New Year, New Me 

I'm not really one for New Years Resolutions, but this year I have promised myself a few things - Get my 1st EP out, work on expanding my co-writing circle, increase working with other artists, challenge myself to write daily - either lyrics or music, but get something creative down. It doesn't have to be groundbreaking or genre defining, it just needs to be me sitting down, making time to work on my art. It isn't easy, I get pissed at myself if everything I write isn't a masterpiece, so I get pissed a LOT! :)

Plus get the new website up and running, which this is, so... so far, so good! :)   

Creative Writing – Airport Terminal 

The suitcase slips from your sweaty palm.

“Crash!” – Heads turn – we have an audience again.

You abandon the hated case at the side of a busy set-down area, oblivious to annoyed individuals, now tripping and stumbling over it, while you pace around in tiny circles, frustratingly scanning the immediate area for a “God Damn” trolley bay.

Impatiently, you yank the heavy suitcase onto it’s three working wheels and begrudgingly drag it towards the electronic doors, slotting in behind a gaggle of excited travellers, all pouring into the main terminal building.

As always, I follow along.

We make our way slowly towards check-in desk number 15; another business trip to Birmingham. I don’t even know why you bother to bring me, you spend most of the time glued to your laptop or on your phone – actually, correction – I do know why you bring me – you need me to look pretty, at your meetings and at the hotel bar afterwards. You need me to keep any significant other that might be present; busy and entertained, all while you spend the evening working your “magic”, as you call it, trying to clinch your deals.

To be honest, we both know you lost that magic years ago.

As we approach the centre of the expansive terminal, the midday sun illuminates the crystal clear glass panels in the ceiling above us. The shimmering light bounces playfully off overhead advertising signs, reflecting a rainbow of colours onto the perfectly polished floors.

The stained glass effect reminds me of a cathedral – this church of the modern day globetrotter. My thumb unconsciously floats towards my ring finger.

The distant rumble of a low flying jet masks the incoherent mumbling from a crackling tannoy system, as we navigate through disjointed lines of eager passengers.

Up ahead, I spot the neon glow of a bubbling hen party; a not-so-subtle parade of rosé ribbons and pretty pink dresses, which in turn catches the eye of a passing, boisterous bachelor party. My senses suddenly assaulted by the overpowering wave of sweetened perfume hanging in the air, flirting shamelessly with the pungent smell of alcohol and stale aftershave.

On passing, a wayward arm from one of the over excited young men catches me off guard, sending my travel documents tumbling to the floor.

Flustered, I sink down to gather all the pieces together. As I do, a young, delicate hand reaches out towards me, handing me my passport. Looking up, I find myself face to face with the bride-to-be, her title emblazoned across a pretty pink sash, worn proudly across her chest. Fresh faced and beaming smile, love and innocence in her beautiful green eyes – my jealousy and envy shames me – That used to be me.

“Samantha…!” an exasperated tone emanates from the middle of a small crowd of curious onlookers, “What the hell are you doing, I’m going to be late!!”

And then, right there in that surreal moment, on my knees, surrounded by complete strangers, I only noticed one detail…

… My wedding ring was gone.

I must have been lazily twirling it around the tip of my finger, like I sometimes do when I’m day dreaming; that sudden knock must have sent it flying.

I stare silently at the subtle pink imprint left on my finger and wait apprehensively for the panic to set in. But it doesn’t. Nothing comes. There is no sense of loss, or even a need to anxiously scramble around the glossy tiles on my hands and knees.

I’m actually glad the ring is missing.

Maybe it was the sight of the beautiful, young bride to be, full of excitement and adventure for her new life ahead; or maybe it was the now obvious confusion creeping across her innocent face, as if asking herself, “How could a husband speak like that to his wife?”

And just like that, whatever dense fog that had blinded me from the truth of my situation, had suddenly lifted.

“Samantha…!” That voice again – but now seemingly distant, almost defused.

It had finally hit me – an epiphany, now as crystal clear in my mind as the beautiful illuminated ceiling that floated over my head.

Standing up tall in my scuffed Gucci heels, staring straight into his scowling, reddening face, I loudly proclaim with a confident, growing giddiness:

“Donald… I don’t love you any more. In fact, I don’t think I’ve loved you in years!”

The deafening silence that descended on the crowd lasted an eternity – only broken by the harsh feedback of the tannoy system, announcing the gate number for Ryanair flight number FR1348 to Fuerteventura.

My mind was made up in an instant… I was getting on that plane.

Creative Writing – Convict 

The hot morning sun is a prison guard, its searing rays a baton – goading me, poking at my hot and clammy skin from the free world outside, as I lay here sweating profusely on this thread bare prison mattress.

The sharp shafts of light are a spotlight on this rank and dirty floor, illuminating the reality of my situation, as the putrid smell of two day old food and stale urine assaults my senses.

My mouth tastes like blood and death. My left eye is a badly repaired bike tire, misshapen and swollen, my bloodshot pupil barely visible underneath.

I force my head up a fraction, squinting agonisingly through the harsh light, and scan the tiny room. I come to a stop on an ongoing roach party, a squirming blur of vile, fighting and squirming over God knows what, in one of the dank corners of this foul cesspit.

Over my makeshift bunk, a solitary spider plans his daring escape, concocting a convoluted scheme in a maze of silk webs and fine strings, mocking the helplessness of my situation, as he weaves and winds his way to freedom.

Creative Writing – Crook 

Fearing his sweaty palms will give him away, he quickly wipes them on the inside of his expensive, suit pants pockets, takes a long, deep, calming breath and steps out of the purring car to face the fervent crowd. His flushed face is a red carpet of fake smiles, his eyes are twinkling cubic zirconia’s, as he raises his hands to a giant roar from the gathered masses; the working man’s hero, in this great pantomime of an election campaign.

He continues shaking hands and kissing babies – an actor on a stage, selling promises he knows he won’t keep to an audience greedy for more – He’d sell his own grandmother at this stage of the game – he’s in too deep, a puppet for some unseen, looming shadow.

Silly compromises in his younger days, too greedy, hungry for that little bit of extra power, but little white lies turned grey, and now they weigh heavy on him. Now his words are coal pit black, the only chink of light left in him emanates from his perfectly whitened teeth, through which lie after lie tumbles out.

He can’t help himself; he can’t back down or they’ll expose him, so he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. If he wins, they’ll use him of course; but the way he sees it, more power means more ways he can fight his way out of this political sh*t-storm waiting to happen – so for now, he keeps on smiling, kissing and shaking – telling the drooling masses exactly what they want to hear.

Creative Writing – Eel 

The mid-July sun is a furnace. Around me, brightly coloured lichen cling tightly to sea ravaged rocks, a painter’s palette of colour contrasting brightly against the deep blue merger of sea and sky.

A soft sea haze drifts gently over the glassy body of water stretching out in front of me, broken only by an occasional, hidden swell, rising unexpectedly from the depths below; the sea’s chest expanding momentarily, before a long, drawn out exhale of water crashes against the glistening rocks below.

The sharp shrill of nagging seagulls, hovering like hot air balloons on warm ocean breezes, several metres above my head, all too curious about the contents of my pungent bait bucket.

I close the offending lid tightly, and slowly lean back under the cooling shade of my beach umbrella. With my fishing rod butt resting quietly under my right hand, I take the chance to rest my squinting eyes.

My mind meanders out to sea, floating aimlessly on a current of fabricated thoughts, carried away on tall tales, adrift on fables of the one, big, whopper of a conger eel that somehow slipped away…

Creative Writing – Promise 

“Promise me, John.”

Her last three words to me, now perfectly preserved on this soft, scented paper.

I carefully fold the letter back along its creases, and gently return it to its waiting envelope, staring blankly for a moment at my name and address on the front, noticing again how delicate and beautiful her handwriting was.

The loose gravel crunches softly underneath the heavy wheels of this perfectly pristine limousine, bringing me slowly back to the present.

The car slows to a silent stop, as a sombre parade of black umbrellas emerge in unison from several vehicles either side of us.

I grab the door handle, slowly push open the heavy door and step out into this very different world I now find myself in.

A strong, earthy smell lingers in the damp afternoon air, one of heavy rain and fresh cut grass. My head spins slightly, as a torrent of memories flood my mind – of summer evenings after the rains had passed, working away diligently in our new back garden, watching a little hurricane of speckled blonde hair and freckles, dancing around in my muddy old garden boots…

From my side, a soft little voice whispers –

“It’s going to be ok, Dad”, as her small hand slips gently into my trembling palm.

I squeeze it tightly, and we both make our way slowly up the winding cemetery path, towards the gathering crowd.

Creative Writing – Mist 


I trace my outstretched finger along the glistening surface of the smooth, metal barrier, watching larger, more defined water droplets form in its wake; tiny, narrow pools, reflecting a single, lonely street light that stands guard above my head.

Then, grabbing the cold steel firmly with both hands, I launch myself up and over, landing with a dampened thud on the artificial surface of this disused running track.

I raise my face skywards and feel the soft dance of morning mist against my skin, tingling as the refreshing spray energises my whole being – the timer beeps on my trusty old Casio watch and I slowly start running, the first few strides pounding and shaking any final, morning cobwebs out of these tired bones.

Creative Writing – Unrequited Love 

A callous wind fans the flames on this funeral pyre of unopened letters.

The pitiful plumes of black, choking smoke,
causing my eyes to tear up, as I witness words that meant everything to me, disappear into a lonely grey sky.

A song bird sings a sad lament, as weeping willows bow their heavy heads. A magpies mocking sermon shrieks from his hidden pulpit.

My heart sinks at thoughts of what could have been, as I watch the last few words fade among the dying embers. My words are dust now, ashes are all that remain of a love unrealised – my heart is an urn, carrying them always.

The Breakup 

Subtle scent of your perfume from my pillow
Now damp with tears
Early morning rain meanders down these misty windows
A worn old shoebox catches my eye from the side locker
As I cocoon my heavy head deeper under the covers

Memories of better days – now locked away

My fallen heart sinks deeper into my chest
Visions of pink and blue post-it notes,
Tender words I now want to believe with all my heart
But little white lies grew darker over time

Your secrets took on different shades
While I remained colour blind

Creative Writing – Workday Mornings 

Workday mornings
Tired head
Sleepy eyes

Struggling to drag myself out of bed
Lure of a warm duvet
Cocoon myself back inside
A morning butterfly
The quiet house distracted by
The rhythmic dripping of a leaky tap

All I want is to lie here with you
The world drags me into the ring to fight
You are always in my corner
On workday mornings I never see victory

Body unsteady
Drunk morning legs
Hands outstretched

Grasping for my dressing gown
Peering through half closed eyes
The morning light an examination of retinas
As I struggle to keep them open.
Shower like smelling salts
Plunging me back into the land of the living

I just want to lie here with you
Just ten minutes more
Warm feet on a cold floor
Let the world do what it’s going to do
I just want to lie here with you