Baby steps

I'm trying to write a book. I write every day. Am I a writer? I want to be one, I want people to read me, but maybe I'm already there.

What actually makes you a writer, what gives you that title... the confidence, the authority, to call yourself the word with the big W. People keep the books they've written in the drawer of their bedside cabinet, and I never understood why. But maybe that is their dream come true, maybe they don't need to be read by the mass audience. I don't know if I see the point in writing something, in having something to say, if you don't want to share it with people. My problem is that I do; have something to say; want to share it...

The thing is, the road seems so long to get the thing you want to say written down, printed, and then read. I guess I just have to keep on walking.

You've got to make it happen

Oasis, on the radio, telling me over and over again...

Dreams, dreams, dreams

Are dreams meant to be dreamt,
Or are they to be lived?

Are they to be strived for,
Followed as a lamb follows its mother,
To be clung to as a koala bear does, a tree?
Or are they to burn an eternal fire deep inside,
To be kept alive with dry twigs,
A small flame in the darkness?

Are they to be gazed at
With the eyes out of focus?
Or are they to be sought out,
Eyes blurred with concentration?

A dream ceases to be that when it is realised.
Should we try to make them happen
Or should we beat away, the
Glare of the flame hidden
Within our warm, wet flesh?

Never Once

I never told you, once.

I never told you that
I don’t sleep because you dance in the darkness of my eyes,
I can’t work because you're laughing through my ears, nor
Do I breathe when you stand there, before me.

I feel my heart beneath my chest - skipping, pounding.
When you look at me, it feels as if it’s about to crack through me
And bleed all over you.

When you smile at me,
When you touch the bruise on my arm,
My heart tears in two,
Not with desire, nor twitters, nor dances or giggles.

But because you’ll never know,
Not for a second,
Not once.

Flash Fiction!

Annie

Running along the footpath, Annie noticed that the day was hot and sticky. Her top was light pink and she knew that soon, bright fuchsia circles would decorate her underarms. She was late.

As she walked into the office, her boss looked up, then at his watch. He hated late arrivals. She dashed to her desk, and as her computer loaded she began listening to voice mail messages, noting them down. When the morning had passed, Annie went to the loo to put some makeup on. Rummaging through her bag, she came across a box. She had forgotten the pregnancy test she'd bought the day before, in a rash moment after waiting in the queue at the chemist, when she had typically worked herself up. She put the box back in her bag and made herself up.

When she had finished, Annie was going to go back to her desk, but after looking at her mobile and seeing that she had ten minutes before the meeting, she went into the loo. Once more, she took the box out of her bag, and, now took out the white object. She read that the clincher of the deal was one line versus no line. She pulled her skirt up and her tights and knickers down, and, balancing carefully, began to pee onto the stick, trying her best to aim for the tiny window. A trickle of wee landed on her hand, and she giggled at the ridiculous scene in which she was starring. When she had done the deed for long enough, she sat back on the toilet and waited.

After two minutes, she glanced at the window. She saw one, tiny blue line. One line versus none, she said to herself, as she reached for the box on the floor.