Keep finding it in the
the tingle of warmth
at the end of the paper skin
the fire spits and crackles
and for a little while
I feel balance,
after I let go of my fear
is this rebellion?
Let me know,
what have you got?
One summer is all I need
before harvest comes
pull up, you’ll be fine,
take a drag is that what they say?
Better than being a pusher – smoke a joint with Miley Cyrus
Short Bio: Brett Hackett is a student of Creative Writing at Edge Hill university who thinks of himself as a professional cynic, which sometimes gets in the way of him being a full-time romantic. He is interested in writing full time.
After writing for inkposts, Brett Hackett Tells us what he listens to:
“I enjoy this song because of the memory I link it to. Slightly drunk at a bar in the early hours of the morning, and it made me think about my life up to that point. Where I was and where I was going. Music is good to remind you of a place and time and that’s what this song does to me.”
It’s that big I can hear its wings beating as they carry its thick body around my room. Occasionally it feigns attacking me, pushing me into a corner. It’s laughing at me. The laugh of a sadistic bug that enjoys making a man a prisoner in his own living space. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes and I’ve hardly blinked, too scared to move. I’m fucking sick of it, tired of cowering away from these butt faced butterflies gone wrong. Today it all changes. I’m taking my life and my bedroom back. No short cuts, no dishonourable attacks with the vacuum cleaner when its back is turned, and no opening the window waiting for it to leave on its own terms, just my bare hands.
I wait until its stationary, sitting on my light shade watching me. Then, I attack. In the following assault my room becomes a mess and it flees in an erratic manner. Zigzagging around me but eventually, I feel its pain when my knuckles blend it with the plaster of my wall.
After writing for inkposts, Alan Ernest tells us what he listens to:
“One that touches me most is the Elvis Presley recording of ‘My Happiness’ in 1953 for the Sun label purported made for his mother (although there might be some doubts about that now).
Eighteen years old when he made it there is little wonder that Sam Phillips secretary did not erase the disc. The poignancy of the voice lingers still. Had she done so and not produced it a year later when Phillips was looking for a white person who could feel the Blues – then the whole course of popular music may have been different. Elvis was the driving force – but more importantly, he inspired a whole generation of would-be artists.”
Malcolm had the answer to Dave’s nicotine problem, introducing him to the latest thing technology had to offer: The lettuce cigarette. The trouble with this particular brand, is that it tended to act as an aphrodisiac
‘There’s something wrong with these,’ Dave said. ’Even Al looks admirable after a few puffs. What’s in ‘em?’
Malcolm was absorbed – blowing a rather nice smoke ring deliberately aimed towards Tim’s head – circumventing it. He turned towards Dave with a fixed smile on his lips; blinked a couple of times and said: ’Dunno’, who cares?’ Then offered a batch to Tim who stuffed his pipe with it.
Dave was less enthusiastic. ‘I’m not sure, Al looks positively delectable, I must be on a high.’
Malcolm observed him closely, ‘Like loves Young Dream,’ he quipped.
Dave balked at the thought, dousing the hallucinatory item in the office receptacle, ”Nuff of that! I’d sooner have a stomach pump thrust down me throat.’
“I like to listen while I write, but I don’t want something that’s going to intrude. For me, Dilla was a bridge between more traditional music and some of the ambient oddities that have been populating my playlist of late. It was also the first time I realised instrumental hip-hop was actually a thing.”
We only talk during commercials, thirty second info jabs that have utility instead of heart. When I switch off she looks at me with trivial confusion, but it doesn’t last long, there are other things to watch. There was a time I worried that my life wasn’t built to script, that I was penned in a stagnant formula. It’s not important anymore, we’ve all been badly writ, it’s printed right there on our genes and acted out with the flawless inevitability of a soap opera rerun. All I have now are the breaks, they’re the only thing that’s new.
Short bio: Nic Addenbrooke is strange and confused. He spends his time trying to explain himself to himself and writes things down @ Afewshortwords.com.
Short Bio:Barsa Ray is a graduate of the University of Leeds MA in Writing for Performance & Publication. She has published poetry in The Telegraph Sunday Magazine (Calcutta), The Brainwave and other publications. She is one half of a pair of writers trying to promote unpublished writers through the website unnamedauthor.com and its associated e-books. She has written and produced a play for the festival at the University of Leeds.
What was she thinking? Is the question Barbara Covett is trying to find the answer for in Notes on a Scandal. The book takes a look at the not too common occurrence, and boyhood fantasy of the deplorable relationship between female teacher and male student. Continue reading →