Miracles in December

I am a 20 year old British student who usually finds politics to be a minefield. I keep my opinions to myself and try to formulate them according to my own standards and morals. I am not a politician in any way shape of form, now would I ever want to be. But in light of the recent decision to start air strikes on Syria, I have to speak up.

On the 3rd of December, the cabinet engaged in a 10-hour long debate on whether to authorise UK air strikes against so-called Islamic state Syria. Before this debate, you, David Cameron called all those who were opposed to the air strike “terrorist sympathisers”. I cannot describe the rage I feel towards your statement. This outlandish slander is the furthest thing from the truth. During this 10-hour long debate, you were called upon to apologise for your words. You were asked not once, not twice but twelve times to take back this statement. You declined all twelve times. This signifies to me that your responses are emotion-based and rash, just as that of a child. These are not the traits of a worthy Prime Minister.

The outcome of this debate was in favour of the air strikes by 397 to 223. Any innocent Syrian citizens that are bombed, injured, killed and maimed are simply labelled as collateral damage by you. The blood of every civilian is on the hands of every single one of the 397 MP’s that voted in favour of this needless action. Syria is already the target of air strikes from the U.S., France and Russia. You are adding to the bloodshed. Anyone with sense knows full well that you are not going to successfully wipe out ISIS. Out of the 100 people that you hit, maybe 10 of them will not be innocent civilians. Barely little over a decade ago, we saw the devastating effects of bombing Iraq and Afghanistan. The current refugee crisis and the devastation of entire countries in that region are the direct result of Western bombings and invasions. The people who will suffer the worst from these air strikes are not ISI but the innocent people of Syria. They pay the highest price.

 Whilst you have been in charge of the government, you have constantly urged the public to cut back. You insisted that there is no money to keep tax credits, no money to keep public service, no money to fund the National Health Service, no money to help feed people who live off food banks. However, there is money to drop million pound bombs against an enemy that cannot be defeated with bombs. You spend these six-figure amounts on weapons of destruction and murder, whilst having the utter audacity to tell us to cut back on luxury items and our health services, whilst you sit in your comfortable homes, drinking wine and spitting it out on the lower classes. As our Prime Minister, you say we should be taking care of our homeless before we take in Syrian refuges, but then you choose to spend our money dropping bombs of Syria thus creating more Syrian refugees. Your logic makes absolutely no sense.

In this open letter, I’d like to apologise to the people of Syria that the vermin that “represents” the U.K. has voted to increase your suffering and add to your dead.

You, David Cameron, are not my representative. You do not represent my views or feelings as a citizen. Your government is not my government. I won’t support a government that leads us to war in Syria.

My name is Kang Minsoo and I can assure you this doesn’t happen to me often.. You see, this wasn’t meant to happen to me. It’s all a terrible mistake, an awful trick of fate. It’s not my fault in the slightest. It all started when I was unfairly fired from my job. I’m a stock broker and there must have been a glitch in the system or something. There had been a lot of commotion in the office that evening and everyone was on edge. We could tell something bad had happened. We wanted to leave, but nobody leaves until the boss leaves, it’s just the way it is. My boss called me in and stared at me with that cold, hard gaze of his. My palms were sweating as I gulped, staring into the black pits that were his eyes. “You lost us the Park Jin account.” He stated coldly, flicking through some papers. My eyes creased in confusion, my mind whirring through all the accounts I’d chartered in my time there. “P-Park Jin?” My voice hung uncertainly in the air. “Sir, I don’t recall-“

“Silence!” He snapped viciously as I started to tremble, my hand going to smooth my tie as sweat dripped down the back of my neck. I started to panic there and then, I don’t recall any of his words. I only knew that I had lost the company a lot of money. How could this have happened? I’d never heard of a Park Jin account. Maybe my colleague Kim Taekwoon had heard of this? Although he’d taken a sick day that day.

I remember walking home, my shoulders drooped and my tie undone, thinking about what to tell my wife. I still feel sick thinking about that feeling; the disgusted, disappointed look on her face as she shook her head at me. I knew right then that she would leave.

How did I end up in Macau, you ask? Well, Taekwoon my colleague, he’d been here before when he was feeling down in the dumps. He suggested it to me when I’d found myself sleeping on his couch for the seventh night in a row. “Why not?” He said, pulling the blanket off of my body and wrinkling his nose at the smell of my unwashed person. “You’ve got that savings bond. I think this is the perfect time to use it.” He practically shoved me into the shower that day, hovering over my shoulder as he watched me book a flight home. “Oh, only book a single. It’ll work out cheaper. Plus you don’t know when you’re coming back eh?” Taekwoon’s large hand clapped my shoulder as a dark, rich chuckle escaped from his lips. I’ve always admired him, he’s been a true friend to me over the years, you know.

Anyway I travelled to Macau, first class of course, and found myself wondering at the grandeur of the entire Cotai strip. Just hotel after hotel and casino after casino. I ended up in the Venetian. Smooth marble floors, pure white walls with concierges at your every beck and call. Why had I bothered to work when I could live here and gamble? I was sure I’d heard of many rich men who never left casinos, just staying there and playing their way through life. What a glamorous life to have! And I was ready to start living it.

It started off amazingly. I had gorgeous women on my arms, leaning over to blow suggestively on the dice before I threw it. My glass was never empty in that casino. I remember thinking to myself: “this is how I should be treated everywhere.” Thinking back now, I lost a lot more than I won, which explains how I’ve ended up here. In my drunken haze, I remember that feeling of dread again as I stared at the ATM, it’s dirty screen flashing the words “INSUFFICIENT FUNDS” at me. “Impossible”, I slurred, my fingers stabbing at the keyboard again, only to be faced with the same message. My card was spat back out at me. Now..I’m not proud of this moment, but I remember sliding down the wall and collapsing in a heap and crying. I do remember that. I also remember being kicked out of the Venetian by two security men who left bruises on my arms. Using the spare change in my pocket, I managed to get an urgent email to the Macau Government Tourism office. As I sat, hunched over the computer at the Internet café, I couldn’t help but eye the noodles the man next to me was shovelling in his gaping mouth. It was almost like he knew I was hungover and starving hungry as he slurped them obnoxiously loudly. Once again, this isn’t my proudest moment but when he left, I stole them from the side and gulped them down greedily. At that moment, those noodles were the best thing in my life.

Now I would like to make a complaint about the uncomfortable floors at the following hotels: The Wynn, Galaxy Hotel, The Grand Lisboa. Studio City’s floors were slightly more comfortable to sleep on, so they would be my first choice. You see it’s all a terrible mistake, in my right mind, I would have never have threatened to have killed people. It’s just because of all the uncomfortable floors I’d had to sleep on. My mental and physical states were not at their best and they led me to make some regrettable decisions. At any rate, the beds in police custody far surpass Studio City’s floors, so you cannot blame me for those little threats. I was desperate.

Neither my wife nor Taekwoon have replied to my emails. Although I cannot remember how eloquently worded they have been. I’m sure they will reply any day now, and then I’ll be out of this place. So you can see, it’s really not my fault at all that any of this happened. It’s just bad luck that it happened to me.

  Author’s Note:

I wrote the plot of this short story with my friend Apple. I personally found it hard to write this because I don’t find it interesting. When plotting the story, I found it hard to think of plausible explanations that would be suitable for a short story.  

I found it hard to keep writing and I think that reflects in the work. But I still wanted to keep challenging myself, so I continued to write. It was easier to write from a first person point of view so that ideas may flow onto the page naturally, instead of being processed into third person point of view.

This prose is very minimalistic, which makes sense since the plot we created spans a variety of locations. The story reads like an account to the police. Whilst there is some description, I did not think it would be necessary to use grand language to describe every setting the character encountered.  

The style of writing it almost like speaking. The ‘you know’ recaptured the audience’s attention and makes them feel like they are being directly spoken to. This also helped me as I found it hard to continue the story. I really did not enjoy writing this piece at all.

It’s interesting how perception changes over time. As I’m sat here in this room, in a country miles away from the people I have grown up with, I wonder what they’re doing. It’s colder over there, no doubt. Although my feet are freezing right now, I should probably put some socks on. Over there I would need two pairs. Even though I miss them, I find myself becoming irritated. Why do you insist on drunk messaging me at 5am? You know I’m asleep. But then I suppose I should be grateful. They haven’t forgotten me, they miss me. I miss them. I shift on the bed, a sudden rush of homesickness rushing over me. Will they forget me as time goes on? And how will I have changed? I shake my head, dismissing the thought. One person cannot change that much in one year. Even as I think this, my mind wanders back to when my cousin came back from fighting in Afghanistan. There was something different. His smile was tighter, his laughter not as carefree as the cousin I had once known. He had grown up. I felt it in the way he turned to adult talk more often than not. That adult talk which made us kids roll our eyes and go back to playing on the PlayStation. He was one of them now. But then so am I. Soon to turn 21 years old, I cannot roll my eyes at things and turn back to playing a false reality. I must be socially responsible,  even though it scares me how much of the “adult stuff” now applies to me. Even now, I am still an adult as I put on my socks with the silly cows on. But there’s something very childish about the sort of adult I have become.

  Author’s Note:

Grandfather clock                                  Grandmother hen, who coos in delight Tall, quiet, once an hour he chimes,                  Surrounded by chirping chicks, Wise until the battery ran out.       “Of course! Never too many mouths to feed.”

Mum, who cries at Chirstmas cards                            Dads are silent, the words Offering cups of tea                                Only leaving his lips when truly needed Constantly.                     Uttering those repeated remembrances over and over.

                                                          Me.

                                           The apple of his eye                                       The one who makes her cry                                 Rooted in their nourishing embrace.

Author’s Note:

This poem was harder for me to write than most. Since it involves my family, it requires a personal perspective which I am sometimes reluctant to show. The structure of the poem is simple and nice, although it slightly restricts me. I found myself worrying about how the poem would fit in the given structure, instead of worrying about the actual quality of the words.  I made the conscious decision to make both mine and my mother’s stanzas have a rhyme, since I am the closest to her in this family tree.

If to say it once And once only, then still To say: Sorry.

And say it truthfully, Say it as if the meaning Tears you apart inside With your absolute remorse.

Later for ‘he’ or ‘she’ Later for ‘it wasn’t me’                        No. Say only the word That is needed. That is deserved.

   Author’s Note:

I tried to stick to the original framework of this poem as I felt that the framework retained a sense of profound meaning. However in the last stanza, I wanted to create a sense of finality to the poem, as an apology can often be the final word that resolves a matter. I decided to rhyme the last stanza, as you can see with “she” and “me”, and also with “word” and “deserved.” Personally, it achieves a personal aim, since I find it hard to write poems that rhyme without them sounding too cheesy and over-produced. I find that the rhyme I have chosen feels sincere and understated, you almost can’t tell that the last stanza rhymes which I am proud of.

-         We see this story set in a sci-fi universe. It is a world where reality is fluid, you can create your own living space. Interactions can be achieved through actual contact or through online messaging through a telescreen. Until the age of 18, children are schooled in public schools and live in their parents chosen reality. The protagonist is an 18 year old girl who has just been granted her own living space. She has made her immediate surroundings into a world of books. The walls are made from books and the floor is a soft down carpet that lets you sink comfortably into it, which she does often. She thinks to herself about the number of books she might have read. Novels, short stories, poems, plays…She runs her hands over the walls of books, her fingers caressing the spines of her old friends. She peruses over Proust, Shakespeare, Gogol, Austen, E.E. Cummings and Baudelaire.

-         Her happy ponderings are interrupted by an instant message on her telescreen. It’s from /him/. A boy from her class, who has shown a quiet interest in her, although his quiet interest is already too much for her. She shows an instant reaction to the notification, rolling her eyes and dismissing it with a wave of her hand. For some reason, this boy is being persistent. What were his motivations? She turns to her bookcase, eyes landing on a book of Shakespeare. She snorts. This was hardly a Romeo and Juliet situation. Or was it? It’s true that he was pursuing her. So many times he had gifted her flowers through the telescreen. Perhaps he had seen this move on some dull romantic comedy movie, she thinks scathingly.

-         She continues to wander until her eyes land on ‘Lady Chatterley’s Lover’, a blush coming over her face as she thinks about the times she had glimpsed over that range of books before sharply turning away, dismissing the thought. It is much better to bury oneself in books, rather than silly affairs of the heart. Frustrated with herself, she grab the nearest book to her at that moment. John Donne’s Meditation XVII. Perfect, she thinks to herself, settling herself on the floor comfortably and trying to focus on the words that decorate the page.

-         However the boy plays on her mind as she reads, distracting her and ruining the poems for her. She thinks of him, rolling her eyes as she details his “stupid nice eyes” and “delicate yet strong frame”. She angrily turns the page, resettling the book in her lap. She begins to read aloud “No Man Is An Island”, the boy still occasionally disrupting her thoughts. Frustrated, she reads it aloud again, trying to focus on the words.

-         Eventually she pauses, focusing on the words ‘No man is an island’. As an avid reader, she also likes to analyse and critique the works she reads. This sentence stands out to her as she becomes silent, realisation dawning on her. She had hidden herself in a world of books, books that had kept her company as a lonely child, books that had shown her a glimpse of all the experiences a human can have. But she has yet to experience even one of those things.

-         She closes the books, letting it lay on the floor and she pushes aside the walls of books, full of trepidation. Sunlight filters in through the gap, dust particles glittering in the bar of light. She left her island.

Author’s Note:

The meaning of ‘no man is an island’ is that you cannot live completely independently. Everyone needs help from others. I enjoyed the idea of setting this short story in a sci-fi setting. The story begins with the girls love with literature; it is a romance between her and books. She caresses their spines that way one would with a lover, only she has never felt the need to express that degree of emotion towards another human.

What I wanted to make sure of was that the girl came to the decision by herself. I did not want the boy to convince her or to ‘show her light’. She is clever and she comes to the conclusion with a small nudge from a book. What convinces her is that the books lead her to this conclusion. She has always trusted them and knows they will lead her correctly.

I wanted to keep the pronouns as simply, ‘the boy’ and ‘the girl’. Since so many novels span around the simple framework of a boy and a girl, I wanted this to be the same style. My aim to avoid the stereotypical romance story arcs succeeded.

She knew what he was doing before he did. Blood pumped through her veins as she took the hit, unable to discern the roaring in her ears from the roar of the crowd, baying for blood. Her blood. Lowering the musty scarf from around her lower face for the briefest of moments, the wiry girl spat out the crimson liquid flooding her mouth into her opponents face; his hoarse cry of disgusted surprise lost in the triumphant heckles of the angry herd around them. As he wiped her blood from his eyes, she quickly pulled the scarf back up before cupping his swollen face almost lovingly, letting her light eyes bore into his, watching as they registered confusion and hesitation. So weak, she thought to herself, her strong hands were the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the ground. As she gazed into his streaming, weakened eyes, the pit of her stomach dropped.

*

“Eliza!!!” Her mother called up the stairs, lightly banging the soup pot with the edge of the ladle before slowly stirring the soup, humming gently as she heard the thunderous footsteps of her boisterous daughter hammer down the stairs. “Tch.” The mother clicked her tongue at the noisy racket, until her daughter appeared. The light and airy space of the kitchen in the midday sun made Eliza wince at the brightness, lifting a hand to shelter her unnaturally light eyes; a trait passed down from her father.

“How many times have I told you to step lightly? I’m scared you’re going to come through the ceiling one day.” She half-chuckled, smiling as Eliza came close to press a soft kiss on her cheek. “Good morning to you too, Ma.” Eliza said quietly, sniffing the soup and smiling, reaching her hands up to pull her long, dark locks of hair up into a messy up-do. She grabbed a bowl, holding it out for her mother to spoon the thick, steaming soup into it, humming hungrily until able to start spooning the sustenance into her mouth greedily.  

“Your dad and I are going into town to see that opera Jackie’s been raving about.” Eliza pulled a face, her mother’s sharp eyes noticing it immediately.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t get you a ticket. We know you’d rather be out, running or jumping over walls, or whatever it is you do, nowadays.” She teased, leaning over to pinch Eliza’s cheek playfully, the young girl groaning and pulling her face away. “Ma, stop.” She grumbled, slurping the soup from the spoon ungracefully, finishing it in record time.

“So there’s stuff in the fridge for you for when you come home. I’m going out now quickly, but I doubt I’ll see you before I come back from tonight.” Her mother murmured, arms reaching behind to untie the apron from around her and grabbing her keys before she came over and cupped Eliza’s face. A loud childish whine spilled from Eliza’s lips as her mother kissed her on the forehead. “Be good.” She chuckled, looking at her daughter’s freckled yet disgruntled face before she left. Eliza rolled her eyes playfully, calling out a lazy goodbye as she let her spoon fall into the empty bowl with a clang.

*

She could hear the clanging of metal against the bars of the thunderdome in which she had locked herself into, the screams of the audience mixing with the clanging in an aggressive cacophony. The tall metal structure of the dome clashed with the soft sand that surrounded them for miles; the audience using the metal framework to climb up. From the outside, it would look like a dome of writhing human bodies, cemented with blood and sweat. Eliza was sweating as she took the briefest of moments, eyes squinting under the harsh lights of the thunderdome, her fingernails slightly digging into the sweaty flesh of her opponent as the pain of the previous hits kicked in. Her blood boiled as she stared more into the man’s pig-like eyes before she sharply jolted her knee between his legs, a vindictive rush of pleasure running through her as his strangled groan confirmed her victory. The girl shoved him to the ground, her chest heaving with excitement and adrenaline as the shrieks and screams of the crowd urged her to finish him. She stared down at him, taking too long as the euphoria of the moment overwhelmed her. This was the moment she had been waiting for, after years of hiding and hours of torturous training. He was hers. Five years worth of rage caused her fists to clench tightly as she harshly kicked him in the stomach, once, twice, thrice. Her face contorted into a sadistic smile as he recoiled into himself, like a weak foetus ready to crawl back into its mother. Eliza savoured the moment, turning him onto his back with a flick of her boot before she viciously ground the sole of her boot into his face, feeling him shudder in agony below her. Blood spurted from his swollen lips as she knelt beside him, ignoring the howls of the crowd as she felt herself go numb, looking down at him.

*

Eliza felt her entire face lose its sense of touch as she fell to her knees, having stared at the ground for nearly 5 minutes. It’s not real, she thought to herself. But the tears that streamed down her face informed her that it was real. That was her parents, lying on the floor with their hands bound and their throats slit; a crimson river running from their necks to the polished mahogany coffee table her mother had bought only weeks ago. She stared numbly at the table, her body swaying from side to side as she was slumped on the ground. “Ma…” Eliza murmured, eyes swinging around the room until she saw a mobile phone on the floor, her wet eyes creasing in confusion. It was not her phone, nor her mother’s or father’s. As if pushed by that tempting force of curiosity, she stumbled over to the phone, picking it up. The screen lit up her face as the portrait of a too familiar man and woman stared at her, smiles frozen onto their faces as they were locked in a lover’s embrace. Eliza stared, turning to look at the still warm corpses on the floor before she pocketed the phone. “Goodbye” she whispered, swiftly leaving the house before the police arrived.

*

She could feel the blood crusting on her lip and her face ached from her victim’s fist. She stared down at him, her winces of pain hidden by the scarf around her face. The girl could not believe herself, she was hesitating. If she could have stepped out of her own body and shaken herself, she would have. Do it, she thought to herself, he bound them and slit their throats as they laid there like livestock, do it. Salted tears started to blur her vision as she shook. The 20-year old felt herself reach out and grab his head with both hands, screaming internally at the feel of his congealing blood on her hands. It only bothered her now, at the final moment, that his blood was seeping into the pigments of her skin, just like the blood of her parents had soaked into the carpet of their home. But was it enough? Eliza started to cry, her body shaking as the crowd booed and hissed. The years of enduring his fake sympathy, planning his death, imagining his smiling face into a mess of flesh and blood. She was startled back into reality as he came to, groaning gently as his eyes opened as much as his swollen skin would allow. All at once, the anger came rushing back as Eliza hurriedly pulled a knife from the depths of her clothes, seething as she watched his face contort in pain. She leaned down and hissed into his ear, the knife pressing hard into his jugular. “Tell me uncle, was it worth it?” She cried angrily, pressing the knife down with all her force, hearing her uncle choke on his own blood, the gurgling noise being lost in the triumphant howls of the crowd. The dark, warm liquid spurted onto her face and she closed her eyes, revelling in the rich, buttery smell. The blood laid on her skin like a victorious war paint that she had earned, truly earned.  In that moment, she realised. It was worth it.  

    Author’s Note:

When writing this story, I was influenced by the theme of time. I wanted this short story to take place within the few short minutes of a fight. When plotting, I knew this character had gone through years of training and planning to get to this moment. Originally I had wanted to outline this process and use it in the story, but I found it boring to write and even less thrilling to read. Influenced by the novel, Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf, I decided to use flashbacks to deepen the character’s backstory. However, I felt that the scene where she discovered her parent’s dead bodies was weak. Eliza is a character who shows restrained emotion and she would not have known how to let herself reaction in that situation. This was hard to get across in the form of a story, since I was very aware of the rule ‘show, don’t tell’.

One of the things I kept in mind was the idea of ‘making your readers wonder’, which is why I started with the line, “she knew what he was doing before he did.” This sentence makes sense in a fight scene and gives the character power, which is exactly what I had in mind. I also tried to create multidimensional descriptions, showing Eliza’s reaction to the setting around her, which helped the blend the two together, creating a scene. My aim was to create a fighting scene that was thrilling, instead of just being about action. Since our actions are driven by emotion, I wanted to reflect this in the scene  which I think I accomplished well.  

If I had known I would be this tired, I wouldn’t have done it.

If I had known that something so small could take away my freedom, I wouldn’t have done it.

If I knew that having someone else there would have made it easier, I would have stayed with him.

At times I berate myself for having such thoughts. I have the most precious thing in this world And he’s brought me endless smiles.

But life would have been easier, and it would have been mine. Not his.

   Authors Note:

I gained inspiration for this poem after learning that one of my old school friends had fallen pregnant this summer. She was the stimulus for this poem. She is 19, she is single and she is pregnant. When I learnt of this information, it should have been easy for me to roll my eyes and dismiss her as another person from my school who had gotten pregnant too young. However, because I had been her friend, the news struck a chord within me. I could never imagine myself being in her place. The girl who I once had so much in common with was suddenly so distant; her feelings seemed alien to me. Since I am someone who has just moved halfway across the world in pursuit of education, her choice baffled me at the time. She has only been an adult for a year, I had thought to myself, what about all the experiences she’s going to miss? However, upon reflection, I tried to remove my biased thoughts and out myself in her shoes. The poem above was a result of that. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t find a way to end the poem on a positive note. Instead the poem has an underlying tone of regret all the way through it. Of course no mother ever admits to feeling regret at having a child at such a young age, but I feel that I would.

As someone who has obviously never experienced that mother’s connection with her child, I didn’t want to go into too much detail in the poem. I simply wanted to focus on that private sneaking emotion that some mother’s might feel. It has also occurred to me that this poem could be from the perspective of a mother with post-partum disorder which unfortunately happens to a lot of mothers.

A poem should be a burning sunset, The dying rays of our planet’s sun, Icicles hanging off a neighbourhood bin.

A personal truth strung Through the air, like clothes- artifacts Of your thoughts – hung on a housewife’s washing line. They should be written, Inked into your book Carved delicately into wood and stone.

Diamonds formed in the blink of an eye, Another blink, and a clear, wet diamond Comes forth: an adjective to add to the floods of metaphors.

It is the dank, rotten smell of corpses As your mind crawls through the slimy alliteration, Shivering at the sinister onomatopoeia.

A poem is for judgement, A twirling gymnast, forming rhymes Rhythms with the powerful arc of her form.

It is a poet, Singing aloud the meter; irregular and regular, As stanzas stop the stutters of an anxious author.

  Authors Note:

When writing this poem I originally wanted to take inspiration from the French literary movement, OuLiPo (the Ouvroir de Littérature Potentiel). Whilst I enjoyed using the OuLiPo formula known as N+7, I preferred the mental challenge of the “Snowball technique”. However instead of using one syllables words for the first line, I used a one syllable word for the starting word of the line, and then a two syllable word for the second word and so on. It resulted in the following:

“A Poem Should Be          

A lonely sunflower Parched into submission She waited centuries For something triumphant.

Sharp stingy Januaries Bit into consciousness Her numbing confusion As winter persisted.

Short crystal dimensions Did linger unwanted Whilst precious extensions Craved safer endeavours.  

 I really enjoyed this method as it made me think of words that did not easily spring to mind. When writing poetry, I find it easy to simply put in cliché words that I know perfectly fit into the context of the work. Here the ‘precious extensions’ were the petals of the sunflower and the ‘short crystal dimensions’ were icicles that lingered as winter went on. If not for this technique, I would never have thought to use such obscure terms for petals.

However, another idea sprung to mind when I thought of what a poem should be. As someone who enjoys analysing English Literature and all the techniques authors use to capture the reader, I thought to myself ‘what do I look for in a poem?’ I always seek out alliteration, imagery, metaphors, similes, rhymes and rhythms. So I decided to include these things into my Ars Poetica. Instead of abiding to a rhyme scheme or rhythm, I decided to write free verse, which was a slight challenge. As you can see, each stanza has three lines, so I partially failed in writing completely in free verse.  I enjoy sticking to an order as I find it narrows my thinking, enabling me to add depth to a poem. I am proud of the last line “As stanzas stop the stuttering of an anxious author.” The use of alliteration brings the poem to a firm end, which is an accomplishment for me, since I find the end to be the hardest part of a poem to complete.

-There is something bad about this camera that the man has received. This camera carries a curse. Even though it does not produce photos, still you can click the shutter. When a person has a photo taken by that camera, they shall die of a terrible fate. This is told from the point of view of the old man, who is looking into his recent past. The first few sentences should grab the reader’s attention. Here is an excerpt I have drafted:

“If she could see me now, I don’t think she’d be happy. Not because she isn’t here, but because she so dearly loved to see me smile. And what made me smile, was her. So there’s no longer any chance of that.”  

-In a happy loving portrait, we see the old man who bought the camera for his wife (an avid collector of all things with a past). Happy hugs are exchanged between them, there is a snapshot of him pressing a tender kiss to her forehead. He jokes with her, saying that he must take a picture of the birthday girl to which she laughingly replies: “There’s no film!”. Even so, he pretends to take a photo, not wanting to ruin the lovely moment by searching for film. She strikes a silly pose and he clicks the shutter. The old man shakes his head as he remembers the tragic death of his wife, three days later. She was crushed by a wine cabinet.

-In his lonely mourning, the old man goes to his local antique shop to sell the camera since he is so aggrieved by even the sight of it. He had bought this for her and the thought that she would never get to appreciate it only made his sadness grow. He arrives in the dingy shop and shows the camera to an old, weary lady who appears to have no energy. As soon as she sees the camera, she becomes distraught and unnerved, seemingly recognising it. He is confused and he holds it out to her, stuttering as he tries to offer it to her, his finger slipping and accidentally pressing the shutter with her in the frame. The click is heard around the room and she freaks out, no longer a weak old woman. She insists that he has killed her, screaming abuse at him, tears starting to stream down her cheeks before she runs into the back of the shop, away from his sight. He leaves, confused as he plays with the camera moodily.

-Three days later, his community is shocked by the death of the antique store owner. She died in a dreadful fire. Her death and her last words to him play on his mind, combining with the emotional stress that his grief is causing. The house that once held love and laughter becomes dark and gloomy. The camera that reminds him of his wife but it has an unnerving presence in his home. Weeks and months pass by, he barely manages to feed himself, lost in his grief. He starts to go mad, staring at the camera for hours on end, starting to create wild conspiracy theories. On the way to his usual dull breakfast, for some reason a picture of him and his wife catches his eye and a soft smile manages to make its way onto his face. However, his eyes flit to the wine cabinet that is also featured in the photo and his resolve weakens. He bursts into tears, the memories of his wife filling his thoughts completely. He feels such an absolute sense of desperation and loss that in his grief-addled mind, his only thought is suicide. He slowly takes the camera and walks to the mirror in the home, where his wife used to get dressed and analyse her appearance. He counts to three before a takes a photo of himself.

-He himself believes he will die in three days, he starts to prepare himself for death. This is when he truly reaches the edge of madness. Lost in his grief and insanity, he stares at happy couples from inside his dark and dingy house and envies them, craving the touch of his wife. Once more he looks at the camera, the camera which exudes such a malevolent force, and feels an urge to get rid of it. This is when we see him leave it in the hands of Mr Mok, in the passage given as inspiration. The old man disappears from sight and with each step back to his house, his heart feels lighter because the camera is no longer with him. Instead he goes home and looks at the photograph of him and his wife, slowly taking it off of the shelf and gently stroking her face through the glass. He lays in bed, clutching the photo frame as tears roll down his face. The only thought that keeps him from going completely is that he will be with his wife. The last thought that flits through his mind is that he cannot wait to see her smile once more.  

   Authors Note:

In the excerpt I used a mysterious line as an example for the beginning of the story.  The reader may wonder what happened to “her” and why she wouldn’t be happy to see him in this state. Using a compelling narrative voice is another key that captures the reader’s attention. When thinking about this plot, I tried to imagine the grief and the stages of madness that the character of the old man. This would be achieved in fully writing the story, through his gestures and the tone of piece. The descriptions of the setting would slowly become more dark and ominous, taking influence from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the Miss Havisham scene in Great Expectations. Both describe grim, dusty and gothic features of setting, which is something I feel would be appropriate as the old man’s mind slowly deteriorates.

I chose not to reveal his name to enhance the mysterious theme of the story. By keeping the old man’s identity unknown, it also stops the reader from normalising him and from identifying with him. One worry I had when plotting was that his descent into madness would not seem believable, although grief can have such drastic effects on the mind. I think it would be appropriate to show instead of tell his madness, through his body movements. There should even be an inner monologue to show how scattered his mind is, which shows his manic stream of consciousness.

Perhaps his encounter with the lady in the antique shop could be shown in flashback as he sits in in his house alone. Instead of a full scene, there would be images that flash through his mind, bold lasting images that show the reader the scene without describing it in lengthy boring detail. That is the only problem with writing a horror/mysterious story; if you reveal too much, it becomes boring to the reader. I think perhaps it would have been better to leave the story at the old man taking his picture in the mirror, just to leave the lasting sense of dread in the reader. The happy ending I chose for the plot seems too much like a fairytale for this tragedy themed short story.

I’ll be your clown, if you like Big red nose, scarlet cheeks From the embarrassment of falling Over my clumsy clown clogs.

My chubby cheeks frame the Slightly goofy gaps in my hand-me-down teeth. The smile is the easiest part to paint on, The most vivid part of me. Go ahead and laugh It is rather funny after all I would too If it were you.

But it’s me, and the jokes are tired The paint is cracked into my skin And the nose is peeling off, Rubbed raw from the relentless squeezing of your hands.

I’m glad the squeaking of suffering amuses you. After all, I’m here to entertain you.

   Authors Note:

As someone who loves to analyse poetry, I had very clear aims and goals when writing this poem. I wanted there to be clear characterization and also use of descriptive language and literary devices. I took great care to include alliteration throughout the poem because it echoes the slightly silly nature of a clown. I’ve found that clowns talk in high voices, using “flowery nonsense” language so I wished to highlight this through the use of alliteration. Clowns are beings that you are meant to laugh, they are naturally silly. The parts that I used alliteration for are aspects of a clown that are normal such as the “clumsy clown clogs” and the “­goofy gap” in my teeth. When we were asked to think “what makes you unique?” I immediately thought of my teeth and then I thought of my smile, and the idea of a clown came into my head. However, this clown deteriorates through the poem. Being the butt of a joke cannot be so much fun for very long. As someone who is considered “funny” a lot of the time, I can understand the weariness that comes with constantly entertaining people. Originally I had a very different idea for the poem. I wanted to use a stream of consciousness to represent the business of my life. My first name ‘Melissa’ means ‘honey bee’ in Greek, this corresponded well to the idea of being busy, since there is no animal as ‘busy as a bee’. So I attempted to write a stream of consciousness, it did not turn out well. Here is a sample:

“Out of the way, honey bee coming through, don’t you know I have a lot to do today? Yeah yeah the whole honey thing, that’s my job. Yeah can’t stay to chat, ta.”

The last time I saw her. I’d expected it to feel suffocating, honestly; the wetness of her tears on my shoulder, her heavy sobs pounding into my ear. “T-take care.” Countless times before we’d had similar banal interactions, the same old iron-fist embrace where she’d say how much she was going to miss me. This was always followed by a knowing chuckle from my lips and my hand, ascending to awkwardly pat her on the back. “I’ll miss you too.” The soft sighs passed my lips as I followed the mother-daughter script dutifully, each and every time.

This time it wasn’t an obligation as we stood at the security gate, the tinny announcements bouncing off the walls as people rushed to and fro next to us. This was it. I knew I wasn’t going to feel my mother’s embrace for a long time. This time it wasn’t the slightly patronizing act of a dutiful daughter. This time it was real.

Instead I hugged her all the tighter, taking in every detail that I had missed over that summer, every fibre of her being that I hadn’t bothered to memorise; I took it all in. I finally managed to pry myself away from her, feeling the tell-tale pricks of tears behind my eyelids, warning me to wrap it up. I knew that if she saw me cry, she wouldn’t let me walk through the gate. Besides, one of us had to be strong.

It’s strange how all those months of planning and preparation could lead to such a tiny moment. I don’t think either of us truly thought it was real until we left the house to go to the airport. After weeks of her incessant babbling and nagging, finally there was silence in the car as she drove me to the airport. Suddenly I craved that chattering voice that had been such an annoyance to me over the heat of the summer. Occasionally she’d ask me, “Are you excited?”, yet all I could do was softly nod and smile. Was I suppressing my emotions? Was I experiencing sudden regret or nervousness? I wasn’t sure what to feel at that precise moment.  

I imagine it’s what a baby feels like when it takes its first steps; that new sense of wonder, the slight hesitation as it lifts one foot, then the other, pressing its toes into the material of the floor. Only I had done this walk a dozen times in my life. I walked past the harsh-faced security measures, keeping my eyes straight forward until I was on the other side. Biting on my lip harshly, I risked a glance back. The plexi-glass slightly blurred her figure but I could see her there, her arm waving frantically at me. Always the stoic and strong daughter, I did a short sharp wave and forced myself to turn around, removing her from my sight. As my hand clutched at my passport like a lifeline, I took a deep shuddering breath like a diver who has surfaced from a deep plunge into the endless sea. I took my first step. And in that moment, never in my life have I felt so alone.

    Authors Note: