from me, don’t talk to me again.”
Ron stood in the same spot for several minutes, trying to decipher what had happened and failing.
He was used to being on the sidelines, but that was usually by choice, not because someone said to stay away. Was it possible to stay even further away than he had before?
People would always moan about unrequited love but he had no idea that it would hurt as much as it did. What made it worse was that he couldn’t wrap his head around what he had said to offend Brandon. It was as if everything he said had a 95% chance of being laced with poison. Was it wise to open his mouth at all?
From then on, any time he saw Brandon, he immediately turned his head and raised the volume of the music to drown everything out: Brandon’s face, Brandon’s words, and his feelings that refused to ease their grip on his chest every time he took a breath.
He was poisonous, a danger to society...maybe he was the one who should be locked away from everyone else, not them.
Word count: 821
Completion time: 50 minutes
Summary: Ron had no idea how to initiate a friendship, so how was he going to start a relationship with someone he’d never spoken to before?
--
Every lunch or break time that Ron had between lessons would be spent watching Brandon. What were people saying to him? How was he reacting? What kind of things made him laugh? He wanted to make him laugh...but he was no good at jokes, and he didn’t understand why the things that people were saying to him were funny either.
It felt like he was looking through glass walls at everyone but they couldn’t see him because he lived in a different world. People thought he was strange, but to be honest, he thought that everyone else had recently been released from an asylum. His wires weren’t connected differently, theirs were. Everyone else was so...different, even Brandon. So why did he intrigue him so much? Maybe it was because he wore an Adventure Time t-shirt once, or that he’s good on a BMX, or maybe because he makes his own lunches from scratch. He was only sixteen, how could he cook so well?
Every break time, Ron would turn on his iPod, put some soft jazz on and just observe. He found out pretty quickly that people don’t really talk to you if you’ve got your earphones in, even if no music is playing, but jazz made him feel at ease so that would usually be playing. It felt good to live in his own head, but Ron desperately wanted to make friends...but how did people do that?
At night before bed, he would stand in front of his bedroom mirror and initiate conversations with himself. He said a few things, imagined how Brandon would react, and beamed at his reflection before letting it fall into an irritated frown. It took Ron another year before he admitted his true feelings – he wanted to get together with Brandon.
“How can I make this happen if I can’t even talk to him?”
Ron thought about romance movies: usually people flirt a little even if they’re not proper friends, they ask them on a date, then they kiss. It sounded pretty basic, but he may as well have been trying to figure out the meaning of life.
The following week at college...
“I like your top.” Ron began the first conversation he ever had with Brandon. “It’s...nice.”
He smiled and looked down at the t-shirt he was wearing. “Thank you...? Hey, have we met before, or...?”
“No. Well, we go to the same college, but, we haven’t spoken yet. I’m Ron.”
Brandon tilted his head. “...Brandon.” Ron held his hand out and Brandon took it, shaking it gently. “So what’s up? How can I help you?”
“Help...” he silently pondered the question. There were several ways that Brandon could help him, so it was lucky that he asked. “You could go on a date with me, that would help me out. Only if you want to.”
Brandon opened his mouth to speak but didn’t know how to word it. “Um...is this a joke?”
“No. Why, was it funny?” he looked at him expectantly but couldn’t figure out what he was thinking.
“It’s ‘Ron’, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen Ron,” he leaned down and put his mouth close to Ron’s ear. “I don’t know how you found out, but I am not cool with a showcase of my sexuality hanging in every corridor of this institution. As far as you know, I’m not into guys, I’ll never be into guys, I date girls, do you understand? I don’t like guys. At all.” He stood upright again and smiled. “Are we clear?”
“Not really. Found out what? Are you straight? I didn’t know. I just didn’t know how to tell you...I’ve never been in this situation before.”
“Like I said, as far as you know, I’m straight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Fucking hell!” Brandon sighed, pushing past Ron. “Stay away from me, don’t talk to me again.”
Ron stood in the same spot for several minutes, trying to decipher what had happened and failing.
He was used to being on the sidelines, but that was usually by choice, not because someone said to stay away. Was it possible to stay even further away than he had before?
People would always moan about unrequited love but he had no idea that it would hurt as much as it did. What made it worse was that he couldn’t wrap his head around what he had said to offend Brandon. It was as if everything he said had a 95% chance of being laced with poison. Was it wise to open his mouth at all?
From then on, any time he saw Brandon, he immediately turned his head and raised the volume of the music to drown everything out: Brandon’s face, Brandon’s words, and his feelings that refused to ease their grip on his chest every time he took a breath.
He was poisonous, a danger to society...maybe he was the one who should be locked away from everyone else, not them.
Thursday 27 March 2014
Possible ideas for the future
- Guest writers to tell their own stories
- More stories based on real life experiences
- One sentence stories
- Add a poll or something so I know what people want to hear more about
- Change the title of the blog - not all are improvised, not all are totally fictional
- Write a few or a couple of days a week instead of every other day
- Self-publish several stories?
#100 - Noah
Today’s words: Purchase, Classy, Grey, Comfortable
Word count: 1,343
Completion: An hour and a half...ish
Summary: A boy on the autism spectrum decides to withdraw from everyone due to fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, until he reaches his late 20s and concludes that he needs to make a change
--
1 in 100 people have an autism spectrum disorder (which Asperger’s is included in), so if you’d like to find out more about autism or Asperger’s, please do your research.
To write this, I watched a film (‘Adam’, made in 2009, very good), spoke to two people with Asperger’s, and looked at this website: http://www.autism.org.uk/About-autism/Autism-and-Asperger-syndrome-an-introduction/What-is-Asperger-syndrome.aspx, but I am not even close to being a reliable resource for autism.
--
Based on a true story...
“I had a really good time tonight, Noah.”
“I had a good time too. So...I’ll see you on Monday.” Noah turned to leave, putting both hands in his jacket pocket.
Becky raised her eyebrows and held a hand out. “Where are you going?”
He turned back to face her with a smile. “...Home. The night’s over, right?”
“Yeah but, don’t you want to say anything?”
He twisted his mouth and tried to think of something to say. “Like what?”
A few seconds passed before she stuttered: “...Noah, do you like me?”
What a weird question, he thought. “Of course I like you, you’re my friend.”
“Your friend?” Particular emphasis on the word ‘friend’.
“Yeah...”
She looked down and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”
“I...I just thought you liked me.”
“I do like you!” He didn’t know what else he could say to get the point across.
“You know what I mean,” she said, storming off and leaving Noah standing outside the cinema.
He didn’t. To Noah, the word ‘like’ only meant one thing – ‘like’. He enjoyed Becky’s company, she was nice, funny, and she didn’t make fun of him: that meant that he liked her, didn’t it? What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know. He never knew what should or shouldn’t be said.
The following week, he realised that what he said had made her feel bad when two of her friends came up to him during lunchtime.
“Hey, Noah!” One of Becky’s friends, Rachel, waltzed up to the bench that he was sitting on, followed by another girl that he thought was called Lorna.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“What have you said to Becky?” Rachel put her hand on the wall behind him and lifted one leg onto the bench, staring at him over the rims of her glasses.
“Nothing, I haven’t seen her today,” Noah said as he continued to eat his sandwich.
“I mean the other night, on your date, what did you say to her?”
“Date?” It was supposed to be a date?
“You said you liked her,” Lorna spoke up before she knocked his lunchbox from his lap.
He stared at the food scattered on the ground and then back up at Lorna. “Lorna, I do like her.”
“Then why did she ring me in tears saying that you turned her down?”
“Turn her down? How? I said I liked her.” It was just like the other night – people didn’t seem to understand the word ‘like’.
“You can’t say that you like a girl and then say that you just want to be friends.” Rachel this time.
Now that really didn’t make sense to Noah. “Friends like each other, right? You girls, you both like each other because you’re friends.”
“Don’t try to be funny with us, Noah.”
“I’m not? Look, maybe there’s a misunderstanding or--”
“You damn right there is.”
Rachel forced him forward by his collar and slammed the back of his head into the brick wall twice whilst Lorna kicked him in the shins and grabbed his hair.
“You don’t play with girls’ feelings like that!”
After a while, a teacher came to break it up.
That wasn’t the first time he’d had miscommunications with people that upset them, nor the first time that he was bullied, whether it was due to those miscommunications or not.
It felt like any time he opened his mouth to speak, he’d end up offending someone or causing an argument or a fight. He came to the conclusion at fifteen that he felt a lot more comfortable keeping his mouth shut altogether, then no-one could have a go at him. Turns out, though, that staying silent when people want you to talk can also cause agitation. He couldn’t win and knowing that he couldn’t win, he got depressed and his once colourful life turned completely grey.
He dropped out of school, never went to college, and went away with no GCSEs or any qualifications that employers would be interested in. It didn’t matter; even if he was qualified for jobs, he was sure that he wouldn’t even make it past the interview stage. How was he supposed to greet them? What was he supposed to talk about? Did he smile? Was that right or too friendly? What was a right balance between classy and casual? How would he get a job if even people from school didn’t accept him for who he was? How would people ever understand that he couldn’t help it, that he had Asperger’s syndrome?
Noah became incredibly isolated from everyone, even his parents, until eventually he didn’t leave the house for three years. Not to see friends, purchase new clothes, buy groceries, nothing. He wouldn’t touch his front door, let alone open it for anyone. He felt like the only one who understood him was right there, so why did he need to leave? Why did he need to open himself up for more abuse, more scrutiny, more misunderstandings? Sure, it would be easy to say try, but he did try, he’d been trying to figure things out his whole life but all it got him was black eyes, broken teeth, and severed friendships.
Never again, he thought, never again would he open himself up to anyone. That’s what he thought – that he would always have himself and no-one else for company, and that’s the way he’d force himself to like it.
He still used his computer but rarely to speak to people, just to do some personal research and watch a few TV shows or movies. One Sunday evening, he came across the TV show The X Files and decided to check it out, being a fan of most things sci-fi. In nine months, he had watched all 202 episodes (nine series) and movies. As the last series drew to a close, he felt something stir within him that he couldn’t identify; something about the characters and the way that they acted moved him.
The credits rolled and when they were done, he opened Word and started typing out a screenplay. He didn’t know what it was about, where it was going, or how to even structure a screenplay but he wrote and wrote for a week until he’d finished 70 pages. Afterwards, he stared at the screen and cried for hours.
When he was done, he felt like a new man.
How could something like a fictional TV show be enough to help him? He didn’t know, but it did. Once his tears were all gone, he phoned his parents to tell them what had happened and decided to restart his life the day after.
It wasn’t easy – he’d been without social interaction for three years and he’d felt depressed longer than he’d been physically isolated. He had lived with Asperger’s since he was a child, but maybe it was easier to get a better grip on being depressed, he thought, since that was partly what made him remove himself from peoples’ company. Yes, he was still depressed, but he felt like a weight had been lifted ever since The X Files was completed.
He was on the road to recovery.
Noah stepped outside for the first time in years. It didn’t feel right, but he kept on walking to the closest corner shop, keeping his head down and making sure not to hang around for too long.
Day one – success.
After day fifty-two, he felt almost like himself again.
The next year, he attempted and passed his driving test, and started an Access course so that he could go to university. He was in his late 20’s but who cared? He was doing something with his life, something that he’d always wanted but was too scared to do before, and it felt great.
He might not always understand what people are thinking, and he is still struggling with being depressed some days, but he’s glad that he managed to climb out of that hole and take control of his life.
Word count: 1,343
Completion: An hour and a half...ish
Summary: A boy on the autism spectrum decides to withdraw from everyone due to fear of saying or doing the wrong thing, until he reaches his late 20s and concludes that he needs to make a change
--
1 in 100 people have an autism spectrum disorder (which Asperger’s is included in), so if you’d like to find out more about autism or Asperger’s, please do your research.
To write this, I watched a film (‘Adam’, made in 2009, very good), spoke to two people with Asperger’s, and looked at this website: http://www.autism.org.uk/About-autism/Autism-and-Asperger-syndrome-an-introduction/What-is-Asperger-syndrome.aspx, but I am not even close to being a reliable resource for autism.
--
Based on a true story...
“I had a really good time tonight, Noah.”
“I had a good time too. So...I’ll see you on Monday.” Noah turned to leave, putting both hands in his jacket pocket.
Becky raised her eyebrows and held a hand out. “Where are you going?”
He turned back to face her with a smile. “...Home. The night’s over, right?”
“Yeah but, don’t you want to say anything?”
He twisted his mouth and tried to think of something to say. “Like what?”
A few seconds passed before she stuttered: “...Noah, do you like me?”
What a weird question, he thought. “Of course I like you, you’re my friend.”
“Your friend?” Particular emphasis on the word ‘friend’.
“Yeah...”
She looked down and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand.
“What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”
“I...I just thought you liked me.”
“I do like you!” He didn’t know what else he could say to get the point across.
“You know what I mean,” she said, storming off and leaving Noah standing outside the cinema.
He didn’t. To Noah, the word ‘like’ only meant one thing – ‘like’. He enjoyed Becky’s company, she was nice, funny, and she didn’t make fun of him: that meant that he liked her, didn’t it? What was he supposed to say? He didn’t know. He never knew what should or shouldn’t be said.
The following week, he realised that what he said had made her feel bad when two of her friends came up to him during lunchtime.
“Hey, Noah!” One of Becky’s friends, Rachel, waltzed up to the bench that he was sitting on, followed by another girl that he thought was called Lorna.
“Hi, Rachel.”
“What have you said to Becky?” Rachel put her hand on the wall behind him and lifted one leg onto the bench, staring at him over the rims of her glasses.
“Nothing, I haven’t seen her today,” Noah said as he continued to eat his sandwich.
“I mean the other night, on your date, what did you say to her?”
“Date?” It was supposed to be a date?
“You said you liked her,” Lorna spoke up before she knocked his lunchbox from his lap.
He stared at the food scattered on the ground and then back up at Lorna. “Lorna, I do like her.”
“Then why did she ring me in tears saying that you turned her down?”
“Turn her down? How? I said I liked her.” It was just like the other night – people didn’t seem to understand the word ‘like’.
“You can’t say that you like a girl and then say that you just want to be friends.” Rachel this time.
Now that really didn’t make sense to Noah. “Friends like each other, right? You girls, you both like each other because you’re friends.”
“Don’t try to be funny with us, Noah.”
“I’m not? Look, maybe there’s a misunderstanding or--”
“You damn right there is.”
Rachel forced him forward by his collar and slammed the back of his head into the brick wall twice whilst Lorna kicked him in the shins and grabbed his hair.
“You don’t play with girls’ feelings like that!”
After a while, a teacher came to break it up.
That wasn’t the first time he’d had miscommunications with people that upset them, nor the first time that he was bullied, whether it was due to those miscommunications or not.
It felt like any time he opened his mouth to speak, he’d end up offending someone or causing an argument or a fight. He came to the conclusion at fifteen that he felt a lot more comfortable keeping his mouth shut altogether, then no-one could have a go at him. Turns out, though, that staying silent when people want you to talk can also cause agitation. He couldn’t win and knowing that he couldn’t win, he got depressed and his once colourful life turned completely grey.
He dropped out of school, never went to college, and went away with no GCSEs or any qualifications that employers would be interested in. It didn’t matter; even if he was qualified for jobs, he was sure that he wouldn’t even make it past the interview stage. How was he supposed to greet them? What was he supposed to talk about? Did he smile? Was that right or too friendly? What was a right balance between classy and casual? How would he get a job if even people from school didn’t accept him for who he was? How would people ever understand that he couldn’t help it, that he had Asperger’s syndrome?
Noah became incredibly isolated from everyone, even his parents, until eventually he didn’t leave the house for three years. Not to see friends, purchase new clothes, buy groceries, nothing. He wouldn’t touch his front door, let alone open it for anyone. He felt like the only one who understood him was right there, so why did he need to leave? Why did he need to open himself up for more abuse, more scrutiny, more misunderstandings? Sure, it would be easy to say try, but he did try, he’d been trying to figure things out his whole life but all it got him was black eyes, broken teeth, and severed friendships.
Never again, he thought, never again would he open himself up to anyone. That’s what he thought – that he would always have himself and no-one else for company, and that’s the way he’d force himself to like it.
He still used his computer but rarely to speak to people, just to do some personal research and watch a few TV shows or movies. One Sunday evening, he came across the TV show The X Files and decided to check it out, being a fan of most things sci-fi. In nine months, he had watched all 202 episodes (nine series) and movies. As the last series drew to a close, he felt something stir within him that he couldn’t identify; something about the characters and the way that they acted moved him.
The credits rolled and when they were done, he opened Word and started typing out a screenplay. He didn’t know what it was about, where it was going, or how to even structure a screenplay but he wrote and wrote for a week until he’d finished 70 pages. Afterwards, he stared at the screen and cried for hours.
When he was done, he felt like a new man.
How could something like a fictional TV show be enough to help him? He didn’t know, but it did. Once his tears were all gone, he phoned his parents to tell them what had happened and decided to restart his life the day after.
It wasn’t easy – he’d been without social interaction for three years and he’d felt depressed longer than he’d been physically isolated. He had lived with Asperger’s since he was a child, but maybe it was easier to get a better grip on being depressed, he thought, since that was partly what made him remove himself from peoples’ company. Yes, he was still depressed, but he felt like a weight had been lifted ever since The X Files was completed.
He was on the road to recovery.
Noah stepped outside for the first time in years. It didn’t feel right, but he kept on walking to the closest corner shop, keeping his head down and making sure not to hang around for too long.
Day one – success.
After day fifty-two, he felt almost like himself again.
The next year, he attempted and passed his driving test, and started an Access course so that he could go to university. He was in his late 20’s but who cared? He was doing something with his life, something that he’d always wanted but was too scared to do before, and it felt great.
He might not always understand what people are thinking, and he is still struggling with being depressed some days, but he’s glad that he managed to climb out of that hole and take control of his life.
Thursday 20 March 2014
100th piece needs to be special
So, since the next piece I write will be my 100th, I've decided to do something different.
I like writing stories that shine a light on misrepresented groups who are rarely heard in the media and if they ARE, they're stereotyped or given very little time. That's my usual angle.
So, I want to stay on this track, but open it out to a specific individual.
Anyone who is going though, has gone through, or knows someone who has/is going through something that a lot of people don't receive accurate info on....I want to write a story about that experience.
Whether it's being bullied due to your sexuality, mental/physical illness, race, gender....or you've been witness to an injustice that's regularly looked over, I want to know, I want to tell your story.
Deadline is the 26th of March.
I'll pick the one that I think I could most get my teeth into.
Get yourself out there, tell me your story!
I like writing stories that shine a light on misrepresented groups who are rarely heard in the media and if they ARE, they're stereotyped or given very little time. That's my usual angle.
So, I want to stay on this track, but open it out to a specific individual.
Anyone who is going though, has gone through, or knows someone who has/is going through something that a lot of people don't receive accurate info on....I want to write a story about that experience.
Whether it's being bullied due to your sexuality, mental/physical illness, race, gender....or you've been witness to an injustice that's regularly looked over, I want to know, I want to tell your story.
Deadline is the 26th of March.
I'll pick the one that I think I could most get my teeth into.
Get yourself out there, tell me your story!
Tuesday 18 March 2014
#99 - Seeing Red
Today’s words: Power, Hands, Sharp, White
Word count: 361
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: A man who everyone expects too much of finds other ways to display his aggression
There are references to self-harm, so, yeah.
Note: Despite the last sentence, there ARE other, safer ways to handle issues, and it's best to talk to someone if you're feeling this way. I was just trying to step into the shoes of someone who thought that it was the only option. Stay safe, guys x
--
Society has given him too much power, he thinks. Trust a man with that much power and they have the ability to destroy almost anything; many obstacles will be obliterated just by his existence. But what if his main obstacle, his main challenge, is himself? How does he knock down that barrier? Easy.
He looks down at his hands, grabs a sharp knife and destroys the only solid thing that is supposed to keep him together, the thing that’s supposed to protect him from harm. He realises quickly that it can’t protect him from everything, most of all – himself.
People expect him to get angry, to lash out, to quit being a pussy if someone agitates him and he decides to turn his cheek only to get it slapped.
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
He was. He was a man, but he was less of a man than the men who weren’t so passive, so weak, so...’girly’.
As a child, he’d wonder why he preferred to hang out with girls, why his facial hair never really developed, why he hated action movies. Boys were supposed to hang with other boys, boys were rugged, boys loved explosions and fight scenes. And if he wasn’t a boy, a man, what was he? The answer wasn’t hidden beneath the skin, in fact, there is only one answer: a boy who isn’t like other boys is a boy. No more or no less than the ones who act ‘like a boy’. Still, he struggles.
He scratches his skin like it’s an eternal itch, like he wants to rid himself of it altogether, like he wants to start again in a new, better body.
He drops the metal implement into the sink, watching as it draws a swift line of red against the white porcelain. This isn’t the right way to live my life, he thinks, and it won’t solve anything, but if I can’t use my hands against others, I’ll use them on myself. It’s safer that way.
There are better ways to handle it, it’s easy for an outsider to say, but what if it felt like the only way to release pent-up aggression?
Word count: 361
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: A man who everyone expects too much of finds other ways to display his aggression
There are references to self-harm, so, yeah.
Note: Despite the last sentence, there ARE other, safer ways to handle issues, and it's best to talk to someone if you're feeling this way. I was just trying to step into the shoes of someone who thought that it was the only option. Stay safe, guys x
--
Society has given him too much power, he thinks. Trust a man with that much power and they have the ability to destroy almost anything; many obstacles will be obliterated just by his existence. But what if his main obstacle, his main challenge, is himself? How does he knock down that barrier? Easy.
He looks down at his hands, grabs a sharp knife and destroys the only solid thing that is supposed to keep him together, the thing that’s supposed to protect him from harm. He realises quickly that it can’t protect him from everything, most of all – himself.
People expect him to get angry, to lash out, to quit being a pussy if someone agitates him and he decides to turn his cheek only to get it slapped.
“You’re a man, aren’t you?”
He was. He was a man, but he was less of a man than the men who weren’t so passive, so weak, so...’girly’.
As a child, he’d wonder why he preferred to hang out with girls, why his facial hair never really developed, why he hated action movies. Boys were supposed to hang with other boys, boys were rugged, boys loved explosions and fight scenes. And if he wasn’t a boy, a man, what was he? The answer wasn’t hidden beneath the skin, in fact, there is only one answer: a boy who isn’t like other boys is a boy. No more or no less than the ones who act ‘like a boy’. Still, he struggles.
He scratches his skin like it’s an eternal itch, like he wants to rid himself of it altogether, like he wants to start again in a new, better body.
He drops the metal implement into the sink, watching as it draws a swift line of red against the white porcelain. This isn’t the right way to live my life, he thinks, and it won’t solve anything, but if I can’t use my hands against others, I’ll use them on myself. It’s safer that way.
There are better ways to handle it, it’s easy for an outsider to say, but what if it felt like the only way to release pent-up aggression?
Monday 17 March 2014
#98 - The Weeping Man
Today’s words: Nutritious, Alleged, Display, Wax
Word count: 764
Completion time: 47 minutes
Summary: Sometimes you raise your expectations only to be punched in the genitals by the fist of Life, figuratively
--
There is a stone statue that stands outside of Waterloo station.
The alleged amount of time it’s been there is undetermined by most, but people who know of him say that they can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.
A lot of people use it as a landmark, telling friends, family, lovers, colleagues, that they’ll be waiting by the Weeping Man (that isn’t its official name, but the locals have named it so).
People walk by it, amazed by the realism etched in the face, the detail in the eyes, the anguish that seems to capture everyone who regards it; like a wax display at Madame Tussauds. Some say that to look at it carries the curse of a bad love life for at least a year. It’s never been proven, but the rumour continues to spread like a plague in the playground and the office.
This statue wasn’t always made from stone; let me tell you a short tale of how this statue came to be.
A man called Christian got in contact with another man online when he was twenty-two. He was the first person he came out to; not even his mother knew, and she thought she knew everything about him. The guy he met was charming, humorous, and he actually got what Christian was going through, because he too was bisexual.
They talked for months on end until Christian took the plunge and asked to meet up; they both lived in different areas of London, so it was easy to commute and plus, they seemed to be getting along as if they’d known each other since primary school, so what was the harm?
On the 16th of July 2010, after eagerly consuming a nutritious breakfast of avocado on toast, he kissed his mother on the cheek, grabbed his keys, and headed to meet this unnamed man.
It took everything he had not to throw up on the Underground train as he held his stomach and focused on the brown linoleum floor instead. He told himself that everything would be okay: they’d meet up, go to the park, eat a nice meal, and leave eagerly awaiting the next time meet again. They would be together for a few hours, but they would have so much fun that it would feel like five minutes.
He nodded to himself as he wiped a line of wetness from his eyes.
The next stop is Waterloo. Change here for the Jubilee Line, the Northern line, the Bakerloo line, and National Rail services.
His didn’t stand up until the last minute, ordering his legs to move as he stumbled on the platform.
Since the guy was driving there, he told him to meet him outside the station, so that was where he stood.
Fifteen minutes passed and, despite wearing the desired moss-green t-shirt and red skinny jeans, no-one had identified him. He checked his phone to see if he had texted; no luck. Christian cursed himself for forgetting to ask for his number too.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes.
Twenty-six.
His phone vibrated.
Grabbing the phone, he opened the text that read: ‘As if, fag. You’ve been stood up xoxo’
Re-reading the message several times, he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and continued to wait. There was no way that someone that nice could stand him up. It wasn’t possible, he thought. They had built such a strong foundation, shared so many interests, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, let alone another man. Someone must have stolen his phone or something.
His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat but he refused to cry. Every muscle was ordered to restrain the tears, but no-one can stop a flood with barriers made of paper.
Night time came but Christian stood where he was, looking forwards, keeping his eyes on a kebab shop opposite the road as if cheap, processed meat had the answer.
The next day, he was still there.
And the next.
And the next.
He refused to move.
Maybe there was a family emergency, he thought. Or a death. Maybe he’s too grief-stricken to text or call. I’m right where I said I’d be; he can’t miss me.
The reality of the situation never sunk in, never become his reality, so he stood there for days, weeks, months, and then years, anticipating a meeting that would never happen.
If you’re not scared of the so-called curse and you look into Christian’s eyes, you’ll understand what it means to be broken beyond repair.
Word count: 764
Completion time: 47 minutes
Summary: Sometimes you raise your expectations only to be punched in the genitals by the fist of Life, figuratively
--
There is a stone statue that stands outside of Waterloo station.
The alleged amount of time it’s been there is undetermined by most, but people who know of him say that they can’t remember a time when he wasn’t there.
A lot of people use it as a landmark, telling friends, family, lovers, colleagues, that they’ll be waiting by the Weeping Man (that isn’t its official name, but the locals have named it so).
People walk by it, amazed by the realism etched in the face, the detail in the eyes, the anguish that seems to capture everyone who regards it; like a wax display at Madame Tussauds. Some say that to look at it carries the curse of a bad love life for at least a year. It’s never been proven, but the rumour continues to spread like a plague in the playground and the office.
This statue wasn’t always made from stone; let me tell you a short tale of how this statue came to be.
A man called Christian got in contact with another man online when he was twenty-two. He was the first person he came out to; not even his mother knew, and she thought she knew everything about him. The guy he met was charming, humorous, and he actually got what Christian was going through, because he too was bisexual.
They talked for months on end until Christian took the plunge and asked to meet up; they both lived in different areas of London, so it was easy to commute and plus, they seemed to be getting along as if they’d known each other since primary school, so what was the harm?
On the 16th of July 2010, after eagerly consuming a nutritious breakfast of avocado on toast, he kissed his mother on the cheek, grabbed his keys, and headed to meet this unnamed man.
It took everything he had not to throw up on the Underground train as he held his stomach and focused on the brown linoleum floor instead. He told himself that everything would be okay: they’d meet up, go to the park, eat a nice meal, and leave eagerly awaiting the next time meet again. They would be together for a few hours, but they would have so much fun that it would feel like five minutes.
He nodded to himself as he wiped a line of wetness from his eyes.
The next stop is Waterloo. Change here for the Jubilee Line, the Northern line, the Bakerloo line, and National Rail services.
His didn’t stand up until the last minute, ordering his legs to move as he stumbled on the platform.
Since the guy was driving there, he told him to meet him outside the station, so that was where he stood.
Fifteen minutes passed and, despite wearing the desired moss-green t-shirt and red skinny jeans, no-one had identified him. He checked his phone to see if he had texted; no luck. Christian cursed himself for forgetting to ask for his number too.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty-five minutes.
Twenty-six.
His phone vibrated.
Grabbing the phone, he opened the text that read: ‘As if, fag. You’ve been stood up xoxo’
Re-reading the message several times, he slipped the phone back into his jeans pocket and continued to wait. There was no way that someone that nice could stand him up. It wasn’t possible, he thought. They had built such a strong foundation, shared so many interests, and it was the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, let alone another man. Someone must have stolen his phone or something.
His jaw tightened and a lump formed in his throat but he refused to cry. Every muscle was ordered to restrain the tears, but no-one can stop a flood with barriers made of paper.
Night time came but Christian stood where he was, looking forwards, keeping his eyes on a kebab shop opposite the road as if cheap, processed meat had the answer.
The next day, he was still there.
And the next.
And the next.
He refused to move.
Maybe there was a family emergency, he thought. Or a death. Maybe he’s too grief-stricken to text or call. I’m right where I said I’d be; he can’t miss me.
The reality of the situation never sunk in, never become his reality, so he stood there for days, weeks, months, and then years, anticipating a meeting that would never happen.
If you’re not scared of the so-called curse and you look into Christian’s eyes, you’ll understand what it means to be broken beyond repair.
Friday 14 March 2014
#97 - Compa$$ion
Today’s words: Care, Show, Year, Gifted
Word count: 304
Completion time: 17 minutes
Summary: What does it mean to be truly compassionate?
--
I realised not too long after I became an adult that people enjoy doing things to come across as good people, when really, they’re just pretending.
By tricking compassionate people into thinking they give a shit, they can make friends, but most importantly, they can make a profit. How much does faux compassion cost? They ask, picking up the tag between their fingers and turning it over.
“Let me show you,” they grin, “let me show you how much I care about the animals that I raise for slaughter, let me show you how humane it all is. If I show you, you’ll see, you’ll understand, you’ll get it.”
I see sheep running around a field, chickens let out of cages, cows grazing all day. I feel great. I photocopy the man’s smile from the TV and paste it onto my face, leaving it there for the duration of the advert.
But, why isn’t the death shown, too? That’s a part of the process, that’s what it’s all leading up to. Without death, this ‘humane’ treatment would be worthless.
I guess the most important bit doesn’t matter.
Farmer of the year.
You see, these people are gifted. The gift? Being able to pass bullshit off as chocolate that will melt in whoever’s mouth they please. Butter wouldn’t melt, but chocolate will. That’s a great gift.
Shit disguised as truffles, shit disguised as caramel swirls, shit disguised as strawberry crèmes, shit disguised...captivity, death, disguised as humane practice. Dressed to the head in gold ribbon and silver foil.
Everyone will scramble to open this present, this carefully wrapped tasty treat.
Eat
Eat
Eat
But as they do, they’ll close their eyes and pretend that no animals were harmed in the production of this gift.
They offered it to us.
They wanted to die.
And that’s fine.
Word count: 304
Completion time: 17 minutes
Summary: What does it mean to be truly compassionate?
--
I realised not too long after I became an adult that people enjoy doing things to come across as good people, when really, they’re just pretending.
By tricking compassionate people into thinking they give a shit, they can make friends, but most importantly, they can make a profit. How much does faux compassion cost? They ask, picking up the tag between their fingers and turning it over.
“Let me show you,” they grin, “let me show you how much I care about the animals that I raise for slaughter, let me show you how humane it all is. If I show you, you’ll see, you’ll understand, you’ll get it.”
I see sheep running around a field, chickens let out of cages, cows grazing all day. I feel great. I photocopy the man’s smile from the TV and paste it onto my face, leaving it there for the duration of the advert.
But, why isn’t the death shown, too? That’s a part of the process, that’s what it’s all leading up to. Without death, this ‘humane’ treatment would be worthless.
I guess the most important bit doesn’t matter.
Farmer of the year.
You see, these people are gifted. The gift? Being able to pass bullshit off as chocolate that will melt in whoever’s mouth they please. Butter wouldn’t melt, but chocolate will. That’s a great gift.
Shit disguised as truffles, shit disguised as caramel swirls, shit disguised as strawberry crèmes, shit disguised...captivity, death, disguised as humane practice. Dressed to the head in gold ribbon and silver foil.
Everyone will scramble to open this present, this carefully wrapped tasty treat.
Eat
Eat
Eat
But as they do, they’ll close their eyes and pretend that no animals were harmed in the production of this gift.
They offered it to us.
They wanted to die.
And that’s fine.
Saturday 8 March 2014
#96 - Little Piggy
Today’s words: Market, Join, Minimize, Specialize
Word count: 106
Completion time: 5 minutes
--
As kids, the little pigs are always going to market
But we don’t know why
As adults, the pigs are still going to market
This time we know why
We just don’t care
If we could join these pigs on their journey
Be there to bear witness to their shortened lives
Would we still sing nursery rhymes about these dark times?
The little piggy isn’t going to market to buy food
He’s going to market because he is food
We need more people to specialize and end, not minimize, these animals’ pain
So that never again will we be fed at the expense of the dead
Word count: 106
Completion time: 5 minutes
--
As kids, the little pigs are always going to market
But we don’t know why
As adults, the pigs are still going to market
This time we know why
We just don’t care
If we could join these pigs on their journey
Be there to bear witness to their shortened lives
Would we still sing nursery rhymes about these dark times?
The little piggy isn’t going to market to buy food
He’s going to market because he is food
We need more people to specialize and end, not minimize, these animals’ pain
So that never again will we be fed at the expense of the dead
Thursday 6 March 2014
#95 - Deer
Today’s words: Deer, Value, Late, Display
Word count: 193
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: A child witnesses a car crash, but no-one
seems to care about the resulting fatality
--
I saw a crash yesterday
A white car crashed into a deer
On the road that led through the forest
By my house
I was running late
And I knew mum would yell
So I walked slower
Hoping that would make it better
I’d rather be told off a million times
Than have to see what I saw ever again
The people in the car were okay
But once it was hit, the deer didn’t move again
People cared more about the people though, but
They didn’t even need to go to hospital
At breakfast, I asked if deer felt pain
“That bloody deer again? Son, who cares about
that?”
“What about those poor people?”
“They were probably so scared; I’ve never even
seen a deer up close besides the ones on display at the museum.”
“Hey, a
reindeer’s head would look great above the fireplace.”
“Name it Rudolph, we could decorate it instead of
a tree.”
“The antlers would look good covered in lights.”
“Great value for money!”
They laughed as they ate their roast dinner, scraping
their knives against the white plates as they cut into the meat
I wasn’t hungry
Tuesday 4 March 2014
#94 - Eyesore
Today’s words: Remodel, Unadvised, Education, Delicate
Word count: 295
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: It’s possible to change yourself to fit society’s definition of beauty...but they’ll only find something else to make you feel ugly again
--
She leans against the peeling wallpaper that’s covered in roses as she picks and scratches her delicate skin. She wants it all gone, wants to remodel herself from the beginning, make it so that she comes out perfect.
When a drawing comes out wrong, the artist crumples it up, throws it away...if the drawing’s conscious, why can’t it redo itself? If it knew that it was an eyesore...would it be unadvised to tell it to change? Sketches can be erased and redrawn, edited and re-edited as many times as they want and it’s okay, so why not for humans? That’s what she thought.
“I want to be beautiful, skinny, lighter, I want to...”
...Please all of the people who only aim to make you feel worse about yourself.
If you change everything about yourself, they’re only going to throw more insecurity at you. Once you’ve cleaned your pretty white dress, bleached it white and ironed out all the creases, they’re only going to find more barbeque sauce and ketchup to dirty it again.
If you give up on looks and try to get a sound education, they’ll mock you relentlessly because you don’t know as much as them, and you’ll never be as smart because you’re a woman. Not only a woman, but a black woman.
Descended from savages, illiterate fools, closer to animal than human. Monkeys can’t read.
Though, once you realise that you can never please them...you don’t have to care so much.
Instead of pleasing them, please yourself. Be someone that you would be proud to know, someone who other people can look up to.
Get up from the floor and fight conformity, don’t submit to it.
You have the power to beat this, they just don’t want you to realise that
Word count: 295
Completion time: 18 minutes
Summary: It’s possible to change yourself to fit society’s definition of beauty...but they’ll only find something else to make you feel ugly again
--
She leans against the peeling wallpaper that’s covered in roses as she picks and scratches her delicate skin. She wants it all gone, wants to remodel herself from the beginning, make it so that she comes out perfect.
When a drawing comes out wrong, the artist crumples it up, throws it away...if the drawing’s conscious, why can’t it redo itself? If it knew that it was an eyesore...would it be unadvised to tell it to change? Sketches can be erased and redrawn, edited and re-edited as many times as they want and it’s okay, so why not for humans? That’s what she thought.
“I want to be beautiful, skinny, lighter, I want to...”
...Please all of the people who only aim to make you feel worse about yourself.
If you change everything about yourself, they’re only going to throw more insecurity at you. Once you’ve cleaned your pretty white dress, bleached it white and ironed out all the creases, they’re only going to find more barbeque sauce and ketchup to dirty it again.
If you give up on looks and try to get a sound education, they’ll mock you relentlessly because you don’t know as much as them, and you’ll never be as smart because you’re a woman. Not only a woman, but a black woman.
Descended from savages, illiterate fools, closer to animal than human. Monkeys can’t read.
Though, once you realise that you can never please them...you don’t have to care so much.
Instead of pleasing them, please yourself. Be someone that you would be proud to know, someone who other people can look up to.
Get up from the floor and fight conformity, don’t submit to it.
You have the power to beat this, they just don’t want you to realise that
Sunday 2 March 2014
#93 - All Within My Hands
Today’s words: Change, Little, Direct, Desire
Word count: 175
Completion time: 25 mins
Summary: I always blame other people for things that don’t progress in my life, but it’s always my fault
--
I didn’t desire the world, I’d be happy with my own scene to admire through a frame of fingers. But a scene that I wouldn’t forget about, a scene that wouldn’t change into something undistinguishable if I left it for a few months.
Little girls can’t cope with big dreams; they go way over our heads, higher than red balloons caught in a draft, strings waving their farewells. So I’ll settle for this, except it isn’t really settling, it’s something I can hold onto, something that won’t blow away.
And I want to hold onto you, believe me I do, but no-one can predict the weather. You can’t direct nature.
Maybe it’s me. No, I’m sure it’s me.
The weather could be fine all the time, yet I’d still find a way to drop everything and leave. I’d pretend that I was fine with my unmoving scene, ignore the balloons I let go of, and blame it on the weather, man.
I want to hold on, but my fingers are too used to letting go.
Word count: 175
Completion time: 25 mins
Summary: I always blame other people for things that don’t progress in my life, but it’s always my fault
--
I didn’t desire the world, I’d be happy with my own scene to admire through a frame of fingers. But a scene that I wouldn’t forget about, a scene that wouldn’t change into something undistinguishable if I left it for a few months.
Little girls can’t cope with big dreams; they go way over our heads, higher than red balloons caught in a draft, strings waving their farewells. So I’ll settle for this, except it isn’t really settling, it’s something I can hold onto, something that won’t blow away.
And I want to hold onto you, believe me I do, but no-one can predict the weather. You can’t direct nature.
Maybe it’s me. No, I’m sure it’s me.
The weather could be fine all the time, yet I’d still find a way to drop everything and leave. I’d pretend that I was fine with my unmoving scene, ignore the balloons I let go of, and blame it on the weather, man.
I want to hold on, but my fingers are too used to letting go.
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