Seashells
People are like seashells, forever being washed upon an endless stretch of sand.
There are many, intricate treasures, floating debris, each is different, special. Some are beautiful, elegantly fluted with a creamy complexion, cleansed daily in a calm azure sea, exfoliated by the beads of coarse sand until they glisten, bright and radiant. These shells are perfectly crinkled, strikingly structured. Stubborn barnacles attracted to their beauty cluster upon them, leaving superficial imprints, memories. Vintagely clothed in layers of falling pearl silk, decorated in embroidered shawls of seaweed, dripping with diamond droplets, the shells hide their true surface, covering blemishes, imperfections, never exposing the effects of the rolling waves, the turbulence of life.
Others are plain, misshapen, sometimes ugly, their faces swollen and ragged, skin chapped, cracked, weathered by the sea, dried up by the sun, revealing the sufferings of time and experience. Thick skinned pebbles; dull, ordinary, bruised. And each sharp, splintered shell lies resting on an ashen canvas of supporting sand, strewn in a deliberate pattern, their destiny in the hands of the waves, pummelled onto the seashore by the ever-beating heart of the ocean. And the sun, full of life, promise, passion glares down upon the lifeless clumps of stone, trying to enlighten them, its reflecting rays uniting them so they twinkle and smile as one. Yet each stone is encased deeply in its own mind, aware only of its own existence.
Inanimate, the seashell lies heavy on the beach, its fossilised thoughts entrenched in every particle, every grain of its being, infinitely oblivious of its brothers, its sisters. And still, every shell, no matter how different we perceive them to be, whispers its own song, a lonely and melancholy cry. And if you listen very carefully, with your ear pressed lightly to the shell’s lips, the lost and despairing whimper that cries for company, acceptance, love, will begin to make sense.
And as you understand, your heart, like the oceans, will sink.
Elizabeth Lumb
* * * * *
At the Altar
The intricate lacing is epically vacuous, white for a wedding.
I’m falling; a half moon fades by my side,
Come and help me fly, lend me your wings.
I’m everywhere but where I am.
The ruby clustered ring is less beautiful than a gold band.
I see black clouds coming over me,
Take me to a place where rain can no longer fall.
Everything fades like an illusion, running through the monsoon.
Veil like a waterfall masks the one I loved.
Once a world of two lovers, eaten by flames,
Come and rescue me, I’m burning can’t you see?
I wish we could deny it, here and today.
The crowds, faces, and people I hardly know.
Ready, set, go it’s time to run,
Together we can make it while the place is crashing down.
Never been so wide awake, never been so reluctant …
“I do.”
Emily Serrallier
* * * * *
Untitled
I wandered lonely as a cloud
To where the clouds were keenly torn
By buildings stretching in their crowds
Rising to meet another morn,
And as my breath was took away,
I smelt the air of a city day.
An orange glow did rush over
Each billboard in its pride and glee
And as I awed a skyscraper
A sudden thought occurred to me,
Why daffodils sure are pretty,
But they’re all born pretty in New York City.
Night did chase the rich day’s beams
To awake those nocturnal young,
In the pavement they scratched their dreams,
As the neon-wearing lights flashed on,
And as taxis swapped each fair face,
I swore I’d never leave this place.
Rise higher; they would tear heaven,
So contented they proudly stand,
As I just stand in awe of them
With just a ticket in my hand,
As daffodils sure are pretty,
But they’re all born pretty in New York City.
Felicity Brook
* * * * *
Enola
Did i trip, because i know i stumbled?
Did i stumble? i know i fell.
These four walls, always the same
Forever dragging me down,
Through these steel walls,
Only the voice of the voiceless follows.
Calm like a bomb, i explode.
Merged into the ocean,
Yet “lonely as a cloud”.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Gemma Fearon
* * * * *
Light
Jack woke up with a start, fighting for breath. His palms were damp. His heart was racing.
His breathing slowed, gradually returning to the usual in-out rhythm he was used to. The feeling with which he had woken was fading; he couldn’t clearly remember why there was such a cause for panic.
The faint beginnings of sunrise were streaming through his window casting a magical orange pattern on the bed sheets. Sarah stirred in her sleep but did not wake.
He sat up and swung his legs out of bed; they felt heavy, like iron, the way they always did in the mornings. He cracked his knuckles and stood up, his crumpled white T-shirt caught the light and Jack glowed for a fraction of a second before he moved away. Running a hand through his tousled hair he made his way to the door.
He padded down the corridor, the fluffy carpet felt warm beneath his bare feet.
The kitchen had also taken the sun’s rays and transformed them into brilliant spotlights, illuminating the glasses by the sink causing tiny flecks of rainbow to sit complacently on the floor waiting to be disturbed. Jack liked this time in the morning, it was peaceful and calm: the perfect time for contemplation. The air was filled with the faint hum of early morning traffic on the road seven floors below, and the whispering trees telling their secrets to anybody who is patient enough to listen. The central heating clunked into place and he could hear the boiler whirring as it started to pump hot water around the apartment.
Jack smiled as he gazed out of the window. The heavy feeling in his body had gone. He closed his eyes feeling the warmth on his face.
Yes, he thought, today will be a good day.
The beginning of a longer piece
Harriet Allan
* * * * *
Billy Elliot
Yelling! Fighting! Issues that don’t concern me – but concern my future. The anger and the hurt. The despondency, an indelible stomp on my dreams, my childhood.
The voices become disconnected, what is actually said is echoing in the far distance yet the noise builds inside of me, a surging rage making the reality too much to bear.
Louder and louder, bigger and wider, the flow of life blood feeding me is staunched by a scream that releases the energy, a force that drives me to the door and with all the might of a small boy, me, it’s ripped open
and I race out as the slam against the wall begins the music. Tap…
My feet tap, harder and harder on the floor, drumming up a beat of redemption and a rhythm of salvation. Tap! A childhood where there are boundaries, closed corners. Tap. Tap, the police donning shields trap me in this hell. But with every shuffle, every tap comes a moment of real profundity.
It’s forbidden, it’s exhilarating, the force, the exuberance, it’s liberating, tap, and I’m doing it! Aggression, tap. Born to react, the taps, my feet prove I’m destined to dance. Tap, tapping the story of my life, I yell, I tap, my heart racing, Argh!
Tap, tap, growling encouragement – no definition, the anger – the rhythm – the dance. An instant reaction like heartbeat, it’s uncontrolled but I’m complete. Breaking out, surging out from deep inside, spinning in solidarity, harmony, unity. Cursing! The desperation of it reeks and I’m fighting, tap, I’m fighting for it.
Tap, tap, tap, Music wells like tears that bleed you dry but leave you full and everything is silent. Angry, confused, mad as hell but the clockwork deep within, ticking and tapping, tapping. Tap, and I’m free. Self expression, liberty, a chance to flourish, tap, tap.
Fight back, resist, move on, without forgetting where you came from. Tap… Grrr! Argh! Tap. I’m free.
Emily Serralier
* * * * *
The Sickness Within
This life is a series of can-Is and can-nots,
Should-Is and should-nots, would-Is and would-nots,
Us woodenly standing and asking approval,
Shallowness ruling the beauty we see,
Our eyes are trained to see this new appraisal,
Take skeletons, raise them, clothe them and praise them,
Give them their flesh stretched tight over their bones,
Send them to graves and then mourn without grief.
This painful vanity clouds up our minds and
Pulls our insides tight, knots them – we spit fire
As the carnival rages, the circus without,
The tent folds upon us in a funeral shroud,
We are not beautiful in our obscenity,
Lose our identities, greed for celebrity,
Waste not or want not but we waste, want more,
This, our society, does this make you proud?
I am no saint, nor am I a believer,
A martyr, a dreamer of dreams – just a griever,
I see no heaven to redeem ourselves in:
A small wooden coffin that we put ourselves in,
Take skeletons, raise them, clothe them and praise them:
I’ll sit and grieve for the sickness within.
Tori Turner
* * * * *
