"Reread, rewrite, reread, rewrite. If it still doesn't work, throw it away. It's a nice feeling, and you don't want to be cluttered with the corpses of poems and stories which have everything within them except the life they need."
- Helen Dunmore

Thursday, 29 September 2016

Hopper's Office at Night


Crowley always hated Fridays
The last day of the working week, when all you can think about is the weekend. A sweet escape where he wasn’t restricted by or trapped in this damned office. With its drab furniture, murky, damp ridden walls and it crinkly, unloved carpet. He hated and loathed it all. All he wanted was freedom.

He sighed, taking a drag from his cigarette, one last release before the ember disintegrated. He relaxed as the nicotine hit his nerves – not like he could feel it at all. He then dropped the used cigarette, as it was useless. Crowley had stopped caring about it the millisecond he’d exhaled. Sometimes he’d hope as it made contact with the desk, letting the flickering fragments of flame tap the document in front of him, the desk would go up in flames.

In Defence of Literacy

Literacy.
The term is defined as: ‘the ability to read and write’. In primary school, we called English “literacy”; as a child, I loved those lessons –at least when we weren’t completing those tedious handwriting exercises. No…I loved literacy because we got to write. Write what? All sorts; my favourites were stories, fiction – various imagination-fuelled scenarios - I’ve always loved writing…taking a blank piece of paper: a space, a canvas.

You, may choose to fill it with colourful drawings and scribbles.

I, on the other hand, would fill it with words.