Creative Work: ‘lessons from mum (the hardest poem I’ve ever wrote)’ by Yessica Klein

Creative WorksThis week we have a poem from the talented writer and photographer Yessica Klein.

The power of this poem comes from its potent honesty. As a discussion of feminism through the view of someone not familiarised with the lofty theories behind it, this poem shines a refreshing and forceful light on the core of relationships between mother and daughter.

lessons from mum (the hardest poem I’ve ever wrote)

mum married a man who drank as her father
whom she lost at 15 due to alcohol poisoning

motherhood was her dream
so she gave up her job to raise her daughters properly
and both left
one to Berlin
one to Stockholm
at 22 and 20 respectively
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Creative Work: ‘Rose’s Wall’ by Joe Baldwin

Creative WorksThis week’s post came to us from our good friend down in Southampton, Joe Baldwin.  A lot of writers are afraid to explore the world of science fiction. Some will claim that it’s not a serious genre, it isn’t worth writing about and nobody in their right mind will take it seriously.  For these reasons it is often overlooked when works of fiction are being considered for awards.  Thankfully, writers like Joe are carrying the torch and showing us that writing about monsters and superstition isn’t just for children.  

Rose’s Wall

 Rose opened his eyes, closed them again and breathed a deep sigh. He felt the sun bear down on his lined and marked face, making his skin a burning coal fire. Another day. Rose hated daylight. He loved darkness. Darkness was quiet, solitude and stillness. Daylight was the desperate riding into town, the fingers on cold steel and the minds on murder, the blood seeping onto the parched sand like the petals of the flower whose name he shared. What Rose wanted, more than anything else, was a day off.

Instead, he got to his feet and walked slowly to the tub. His body ached. He winced with every breath, tracing his fingers over the dark bruises on his ribs. The taste of last night’s liquor was still on his tongue, and he felt like a scorched wasteland inside his mouth. As he climbed into the water he was already picturing himself walking into the store and buying ten bottles more to get himself off to sleep. But that was a long way off. He still had the struggle of another day to get through before he could enter that blissful paradise.

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Creative Work: ‘Belfast Ballistics’ by Eoin Madigan

Creative WorksThis week, Words Pauses Noises welcomes back Eoin Madigan, a wonderful writer from Ireland who you may remember reading work from a few weeks back.  This selection of Madigan’s work, however, is much darker than the first, so makes sure you are sitting comfortably and snuggled up between a soft (and safe) blanket before you dive into this unnerving tale of crime and coincidence in a small house nestled in Belfast.

Belfast ballistics

A knock at my front door, late at night, and I rise from my chair to answer it. A young man standing there; dark suit, green tie, clipboard, smile.

‘Hello there, Mr. …’

‘Wilson.’

‘Mr. Wilson. How are you this evening?’

‘Fine.’ I shrug.

He smiles. ‘I have a very interesting offer for you today, Mr. Wilson.’

‘I’m not interested in any energy switchover or faster internet, thank you.’

I go to close the door but his foot is between it and the frame. No, not his foot, some black thing poking through, about waist height, leaving the door an inch ajar.

The barrel of a gun. Pointed right at my stomach.

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