creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

My Child Became a Voodoo Doll

I gave birth to a daughter covered in freckles. She used to get more food down herself than in her stomach. I was never able to remove the stains from her clothes. Maybe, I should have dressed her in black instead of white.
          As a child she’d grab as many felt tip pens her tiny hands could hold, and draw a rainbow of dot to dots along her flesh, and fill in her plain nails on her hands and toes.
          I was always repeating, “Don’t cover yourself in ink!”
          Then she grew older. She stopped colouring her skin and started splattering the colours on to her hair. Too many colours circled her face, so bright and mismatched. Why did she choose to paint orange next to green? And yellow next to pink? It didn’t make sense.
          I told her, “Tidy up your appearance and wash your hair! You look idiotic.”
         Time passed and I noticed my child was reversing her white and black clothes into string. After too many trips down the steps, too many traps around objects and too many tangles in locks, I bought my daughter a needle.
        “Fix the holes in your clothes and get rid of the spare strings. You should treat the clothes I buy you better!”
          My child worked hard for days but the enormous yarn, and the ceiling of destroyed clothes kept her in her room for weeks. I couldn’t recall the last time I heard her voice, so I unknotted the door open and crept in.
           “Where are you?” I left the door open.
           All around me were messy piles of unrepairable clothes, strings of scribbles along the floor. My child slumped in her bed, using the needle I bought to stitch fraying strings, of different sizes, colours, and of dot to dots through her skin. No black and white were in sight.
            I cried as I realised my daughter resembled a Voodoo Doll. Why would she turn herself into one? I couldn’t guess which freckles were the start or the end of a sew. She stared towards the door. I searched for vitality but I could only see my reflection on the surface of her black, marbled eyes.

creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

The Street Below

On a twig outside their nest, the old Lovebirds snuggle while observing the neighbours below.

They tweet good morning to the Tortoises who slowly walk down the street, carrying too much knowledge on their backs of all the animals past. They try in vain to calm their pupils; Young Monkeys swinging between trees and lampposts, leaving their wrinkling teachers behind as they skip down the street, pulling each others tails. 

Out of the corner of beady eyes, further down the path, the couple spot a family of snakes shedding their skins down the drain before slithering back to their home, leaving no trail of their former selves behind. Across the road, a young Parrot couple bicker, the argument goes round in circles as they continue to repeat each other, feathers ruffling in frustration.

Then a few houses along the street, the Guinea Pig den grab the old couples attention, causing their feathers to quiver and their beaks to hang open as they watch them having an orgy through the window. Out of the way of the view, their children play in the dirt, caring less than other animals would, about who they belong to. Muttering under their beaks, about the morality of other species, the old birds turn away glad, in a way, the obscene mating can only be seen and not heard, unlike the squawking Parrots down the road.

The Lovebirds snuggle closer, pondering on where they should move to next. They would need to scout a new area, try and find a politer place to set up their nest. But then a small feather waves and lands at their feet. Their grandchildren hop down on another twig in front of them, clicking their beaks, tweeting stories of their own, not caring about what’s happening on the street below.

Photography by J.Broomhead

creative writing, Fiction, flash fiction, original piece, writing

The Stars Won’t See Us

The stars don’t hear a lone voice blending with everything else of this universe.

The eagles short, white feathers flash in between the never ending fall of the black sky. This thick darkness swirls around the motionless light blue waves, which are full of squeaking fish slowly chasing prey.

The morning rush hour speeds and swerves around my flat body as it rests in the salty sand. Barmen hand out crunchy ice cream to the passengers on planes that can’t fly, while kites help people laying on the ground, or floating in the ocean, to stand up.

It’s not unusual for dogs to hate walking on the pavement, preferring to splash in the sweet river, along with feisty squirrels, underneath the sharks which cling to the tops of juniper trees, snapping their blunt fangs in the misty, colourless air.

The petrified owls resting on my arms see what I cannot say. We don’t see the silent stars, we see the breathing planets. There is life that we all remember living – at some point – on one of those lonely globes. The birds lie when they screech barks of the world’s ending. This world can never end because it’s not alive.

creative writing, flash fiction, original piece, writing

The Demons are After me Again

The demons are after me again. I’ve bolted the door, this time it’s steel. I learned later rather than sooner, but that couldn’t be helped.

Demons are tricky. They take away your rationality and cover the clever bits in your brain. They make you believe that you can’t function without them. That you are dependant on their presence as, without them, no one else would care. Your brain would only contain your thoughts. A negative voice is better than no voice at all. A party is better than being alone. Something is better than nothing, right?

The walls wobble, the floor shakes.

I can cope.




My eyes blur but I’m not afraid. I stand with my back against the door, my room rumbling, crumbling.

“I can cope.” I whisper, as the door explodes against my back, wooden splinters clawing at my skin.

As if I could ever build a steel door.