Disney Miracle

A short poem I wrote for my first year of university.


Life never turns out how you expect it too.
Thirteen years old,
that’s how old I was,
when my life took an unexpected turn.

Woken up in the middle of the night,
‘my mind is spinning,’ she complained.
In the next moment,
she was laying on the floor,
shaking and unconscious.

Several months had passed,
several more rides in an ambulance.
And we were hopefully going to get some answers.
Yet life never does follow your plan.

One final ambulance ride,
she had another fit,
this time it was accompanied by pneumonia.
It was worse this time.

We had spent a month,
hoping and wishing that she’d pull through.
But we needed a Disney miracle.
She never woke back up.
She never woke back up.

One Shot

This was a short story originally written for my year one composition class at university and was later published in the The Wells Muse.

I remember that day. The day I wanted to make her feel beautiful, loved and special. I woke her up with kisses all over, sex and of course some toast and tea. Then I made her wash and get ready. Once she was done I blindfolded her and guided her down the long and winding corridor into her study. After spending the night on it, I had transformed it into a makeshift studio for the day. My old camera and lights were set all around, though unfortunately I could not afford the white screen. Maybe that was why she turned into a miserable bitch. Maybe it was all my fault.

When we began the shoot she was all smiles and laughter as we utilised the room and the beautiful, smooth ivory canvas. Yet as the day progressed and I could not quite click the right pose, her lovely grin faded to be replaced with a frown and misery. Maybe she got bored. Maybe that was the moment she fell out of love with me. Or just maybe that was when she realised she would rather be shagging him. All I know is my favourite photograph from that day was her naked body and face, a flower in her hair and her face as miserable as sin.

Her long physique was in his tall and muscular one. Their lips were so closely intertwined as they were slowly eating each other’s faces off. He hurriedly unzipped her dress as it fell to the sand revealing her bare shoulders and red lacy underwear. I could see the shiver that travelled down her spine but instead of showing it to him, she had removed his shirt and was un-zipping his pants. No sooner had he unhooked her bra and removed her knickers. I could see the breasts that once belonged to me, the ones I used to caress and kiss to make her moan so passionately by doing only that. Now he kissed and caressed them. All whilst I looked from a distant dock. My heart was ripped open in two. I rose the gun up that was by my side and shot twice.

The naked bodies were removed by noon. Her outline was drawn out on the sand and the coppers had put police tape all around the place. But yet people came that did not really know her, only the brutality that had befallen upon them, they had placed roses in her outline, claiming they were her favourite flower. Yet I knew the truth. Her favourite flower was a lily, not bloody roses. I knew she was meeting him to shag him. I knew she no longer loved me. I knew that it was me that fucking killed that whore and her playmate.

When I got back to the flat, the gun was left by the door, I went in. As I gathered all the pictures together from that morning, I emptied the bag I brought back with me on the table though most of the glass had smashed. Yet I still placed the photos in the broken frames. While I collected the hammer and nails from the closet I heard sirens, I carried on with the task I started. I ended up whacking my fucking thumb a couple of times as my ears were pierced with the coppers shouting “Come out with your hands up.” I ignored them and carried on hanging the pictures up until the entire room was full of them. Her face was all around me. Once done I slumped back on the sofa. My entire body felt numb. Before I knew it the coppers had broken down the door and somehow, I was in the back of their car but still I felt nothing.

This was a short story originally written for my year one composition class at university and was later published in the The Wells Muse. It was created by looking at a series of photos and writing a small paragraph on each and then mashing them together and adding a few bits in to make it flow more. I was really happy with this piece because it was out of my comfort zone and something I have never written before.

Selling myself short

A small rant on what it is like working in retail. Though I am no longer a full time retail worker, only holidays.

I wrote this for my reflective writing log over Christmas and my partner came up with the title.

After working in retail for around four years (kind of) it has changed me and how I do my shopping. I hate the annoying people who stand in the middle of the aisle, and take most of it up, choosing what they want. It does not matter how many times you say excuse me, they will not move. Then when you push past them because you have been called over the intercom several times, they get angry with you.

Then there are the people who magically expect a refund on a ‘faulty’ item with no receipt or other proof of purchase. It does not matter if we are the only store that sell the item you are trying to return. If you do not have proof that you purchased this item, from this store, we cannot refund you. 28 days to return and bring proof of purchase is our policy, do not like it? Then do not buy (or steal) from us. Please feel free to take it up with my manager, they will say the exact same thing as me. Another note on returns, it does not matter if you only found out it was faulty after washing it/using it, you have clearly used it and damaged it yourself. Therefore, I cannot refund your dirty and stained oven glove.

This Christmas I found out that I truly hate shops (at Christmas time) and probably Christmas. After doing six days straight the week before Christmas (Including Christmas Eve) it ended up like my worst nightmare and I never want to do it again, though I probably will. How can people seriously justify spending £300 on one child out of four? Like how? And why would you wait until 5pm Christmas Eve to come and get your shopping? All shops are closed before then and if you have a retail job and you do not finish until then, you know the struggle. Do not do it to others. Get your shopping done a few days before then.

As for those who talk down to us because we ‘only work in retail’ how do you expect to get your shopping if there’s nobody to serve you? Or assist you? Or stock the shelves? Yes, we may not work in a great big office, doing 9 until 5, Monday until Friday like you. But we help you a lot more than you think and contribute more to society. And no this is not my long-term career, I am at University and using this to pay my way through it and to get the things I need (such as food), I do not use the money to get wasted every weekend.

All we expect is a thank you from you for the service we offer you daily, because without us, you would not have food, clothes and other necessities.