Category / Romance

by Colette

Star Talk ii

astronomy_stars

Who can resist? Image // sunsetastronomicalsociety.com

Written by Lost in a Dream

Vacant was I and
vague was the stage.
The canvas of night
smudgy with inky hues,
a natural masterpiece of
Violets, indigos and blues.
The perfume of summer was still
lazing in the air.

The crescent moon
cut through the void above me 
and the stars began to blossom and bloom.

I felt the moon’s ancient gaze
as she painted the old lake silver
and illuminated the birches.
The omniscient stars hung in the sky,
Their smiles, as always, never failing to
enchant the romantic or enthuse the astronomer.

Carried by the whispering wind, 
the stars’ words echo through nature.
Though locked in an obsolete language,
Their fragile, archaic song
offers solace to
the hurt, the misused
the broken and
the confused.

‘Star Talk ii’ is one of Lost in a Dream’s older pieces of poetry, which has since been updated. We thought it was a great piece of poetry and couldn’t wait to share it in our sci-fi special this month. Though we’re not entirely sure where Star Talk i is, or if it even exists, we’re definitely intrigued by the title and the imagery within the piece. If you liked Lost in a Dream’s poetry, make sure you check out some of her other work too, including ‘Masquerade‘ and ‘Parnassus Park‘. 

by Colette

Neon

Written by Nonexistent Rose

neon_butterfly

Beauty in the simplest of forms. Image // fanpop.com

I couldn’t remember the past twelve hours but I guessed that meant the drugs had worked. I’m sure it would have been much worse if they hadn’t. I felt light fingers touch the gauze around my eyes.

“I’m jealous,” Rosie spoke softly.

“Of what? Having your eyes ripped out because they aren’t good enough?” I felt my left arm tingle when she drew close, the hairs standing on end from the slight draft.

“Are you really upset about this?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You got new eyes, Charlie. They’re beautiful, they fit right, and they work much better than your old ones; I even heard your parents paid extra to get the eyes of an expert pilot.”

“My mother couldn’t stand to see her child walking around wearing glasses, like I’m one of those, you know, slum kids. So she bought me a pair of used eyes. Big whoop.”

Rosie sighed. I was being unreasonable, clearly. But she still leaned on me, choosing to ignore my petty attitude. I almost wish I could say that I was the jealous one because Rosie still had her own eyes, but I couldn’t because she hated her eyes. She would give up both of them just for one new one. They were such a dull blue they looked grey and their vision wasn’t perfect, but her family couldn’t afford to buy her new ones. I wished my family couldn’t afford to buy me new ones. I wished our money was directed at more important things than appearances, though my mother would throw yet another unnecessary tantrum. 

But normal people didn’t wish to not be rich so I kept my mouth shut. Rosie touched the gauze on my face again. 

“I wonder what they look like.”

“Why don’t you peel off the tape and find out?”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to take off the gauze yet.”

“I don’t care.” I didn’t care if I went blind or ruined my vision back to its previous blurred state. I just didn’t care.

“I’ll be gentle.” Rosie whispered and I felt her stand up. Her touch was always delicate, as if everything she laid her hands on was as fragile as a butterfly wing. And true to her word, she was gentle with the gauze as she peeled it off. I was rough and impatient and my foot fidgeted until I nearly reached up and peeled it off for her.

I felt the air dance over my closed eyelids once she finally shed the final layer. I was scared to open them, to let these new eyes see the world. Would it look the same through someone else’s eyes? Would Rosie look like she always did, with her plain brown hair and dull grey eyes? 

“Open your eyes, Charlie,” she murmured like a mother waking her child.

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by marleylilith

The Start of Something Beautiful

Written by Ricardo

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

Having a quiet night in? Pizza makes it all better.

The light which illuminated Grace’s front room was not the kind she was accustomed to. At this time (which was 21:03 on a Saturday night for anybody out of the know) Grace would usually have just landed on the sofa after spending exactly twenty-four minutes soaking in the bathtub and then dressing in her Marvel pyjamas; the television would be on Channel Four and she would begin watching her shows three minutes late.

But this time was different. Instead of the kit-cat clock which hung on her cream walls striking 21:03, its unblinking, unreal eyes gazing around the room as if afraid that she wouldn’t turn up one day and leave it with only its own incessant ticking for company, the clock showed 21:00 when Grace’s backside hit the sofa. This time, it wasn’t shielded from the eyes of her kit-cat clock with her usual Marvel pyjamas. Today she wore a Batman onesie. And to complete the utter anarchy which was her life in these few desperate moments, the light which illuminated her front room was the glow of the moon instead of her television.

And so Grace sat upon the sofa, alone except for her kit-cat clock, which for the moment she decided to called Terry, and looked around herself. And she noticed that by the light of the moon, everything was in fact a lot darker. And at 21:03 she turned the television on, and the light of a floating number four joined the moonlight in its game of showing Grace the darkest corners of her own front room. And she began to cry. Continue reading →

by marleylilith

Life, Through a Shot Glass

Written by Bobartles

They're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone.

They’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinking alone.

If whiskey ran inside our veins,
and burned away our past,
then maybe we could break these chains
and free ourselves at last.

We’d talk about the good times,
of the way things used to go.
We’d lock our hands in darkened rooms,
and no-one else would know.

With no bad blood to hold us back,
we’d build our lives anew.
In happy times or hardship,
those fires would see us through.

Though silence leaves its bitter stains;
uncertainty and fear,
if whiskey ran inside our veins,
then maybe

you’d

be

here?

Written while the poet was severely sleep-deprived, Life Through a Shot Glass is Bobartles’ way of  looking back on his drunken decisions, good and bad. If you enjoyed this poem please check out Harplands, another beautiful but sad poem from the same pen.

by Colette

Video

Written by Elanor Rose

future_cityscape

What will the future bring? Image // Telegraph

And there, in the midst of it all,

in the palm of my hand,

in among the creases and folds,

(where once I had my fortune told)

was a video. And it flashed red, green.

And it showed me a world,

it showed me a place I had not yet seen

(both unfamiliar and exotic it seemed)

but before long it faded to black

and showed me myself.

 

But I seemed so still and pale.

I thought of turning and twisting,

of staying silent, burning all bridges,

until there were no known fords.

That was not my way.

 

I set the video down dead

and gazed closer at the

head – heart – life

and embraced the fears

once forged by fair hand

and traced them all round until

my index became still

and I had found an end.

 Elanor’s wonderful poem, Video, was written as a reflection on our society’s relationship with technology, with an intense obsession of the future and what we will find, develop and create. Oddly, her inspiration for this particular piece was sitting down to trace the lines of her hand – this was such a simple pleasure, we couldn’t help but choose it in our selection for this month. If you liked Elanor’s writing, make sure you check out her lovely poem, Sheffield Steel. 

by Colette

Only A Smile

Written by Dice

comic_strip_commute

Such a fleeting moment. Image Courtesy of themetapicture.com

Part 1

Sitting there she was unassuming, but when she smiles you understood why someone thinks she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived.

That someone sat opposite her on the train. He usually found himself on the same carriage as her during the commute to and from work. If he was honest, he often made sure he was on the same carriage. He wondered if she noticed, she’d probably think he was a “weirdo” if she did. Today he had been luckier and she had come onto the train after him. He had wondered where she was, she had almost missed the train.

The man often battled with himself over whether he should say something, but no one ever talks to strangers on the train, she would surely think him weird. Would she even answer him? She’d probably just give a curt reply and return to her book. What if he mentioned the book? He read it himself and really enjoyed it. But wait, what if she wasn’t enjoying it, maybe she’d think he was a geek for reading it.

Just say something, say “hi”. What if she doesn’t answer? What if she doesn’t like him? She’s probably wondering who he is and why he’s glancing fervently. There was no point in talking to her. But what if she did like him? But what if she doesn’t, was it worth the risk? Just say “hi”, just say “hi”.

She probably doesn’t like me.
Coward.

Part 2

He glanced again. He looked a little serious, but when he smiled he was cute. Did he smile because he liked her? Don’t be silly, he was just being polite.

He’d probably think she was a creep or something if he knew she had chosen this carriage because he was on it. She’d done it a few times before, that’s creepy isn’t it? Maybe that’s why he was glancing. It couldn’t be because he liked her too, could it? He would have said something. Maybe he’s shy. But not even a “hi”. He didn’t like her. What if she said something? Is it odd for the girl to say something? Does she look “easy” if she does? He probably didn’t think the same as her. Even if he replied, he’d probably take what he wants then move on. If he wasn’t interested, it would make the journey to work awkward, she’d have to avoid the carriage he was on.

Just say “hi”. What’s the worst that could happen? She could be embarrassed, she could embarrass him. There was no point in talking to him. But what if he did like her, he doesn’t. But what if he doesn’t, was it worth the risk? Just say “hi”, just say “hi”.

He probably doesn’t like me.
Coward.

Dice’s flash fiction was written on behalf of the HHC theme for February – unfortunately, he missed out on the love-themed month, but we’ve managed to pop this piece into our Simple Pleasures theme for April. A fleeting glance with a good-looking stranger on a train, bus, or plane has happened so many times, it’s hard to count on one hand. But what happens when you pluck up the courage and strike up a conversation with them? They could be the partner of your dreams. We’re hoping for a part 3! If you like Dice’s writing, why not check out some of his other work, including ‘Keep Smiling Through‘ and ‘The Writer’s Block‘.

 

by marleylilith

35.2

Written by Lilith

The author wrote this as a response to 35.1 by Bobartles, fearing that his first person narrative didn’t do him justice. While we think this piece works fine as a stand alone, she’d like to request that you read 35.1 first for a spot of context.

Love keeps the winter from freezing us all to death. Image courtesy of laura-makabresku on deviantart.


It’s cold, shit, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cold before. The draft clings to my thighs and I regret not dressing more warmly for January, but it’s too late for that so I clench my legs together, wishing for heat. I cradle my coffee in both unsteady hands and try to stop crying.

I look back at the screen. “It’s cold,” I read aloud. “I don’t notice.” I try to envision the narrator; a man so jaded and dead inside that he can’t comprehend every eddy of cool air snaking across his skin, creeping through his clothes. I know I’m meant to think he can’t feel it because he’s so cold on the inside, but something about it strikes me as wrong. Cold isn’t like that. It creeps in, not out.

I know you better than you think, dear narrator. I know your smile. My shaking hands still as I consider you, and a tiny twinge of warmth makes its way through my body. I sip my coffee, feeling a little more like myself.

How can I possibly tell you that you aren’t this person? I imagine you in his place, standing on the bridge with the harsh winter wind ripping through your immovable body, feeling nothing at all. I see myself at your side, my hand creeping into yours as you stare down at the traffic below.

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by Colette

Heartbreak

Written by Fantasy Girl 

the_yellow_wallpaper

A woman’s descent into madness reflected in Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper.
Image Courtesy of thedailyshift.com

You know how it feels, don’t you, to be living life but it’s like a dream. A simple, serene picture can turn into the waking nightmare. Well, that’s what it’s like for me anyway, I don’t know about you.

The vines – woven through the complex trellis designs – no longer create an escape from reality, but a barrier, stopping me from running. And when I finally get through, the roots claw at my feet, the vines grip my throat and I struggle to breathe. I begin to panic, I’m alone and no one will rescue me.

But then I’m back in my living room and I still can’t breathe. The raging fire in the hearth on the same wall doesn’t thaw the ice that’s lodged itself in my soul. And the constant cheery chirp of the red-breasted robin, as it sits on the frosted branch, no longer makes me smile.

I’m lost, trapped in a sea of twisted vines.

No one will save me.

No one cares.

I will stay here, forever wishing the drooping branches of the willows would brush my cheeks again, like the kiss of an angel, but they only tangle themselves in my hair and refuse to let go. They wrap themselves around my wrists and stop me from moving – are they trying to calm me down, maybe? Trying to make me think rational thoughts? I scream.

But then I’m back in my living room, still screaming. The fire in the hearth doesn’t warm the chills that run down my spine. And the constant cheery chirp of the red-breasted robin, as it sits on the frosted branch, just makes me angry.

I’m lost, trapped in a world of fear.

I don’t want to be saved.

I don’t want anyone to care.

Heartbreak was written on behalf of a challenge set by Fantasy Girl’s college English tutor. The challenge was to write about heartbreak through language, structure, and form, without alerting the reader to the reasons for a character’s broken heart. Fantasy Girl chose to focus on one simple image of vines twisting in on itself in wallpaper – presumably, this challenge was set in response to The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Like Fantasy Girl’s writing? Make sure you check out Commune and Black Mirror.

by Colette

A Boy Who Fell In Love

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

the_boy_and_the_moon

Debuting at the Giffoni Film Festival in Italy two years ago, The Boy and the Moon is a short animation describing his love for the moon.
Image Courtesy of the giffonifilmfestival.it/en/ Film Archives

This is a story about a boy who fell in love. An ordinary boy, at first glance, and he lived an ordinary life. But he was entrusted with a great secret: there is only so much happiness in the world. This boy was the only child who knew this – and at first, that was fine, because with the secret came a responsibility; he could hand out this happiness as he chose. He tried with all his might to keep the happiness fair for everyone. Sometimes, however, he neglected somebody. When this happened, he had to give them something special. Something wonderful. But to hand out something wonderful would mean a big change in the happiness levels somebody would have to lose (edit). And when this happened, whatever it was they lost – if it was their lover, their money, or their pride – he would take it and cast it into the sky, where it would shine brilliantly to remind us that we all must pay the price, but that life can still be beautiful. And while they where there, they could be company for the moon.

The moon had been lonely; lonely for years. Each night, when the boy was finished his tiring work, he would go and watch her. Her dazzling beauty, her kindly generosity, her contained splendour. And as he watched, he felt his heart grow and swell; when he cast friends into the sky for her, however, he felt a cold burn in his chest that he had never known: jealousy. For the boy had come to love the moon as he watched her shining defiantly in the murky, cloudy sky. This innocent young boy with a terrible gift had never felt jealousy – how could you be jealous of anyone when you knew their happiness was another’s pain? And so, as he watched the moon’s stars, the boy felt for the first time in his short life, the stomach twisting envy of another. Continue reading →

by marleylilith

Not Today

Written by Lumberjacktom

The most precious commodity in the universe... A baby. Image courtesy of babble.com

The most precious commodity in the universe… A baby. Image courtesy of babble.com

Your skin is so smooth, almost translucent on the delicate curve of your sleeping body. I’m overcome by how fragile you look in that moment; your eyes closed, your shoulder length hair splayed across the pillow. I’m trying to tell if you’re beautiful. I think I’ve forgotten what it means. A squat, square face, big eyes, softened by your smile. A child’s face. Innocent. You have a child’s body as well, I might still mistake you for a boy, if there were any of those.

Doc says you’re ready for a child. He tells me you’re strong for your age, that it don’t matter that your breasts haven’t come through yet, that a baby can live on formula just fine. I keep thinking, maybe if I tell them you’re barren, that your womb’s no good, maybe they’d let me keep you. I wouldn’t have to break your fragile little frame, squirt my seed into your tiny body and let a little life grow inside, ’til it forced its way out, and surely split you on its way. Maybe then, when they didn’t care anymore, I could keep you safe, until you were properly a woman, ’til you knew what it meant to bear a child.

But they wouldn’t let me do that. They’d test you this way and that until they were sure, then they’d go inside and have your ovaries. Or put someone else’s baby in, one made in a lab from the chromosomes of men, a perfect little womb-bearer made to specification by the bio-engineers with their microscopes and pipettes. Just like you.

You wouldn’t let me, either. You want a little life too; it’s what a girl is born for, they say. And why wouldn’t you believe them? It’s what you’ve been told all your life, that is. When you grow up, when you come of age and your body says its ready, we’ll find a man for you, and he’ll give you a little one. Wasn’t it what you were born for? Just like the mother they put you in, deemed fit and seeded with life. So of course its what you want. What you say you want, anyway; I think you’re more scared than you say. I think you know you’re too little, too unspoilt by the world, else you would complain more that we haven’t tried. Seems fitting, you say, that we should get to know each other, since we’re a couple now, some kind of courting period. If it goes on much longer, they’ll find out. They’ll spread your legs on the doctor’s couch, and find out I haven’t yet broken you. Then what? Maybe they’ll seed you with someone else, and leave you with me, so I can stand by you; hold your hand while you push out someone else’s child. Or maybe they’d take you from me, say, “If you won’t use her, someone else will.” Scared to be a man. If that’s how you figure it, I’m as much a man as you are a woman, though I was one and a half times your age when you were born.

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