poemsforuni-blog

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Please help me with my creative writing module by reading my short story and giving me feedback. Any help would be much appreciated

The Hospital Journey

“Here are some earplugs for you, the machine is very loud. Put your head here and lie very still.” A doctor, who seems to be of a similar age to me, instructs.  As he assertively pushes me towards what is essentially a table on wheels, I cannot help but notice how aggressively robust the machine my head was about to be placed into seems to be. “No, don’t cross your legs…” He continued to talk, but is either unaware that the hard foam he just placed around my head is blocking my hearing, or he is too rushed to care. A nurse places a button into my hand and gives me the thumbs up gesture, mouthing at me to relax. I can only assume this is a panic button for when my claustrophobia hits. As soon as I shut my eyes I can feel the bed moving. The inside of the apparatus is so blindingly bright I close my eyes but still need to fight my eyelids to stop them from twitching. My mouth is already dry and subconsciously I have started to clutch onto the panic button. A chainsaw like noise is growing in intensity, bursting through the protective layers surrounding my head and raging against my eardrums. Can they see the stress levels in my brain right now? I have seen some photos from MRI’s before, and I have heard that emotional responses can be shown in them. If so, I hope that the doctor knows his aloof welcome is partly to blame. As I swallow, a high pitched (but thankfully short lived,) screech jerks my body. Surely I do not have to be so still I cannot even swallow?

 Relax.

 The machine scavenging my brain for imperfections is not in fact an MRI, it is the Roller Coaster my Dad and I repeatedly rode on in Blackpool, when I was around ten. The clicking noise is not magnetic fields or radio waves passing through my body, it’s the struggle from the chain on the ride as we rose up the incline of the first drop. Any moment now I will be able to see the ocean once again; I can clutch onto my Dad’s hand whilst screaming at the top of my lungs. The image in my mind is becoming so vivid I can almost smell the crisp sea air…

 The sounds change. I am no longer sat beside my Father on a family day out. No longer am I carefree on a ride at a pleasure beach. Now I am stood in front of my neighbour’s dog, who once got out of his garden and pinned me against a wall for almost an hour. His ears were clasped to his head, his snout snarling to show his fearsome fangs. Wolf like in appearance, any sudden movements could’ve been the aggravation he needed to attack. He was usually kept in a muzzle, even in his own home. I can only assume it must’ve broken off as he scaled the fence which marked the area in which he was usually confided. My hand clamps to the panic button once again.

No. Relax. The noise is not the neighbour’s dog who gave me ten stitches that day. Instead I am entering the imaginary suit from the game my cousin and I used to play. Kitted to the bone in futuristic looking armour I prepare myself to join the war against bloodthirsty aliens, situated on a foreign planet the human race is about to take over. The arena seems metallic. Everything is either silver or white, except for the open sky. The darkness emitted from the horizon is enchanting, planets oozing in purples and oranges dazzle me from the distance above. Whilst my army may be outnumbered, we are far more advanced than the enemy. For one, I am carrying a loaded gun which has advanced accuracy and damage. This is a battle I cannot lose. I sprint to hide behind a rock before shooting. The gun grows similar to the dog, however this sound is now exhilarating. There is a box floating not far from me. I have played enough games to know that this will help me to win the battle. As I lunge to grab my target the atmosphere changes (yet again).

 This noise seems almost unfamiliar to me. Almost as if someone is knocking three times on a large, old, wooden door. The kind of doors you would find marking the entrance of an old castle or a little wooden cottage, hidden amidst a village which would have a singular pub (strictly for locals), a butchers, a bakery, and would exist miles away from the rest of humanity. After the three knocks there is the sound of a buzzer, similar sounding to the buzzers apartment complexes have to allow a visitor access to the building. This sequence lasts a while, to the point I can almost envision myself living in a mansion located on hundreds of acres of land, buzzing in my friend’s so they can stay in one of the many rooms of my new home.  

 This new noise is loud. So loud it is rattling my whole body. I wonder if the MRI is picking up on the fact I am recreating stories in my head? I’m not stupid enough to believe the MRI is acting as some kind of portal so that the nurse can see what I am imagining, but I wonder if my creativity is causing a certain area on the images to light up? The rattling sensation is getting worse. I feel like I am sat in a rocket taking off from the Earth’s hemisphere. Instantaneously I imagine myself strapped into a large chair, in front of a dashboard covered in levers, buttons and monitors. There is a bright light out of the window, similar to the light shining into my eyes from the MRI. Blinding. I can only assume this light is from the sun reflecting off the glass, or from the speed in which I am travelling… I hope the bed shaking is normal. Through my internet research I never read that I would be shaking. However, I did also read that I would feel on edge and would struggle to relax during the process. Once I had overcome my initial fear of the unknown, however, I have found myself to be half enjoying my experience. I’m guessing I have only been in the machine around ten minutes. I’ve now become accustom to waiting. Despite the fact I only arrived around five minutes before my appointment, I found myself talking to an old man for around forty minutes before I was seen by a nurse. I guess the time spent at hospitals allows people to have the chance to reminisce, because in this time he told me his whole life story. Born in the time of the war, he joined the RAF after finishing his Grammar School education early. He has been to the hospital very few times for injuries of his own accord. This time he was here as his wife needed an X-Ray. Once as a child he broke his arm, I mentioned how I broke my nose at a festival. He stated how he was once at an RAF festival and an engine failed, killing the pilot and a few people in the crowd who were stood not too far from him. “That’s awful, that must have been so scary.” I gasped, trying to seem involved in the story as I was unsure of the correct response. “It was awful, but all I could think was ‘Thank the Lord’ because that could’ve been me. It reimbursed my faith.” He replied. “You know, I was once in Jerusalem. It was beautiful there. Anyway, there was an Arab beggar. I gave her some money and I was handing her a Bible as a Jewish man ran over. ‘No, no, don’t touch that! That’s not for us!’ He must’ve assumed the Arab was Jewish. Anyway, I replied with ‘Yes it is. It’s for all of us. There is no difference between you and I. We believe in one God. Jesus was born a Jew, died a Jew and will come back as a Jew.’ He seemed rather taken aback by this. We ended up shaking hands.” As he was recounting this story he was searching through the inside pockets of his suit jacket, then he passed me a small blue Bible, filled with prayers from the New Testament. “Keep this, I always hand them out to people in need.” I’m not really sure what he meant by that, I’m not in need, however the Bible that is now lining the inside of my pocket is making me feel a lot safer.

 The bed stops moving. A camera shutter starts. I’m back on a beach in Wales, sat on a wall feeding the seagulls with my Nana, watching the sun set. I’m around fifteen on a camping trip with her, my Dad, my Sister, my younger Cousin and my Uncle. My Dad is taking our photo. I never really saw my Nana, and I had hardly ever spoken to her on the few occasions we did meet. This trip had given me the opportunity to get to know her a little better. I have always felt a little intimidated by her blunt attitude, but at least I always knew her true opinions. Unusually for Wales, the sun was almost unbearable. It was so warm we could comfortably swim in the ocean that morning, which my Sister, Cousin and Uncle took full advantage of. I’m scared of the ocean, though, so chose to eat Ice Cream and Sunbathe. We had spent the night before eating bacon butties and melted marshmallows (cooked on an open fire), so I wasn’t really hungry, yet I spent half the day walking down the high street with my Nana looking for places to eat. I doubt she was hungry either, rather she just wanted to take the time to talk with me about something. We ended up bitching about how arcades are a waste of time and money, and reconfirmed those beliefs after spending £10 on the grabber machines to only walk away with a tacky stuffed bear. It still sits on my bookshelf next to the photo my Dad had taken of us.

 Silence. Is it over? I open my eyes but I am still inside the machine, the bright light is burning a hole into my head. This silence is making it hard for me to picture anything in my mind. It is so quiet I almost feel deaf. Not a footstep, not a cough, not even a low rattle from the machine’s engine. Possibly I could now be in outer space, looking down on Planet Earth after the journey I envisioned earlier? It’s hard to picture. Maybe this is the silence that followed that day at the beach with my Nana, and I am now lay in my tent waiting to fall asleep? No. I could hear crickets and the distance laughs of other campers that night. It was not this silent.

I’m starting to get a feeling of sensory deprivation. I cannot see, cannot hear. All I can smell is the putrid odour of hospitals. The smell which puts me on edge. When I was relaxed I dropped the panic button, now I am frantically patting my body trying to find it. The high pitched screeching is back, the one warning me not to move. This is unbearable. The bed is moving and I can finally open my eyes. “That’s it, your results will be sent to your GP. Don’t forget your jacket as you leave.” The doctor rushed as he quickly pushed me out of the room so the next patient can enter.

[poemsforuni-blog]

The language of gender

Hey, I am currently writing my proposal for my dissertation and hope to investigate how gender affects language used by an individual. As part of this research I hope to use individuals who are transgender and gender fluid, as well as cisgendered males and females If anyone would be willing to help me when the time arises that would be of great help, I’m not entirely sure of what this entails yet but if anyone is MTF, FTM or gender fluid please contact me 

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She was 14 (second draft)

She idolised the models in magazines. I wanted to remind her that real life doesn’t come with Photoshop, she shouldn’t compare herself to them. To her, they were unattainable aspirations. 

Believe me, I always noticed how she butchered her meals. I guess she felt it necessary to rearrange her food, believing if she could see her plate she had eaten enough. Only minutes after sitting down she always become lost, trapped in her own mind. I assume this was the time where she would calculate the calories worth eating. 72 calories for that egg, but if I skip it I could have a few chips, which Mum and Dad will notice more, but broccoli is a superfood, but… A never ending equation, where no balance is found.

As routine, she always left the table early. “I need to go to the toilet”. She struggled to stand as her bones always ached. No baggy shirt covered her loss.  

[poemsforuni-blog]

The language of gender

Hey, I am currently writing my proposal for my dissertation and hope to investigate how gender affects language used by an individual. As part of this research I hope to use individuals who are transgender and gender fluid, as well as cisgendered males and females If anyone would be willing to help me when the time arises that would be of great help, I’m not entirely sure of what this entails yet but if anyone is MTF, FTM or gender fluid please contact me 

[poemsforuni-blog]

Manchester’s hidden art

The earthy aroma of fresh coffee beans floats gently in the air, mixing perfectly with the crisp smell of the newly budded lavender drifting in with the breeze. There is almost a taste of freshness, seeming to encourage the motivated taps of laptops keys which is hidden below the sound of the talented musicians, whose gentle riffs sooth anyone who chooses to listen. By description, I feel like I should be sat in an elegant coffee shop in a romanticised foreign country, not sat in Manchester’s Northern Quarter, seconds from busy Market Street.

On Urban Dictionary Manchester is described as being “run down, smelly and rat infested….”, and realistically I cannot argue. I start my weekend in Manchester at Nexus Art Café, where I was greeted by a six foot tall rat as part of an exhibit, whilst enjoying the smells of rich foods. The not-for-profit venue aims to encourage local talent whilst using locally sourced ingredients for their meals. Whilst I enjoyed my green tea and bean toastie, the independent film projected on a nearby wall created a high pitched buzzing noise which was practically unbearable to the ears of customers.

After leaving the café, I decided to walk round the dingy streets of the city to find any wall art which could decorated the dull grey buildings that the city was established of. The most colourful street in the whole of Greater Manchester is Canal Street, however the smell of stagnant water and the fact that the beautiful cobblestone road was occasionally decorated with day old sick may be enough to put some people off appreciating the beauty of the colourful rainbow flags plastered everywhere. I was greeted by a “Welcome To Manchester’s Gay Village” sign. In comparison to Nexus Art Café’s giant rat, this welcoming felt more conventional, whilst creating a feeling of appreciation from the LGBT+ community. Each club tried to create a sense of identity, seeming to represent the main goal for the area, including one club called New Union Hotel which had a painting of Batman and Superman kissing along one of its walls.

Music is a form of art, so after spending most of my day looking at conventional art, I found myself queueing outside a dingy looking building named Antwerp Mansion (hidden along the infamous Curry Mile), later that night. As I waited with strangers (who all seemed a little worse for wear), to endure a night of live jungle music, I was very sceptical about whether the venue would survive the first bassline. The cracking graffiti and smashed windows screamed that the building was surely too old and neglected to survive 600 young adults dancing inside. To my surprise, little after 11pm I found myself in a crowd of intoxicated Mancs, all dancing in a way which didn’t seem to fit with the songs being played. I didn’t know anyone I was stood in the small circle with, nor did I know the man who wrapped his arms around my shoulder so we could climb the stage together, but in that individual moment I felt a sense of belonging. Despite the off-putting exterior, the interior reminded me a little of the Art Café I ate in earlier that day. Whilst the “art” (graffiti shoddily tagging the toilet walls and walls) differs in class to the exhibits at Nexus, the warm colours and unique paintings were intriguing. Some paintings on the wall seemed to show depth, whilst others were just a colourful statement representing the feel of the club. I felt pretty pretentious staring at what most would consider to be just vandalism, until a girl who stank of weed and high percentage alcohol, wearing the same colours that painted the walls came and stood with me. We decided the club probably wanted to represent the subculture of the individuals who attend their event nights, shown by the fact the owners have a policy of allowing people to spray paint on their walls if they let the staff know beforehand. I was saddened when the night ended, closing at 3am it seemed like the events should run until 5am as the standard of night was much higher than those of other venues in Manchester.In conclusion, whilst Manchester may seem colourless as a whole, it is home to some hidden areas that are a diamond in the rough. The dreary greys of offices and brown bricked buildings are occasionally tagged with a little creativity, or may be using all their efforts to keep art in Manchester alive. 

Sources: http://antwerpmansion.com/about.asp

http://www.educationuk.org/global/articles/top-uk-lgbt-festivals-events-2016/

http://nexusartcafe.com/

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[poemsforuni-blog]

She was 14

She idolised the models in magazines. I wanted to remind her that real life doesn’t come with Photoshop, so she shouldn’t compare herself to them, but before I could comment we had to sit down to eat our tea.

Believe me, I always notice how she butchered her meals. I guess she felt if she could see her plate she had eaten enough. Only minutes after sitting down she becomes lost, trapped in her own mind. I assume this was the time where she would calculate what was worth eating. 72 calories for that egg, but if I skip it I could have a few chips, which Mum and Dad will notice more, but broccoli is a superfood, but… A never ending calculation, where no one ended up happy.

As routine, she always left the table early “to go to the toilet”. She struggled to stand as her bones always ached. A baggy shirt could not hide the loss in her heart.  

[poemsforuni-blog]

You taught me so much that night. How the wind whispers through the grass to the moon, helping each blade dance to the sound of our murmurs. The moon replies with a gentle spotlight to highlight the morning dew. We couldn’t see much else, but who needed to? We were happy sitting with our fingers entwined like Ivy. Unnatural, but natural all at once. 

[poemsforuni-blog]

Lemminkäinen

If only I could stitch you back to life in comparison to the mythical tale, you deserve that more. I would call to all the Gods, send all the bees, learn how to stitch but in reality, to death there is no cure. In comparison to the mythical tale, your death was much more peaceful, your lifeless body just collapsed into the morning dew whilst his rested uncomfortably on the eerie pebbles of the underworld. However, his body only rested, as he could be restored to new... From your story there are no morals to be taught. Hoping you will be back is making me frail, this isn’t the mythical tale  so I have to let your boat sail...

In life, you won, I love you, my son.

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I wish

I wish I could end this shit, take a knife or a razor and rip it all away. I wish there were pills to help the pain that paralyses me every day. I wish bleach could wash down the hate, or I could pass out from a few too many at a bar. I wish there was a way to rip it all away, like to “trip” in front of a speeding car.

How I envy those who are ignorant so the world doesn’t leave them hallow. Instead I need drugs to help me forget I need to worry about tomorrow. 

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It’s smoke dances in the air as the ash floats to the ground, I can only imagine how it dances in my lungs that feel drowned.

[poemsforuni-blog]

My first attempt at a Haiku..

Shipped like cargo lives ended from the journey; they got off easy.