Cheeky

We didn’t think he’d turn up today despite our invitation, so we started our drinks without him and began to share what we had been doing during the years we hadn’t seen each other. Eventually, we began to talk about the memories we had of him:

We remembered when we were kids and we were at his house in his room. His mum entered to check on what we were doing. She said it stank. ‘No it doesn’t mum’ he said. ‘Your nose is just too close to your mouth.’

He fancied a girl at school, Maria. Cheeky Grin by 3wylHe would never admit it but we all knew. When she started holding hands with another kid, Fabian, he didn’t appear fussed and continued to laugh at anything and everything like usual. At the end of one of our lessons, he told her, as we walked out, that ‘Fabian’s good practice. Come back to me when you’ve finished training.’

Once, we were doing lines in detention. He asked our teacher, Mrs. Swan, for help. We heard him say he wanted extra lessons with her. She smiled and nodded. He smiled back and whispered: ‘Do I have to use a condom?’

After a night out we had, a group of guys we didn’t get along with ganged up on us. We were outnumbered. While they were kicking us, over all the shouting, we heard him yell: ‘Couldn’t you clean your trainers first?’

By the time we were in our twenties he had landed a decent job. Soon after, he lost it, and we asked him why. ‘I was having a bad morning’, he said, ‘and my supervisor asked me why I was late. I told him his wife might know the answer.’

When we asked him to come to our reunion, he told us he’d gotten to where he wanted to be in life and had no reason to ‘catch up in nostalgia.’

He turned up anyway, and the first thing he said was ‘God . . . you’re all still as ugly as I remember.’

Photo by 3wyl: 3wyl.deviantart.com 

X-Press 2 feat. David Byrne – Lazy

After writing for inkposts, Ellen Santana tells us what she listens to:

“We’re all guilty of slacking at times and I think this song expresses those lazy moments perfectly. It’s been a favourite of mine since I was a teenager (a long time ago), but it still makes me smile every time I listen to it.”

ME, by Ellen Santana

The lights are panning the stage and I’m hidden by the darkness. They’re all waiting for me. My heart beat is steady. That’ll change when I walk to the front of the stage and show Silhouette Of Guitarist On Stage by Alexander Sashmyself, but it’s what they want: me; the person they jump up and down for, who they watch in awe wanting to be. Me: famous, fabulous and funny; cool, calm and collected; hyper, happy and humble. I could go on but I’ve got a show to perform.

They cheer when I come forward and the lights focus on me. They love me . . . the whole fucking world loves me.

Short bio: Ellen Santana works as an event organiser and likes to write about what she sees.

1 Minute, by Victoria Lee

00.00: we’re struggling to take our clothes off

00.10: our arms are around each other

00.20: we should use protection

00.30: fuck it, we’ll risk it

00.40: bliss . . .

00.50: he’s tensing

01.00: he’s finished. What the fuck?

 

Short Bio: Victoria Lee is obsessed with fitness and likes to write poems about anything she can. To hear what she listens to click here.

THE OTHER

Originally posted on the inflectionist:

~

By Jani Anandh: Columnist

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Xenophobia is described as the ‘intense or irrational dislike or fear of people from other countries’ in the Oxford Dictionaries, whereas the Merriam Webster sees it as the ‘fear and hatred of strangers or foreigners or of anything that is strange or foreign’.

EYES2‘Anything that is strange or foreign’….While these definitions appear to have a focus on the race value of the term, xenophobia is, in essence, the fear of the unknown and the alien. It is, in other words, the fear of the ‘other’.

One literary genre that has benefitted from this particular concept of fear – more than any other perhaps – is the genre of horror. With its origin in Gothic literature, this particular kind of writing thrives and survives on this understanding of terror.

The abnormal and the freakish: the ‘other’ as it were, is oftentimes externalised and embodied in this…

View original 851 more words

Writer’s Tip #4: When to Follow Rules

Originally posted on WordDreams...:

When you read your story, does it sound off? Maybe you can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know you’ve done something wrong?

Sometimes–maybe even lots of times–there are simple fixes. I’ll point them out. They’ll come at you once a week, giving you plenty of time to go through your story and make the adjustments. Add comments with your favorite editing fixes.

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Every Morning, by Rebekah Bawden

I walk to work each weekday and I always arrive fifteen minutes early. Every morning I see the same shops, the same people and the same cars heading in the same directions. Three Red Sit Bus Outlook Road Pedestrian Cross, by LoboStudioHamburgUsually, when I’m halfway through my journey, the bus number 51 approaches a stop on the main road. Most of the time I’ll cross while it’s picking up passengers, but sometimes they’ll be no one waiting for it and I’ll jog across before it reaches me. Last Friday I had made my way to work later than usual, and, when it came to crossing that road, the 51 was approaching without making a stop, but I lunged forward anyway. The driver didn’t slow down and I hit the side of it. My face rippled against the bus as it passed, and for a moment I kissed its windows involuntarily while I tried to push myself away from it. I stumbled once it had gone but managed not to fall. My pace slowed down, and I began dragging my feet. I stared ahead as I moved and the thought of how different my morning could have been made me shiver. I got to work fifteen minutes late.

The story behind that week: My journey to work isn’t as predictable as the above writing makes it out to be, but it was still a near death experience.

Short Bio: Rebekah Bawden is hoping to one day win on a lottery ticket so she can leave her working life behind.

Wrong Recipient

Hurry up.

Send the message.

She won’t find out.

Make it dirty.

Something filthy.

She’s only a side chick.

No need to worry.

Type it fast, but make sure you double check:

you don’t want to send your girlfriend this text.

But now your partner’s in your head,

and guess who you’ve sent it to instead?

The look on your face . . .

Could you lie about it?

And tell her the message was meant for her?

Probably not.

After all,

that’s not her name you ended it with.

ill

sick-man-in-bed-with-medicineYou’ve woken up after a rough night – where you just managed to get some sleep. You’re shivering and dreading the coughs and sneezes that’ll launch mucus over your mouth and onto your shirt. Then, you call in sick for work, cancel an evening date, lose the appetite for yesterday’s leftovers and forget what feeling well is like.

Today, your lover will be tissues, and you’ll be engaged to the medication you’re going to get – that journey is going to kill you: walking with a sore throat and a blurring headache while the illness moves anxiously; eager for the upcoming fight.

Death

Mourning Woman Sculpture Stone Figure by Cocoparisienne

 

 

 

 

 

 

The invisible thief that takes too much

has the audacity to call itself ‘a necessity’

when what it really is, is a monster.

One that strikes with a warning,

but we’re still unprepared when it hits.

It pretends to be the ultimate solution,

so, we invite it into our lives,

into our societies

and into our reasons for being.

We encourage it -

with petty disputes and technological progression.

We can’t cheat it.

We can’t beat it.

So, we should hate it.

And, when it comes,

we should be ready for it -

with the weapons responsible for so much of it.

This Is Just A Confession, by Al McClimens

I have deleted
your obituary
from a file
in my inbox.

I thought
of moving it,
saving
it elsewhere.

Forgive me
if that seems callous.
And you
not even cold.

Short Bio: Al McClimens, trainee lothario, lives and works in Sheffield where he makes a living by stealing money from rich widows and borrowing their cars for a burn-up on the road from Chestefield to Matlock.

Eminem – Legacy

After writing for inkposts, Jamie Ryder tells us what he listens to:

‘Eminem Legacy, demonstrates a progression of never being afraid to follow your own path in life. The subject matter is the telling of a story that reminds you to keep going no matter what anyone else says. They’re the best kind of songs in my opinion.’

Amphetamine, by Jamie Ryder

I remember soft lips, satin thighs, warmth, silk, warm to touch

cracking arse, sloped, curving, fingers sliding, sweeping, dimpled

cheeks, swan neck, apple hollow, perky nipple, tongue excavation,

twirling, digging for answers, star shine naval, nibble against the hips,

pubic hair shaped like a crown, wear it proudly on my lips, until we explode

in ecstasy.

Short Bio: Jamie Ryder Is a twenty-one-year-old student set from Manchester set to graduate from a Creative Writing degree at Edge Hill University. He currently writes about societal issues and self-expression as the Lifestyle Editor of theinflectionist.com. He has also contributed to the sites ap2hyc.com, isportstimes.com and you2ber.com. His goal is to become a published author with an interest in fantasy and literary fiction.