Creative Writing





I Remember.

I remember playing with pebbles beside a Scottish lake, a body being exhumed a week later.

I remember watching men carry the carcass of a cow from a truck filled with its departed friends. I wondered about the families they left behind, their children, their dreams.

I remember faking a headache to avoid having to wear a dress in a play about Picasso. Wake up it’s a beautiful morning.

I remember pulling out weeds from in between the slabs, hands aching until the ground had nothing left to give. Returning the spade to the back room of the shed, Dracula’s bedroom and a serial killers haven.

I remember stroking a blind dog until the cats learned to keep a distance. My cousin feeding bananas to a giraffe with a tongue the size of my torso.

I remember searching for shortcuts in between gardens, exploring alleyways with belongings and stories laden at their wake.

I remember dressing up as one of Fagin’s boys, singing a solo, befriending Bill Sykes in the playground.

I remember devoting myself to Eastenders like a new religion, ‘Free Matthew Rose’ on the back of a van until Steve Owen went up in flames.

I remember practicing dances to the Spice Girls on elevated slabs in the back garden, memorising song lyrics from magazines until sundown. Stop right now, thank you very much.

I remember buying penny sweets at the corner shop, filling up paper bags with cherries and flying saucers while the shop keeper stared at his friend disdain in the distance. 

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