Let it be so - Pieces written for 'Love Letters to the World'- Creative Writing to include book titles

 Let it be so. A delicate penny-farthing equinox. Sunrise over moon glow, a seduction of light and life reborn. All you need is one happy thought, brothers; sunshine and oranges; a red squirrel; a monkey puzzling. 

Sixty degrees north of the dark side of the moon rests a tale of two cities. Do you see the good news or the bad?

There, on Westminster Bridge lies a rope, one brogue and a silk neck tie. What ramshackle existence ended here? Or, what lost boy found himself once more? 

You can only follow someone else's train so far before you fall down a rabbit hole. I like to think those articles abandoned on a bridge were abandoned, not for death, but for life. They represent a one way ticket to follow a dream, to build a new way of life.

Lost and Found - Pieces written for 'Love Letters to the World'- Creative Writing

 Lost boys, the vibe was curious as the clock struck never on a cold and sleety morning north of Harmony House. A collage of you and me was seeping in on the mist. Had I a spoon I might have stirred up ebullience, but like a wondering dervish I have lost my worldly desires. I craved something heavenly: the swish of a wing through the frosty air or a ray of golden light to guild the day.

I once was lost, but this was something else. I felt adrift, without anchor, a purple bruise of loneliness creeping unseen in the mist along the riverbanks looking for something. For what? They say a small boat may ride a big wave so there was no reason I should allow my current state of mind to engulf me.

I thought of the spectre from my dream, half god, half demon, all power, a climate of forgiving and forgetting his twin wake, his undone shirt buttons leading me to lose times thread. He had gathered the half gathered, me among them, all of us adrift without anchor and charmed us with the possibilities: forgiveness or forgetting. But everyone knows that war is over.

So, here I stand, with my spoon, stirring up hope against the storm. Let it be so, not lost, just stuck on the roof, out of reach for now, but safe. Let it be so.

I am writing from the House of Correction - Pieces written for 'Love Letters to the World'- Creative Writing

 I am writing from the house of correction on Barking Marsh. It is a dreary place not seen by everyone, hidden as it is in a fog of daily misery and misunderstanding, but once a week this fog lifts. A bugle sounds, a drum is herd in the distance and a zip seems to break apart and let sunshine through to the dark. Interested? Superlatively I imagine.

Do you wish to query what magnificent marigold-moment this heralds? Put away your brolly. The fog will dampen my spirits no more. A moment, rarer than ammonites is upon us. A welcome surprise! Such excitement! What could I be speaking of? 

One of those seemingly inconsequential moments to those in the outside world but such excitement to the incarcerated: the arrival of the post. Because, if you have the foresight to write letters, you may also receive them. Oh! Such a citrus-sunshine moment. Bring me my letter knife, the most important moment has arrived; it is time to slice into an envelope of love.

Migraine- a ten minute exercise using a selection of fixed phrases and words.

 The moon looks on with waxy skin and dull eyes as he took the odd little bottle from his case. These long cold winter days, with their watery light, made his vision snow. It was migraine weather, flat and white. His eyes ached and his head lit into a catherine wheel of sparks.

He lay on the bed and put the mask over his eyes for fear of losing the discapline to keep them closed. He longed for the kiss of darkness, a snuffed wick, a crater of time that would not taunt. He breathed slowly, trying to detect the amber tears of cedar oil burning on the dresser.

Even behind the mask, icicles of starlight seemed to flitter, as if filtered through the leaves of an overhanging tree. The contents of the odd little bottle began to take effect, a pain-pleasure thaw. One by one the lights blinked out like glow worms in a cave.

He sensed a change beyond the mask and there was Eliza in the dark, all bioluminescent delicacy and the scent of home. Her hand brushed his forehead, welcomingly cool and he found his voice.

'Thank you for all your kindness.'

Her response was a fresh damp flannel dipped in blue lavender.