Just Let Me Fly

Water trickles from the tap weakly, cold and numb on my hands. I slap my cheeks and stare at the puffy circles beneath each eye in the grimy mirror. Stale alcohol lingers on my breath. Distant voices blare from the hotel-room’s old TV. I can’t tell what the program is-I don’t care. It’s better than the silence.

I dry my face, dragging the rough cotton over my face. Falling on the linoleum with a small crack, the rail breaks from the wall as I throw the towel. I don’t think. I just kick it against the yellowing bath tub. I kick again and again, as the curses spill from my lips.

I am on the floor. My throat is raw with the taste of bile. Flexing my fingers, I feel jagged pieces of plastic dig into my skin. There’s a pile of them circling my aching body. I slide them into a line. None of the edges fit together anymore. I stare at the wall and the only signs of damage are the two metal hooks, which are still intact. Leaving the broken pieces, I drag myself out to the balcony, letting the noise from the TV drift from the open door. A stretch of blistering orange behind bleak buildings. The street below is empty, apart from two children who are chasing each other up and down. A boy of no more than twelve and a girl of eight. She screams as he darts towards her with a stick. I don’t understand what they are saying.


Two sets of eyes stare down at me. I can’t hear the words they whisper. Neither of them remove their gaze from my face. Knotty brown tendrils fall from the young face and tickle my cheek. Still not faltering the stare, as she lowers her face towards mine I feel her small hands curl round my shoulders. She bats away the older arms that try to pull hers away.  Attempting to shake me, her face contorts with the strain. I don’t move. Then, droplets splatter on my face and in my eyes. Some fall down my cheeks and into my mouth. I can taste her salty tears. She closes her eyes slowly, tears coating her long eyelashes. An arm embraces her and she is pulled away.

I stare up at the thinning strip of sun. I cannot move. All I feel is the hard concrete beneath me. Sticky pools of crimson glue my limbs to the ground. Why did I jump?


In the breeze, my t-shirt ripples across my back and chest. My knees shake slightly as I edge my feet forward slightly. My heart beats fast in my mouth, my head, and my ears.

I whisper to the air: Just take me, just let me fly, even if I fall. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong anywhere.

I want to turn up the volume of the TV, but I have gone too far to go back. I remember the bridge. Looking down at the grey concrete I wonder, would the river have been any better?

A strangled shriek shoots my eyes towards the little girl. She is yanking her brother’s arm, pointing at me, but it is too late He sees me, too. Shaking my head, I step down, off the edge. ‘I wasn’t going to-‘ I stop because they don’t understand. With all my strength I tug the corners of my mouth upwards. But I cannot smile. Even from this distance, I can see her lips trembling. My head is still shaking. I step away from them; I don’t want their innocent eyes on me. They can’t see me, not like this.

I perch on the bed again, staring at the TV, but not watching it. Just shapes moving around, just colours. I recognise the voices…Richard Gere. I try to focus on the shapes. Slowly, the figures on the screen become clearer. It is Richard Gere. And what’s-his-name. I know the film because it’s Jeanne’s favourite.


I can feel her laughing. Her golden hair falling in waves down her back. She shouts, imitating the accent, “Did you see that bodacious set of tatas?” Laughter bursts from my lips.

What is the name of that goddamned film? I turn the TV off.


Even if I had stayed, even if she were sitting beside me in this moment, she would still be a hundred miles away. A distance I will never get back.

(742 words)

This is a response to the Grammar Ghoul Press Writing Challenge #6

<a href=”http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-6-open”><img src=”http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/gg-wkbadge2.png”></a&gt;

This week’s prompts were:



Homesickness by  René Magritte

Also, the film I was referring to was ‘An Officer and a Gentleman’, which was where I found the inspiration of how to use bodacious in my story.


Two Hearts

She opens the doors to the hundreds of hungry eyes. Once they have ran a calculating gaze over the ruffle of short blonde waves down to the thick black boots, they snap their heads back to their own packs of friends. She smacks her lips together, her nervous habit, scanning the faces. A few smiles. Her friends chattering away. One of them beckons her, and she trudges over. Her eyes still scan the remaining faces. Smoothing down her coat as she slumps into a chair, absent minded greetings slip from her lips. Her eyes aren’t on her friend, but they have stopped searching. Midst a sea of bodies, limbs motioning as they cram food into their mouths or cram knowledge into their brains; the great gesticulations of gossip and colliding snippets of conversation, he sits. His eyes lock on to her gaze across the room through the wisps of his dark fringe. The tiny quiver of her lips ushers a thousand words only he can read.

An exchange of flickering glances and telling smiles-a language only known to them- between their dips into conversation with surrounding friends. Buzzing in her mind, the thoughts rise and rise until she cannot hear the meaningless chattering around her. All she wants is to be with him, away from all these bodies-motioning limbs, colliding conversations…

Fingers interlaced, they stand in the cold air. Two warm hearts beating wildly; two bodies slipped out of the crowd. But now, as she stares into the crystal blue eyes, she smiles because she no longer has anything to say.

Today I was watching my friend looking across the room at her boyfriend (who is also my friend). The way they could have their own conversation through a crowd of people, made up of tiny mouth movements and gesture, was fascinating. I think I was the only one that had noticed, and I almost felt like I’d invaded their private moment. Luckily neither of them noticed me.

Endless Possibility

The idea that everything is connected becomes most interesting when applied to ourselves. For this week’s writing challenge, tell us about your own Butterfly Effect

It is the single tiny thing that caught my eye,

The little curving line below your lip,

That only adorned a true smile,

Or a hearty laugh.

That same little line now traps me

Behind bars of torment and pain,

Each time the memory flashes before me;

A tiny line is carved into me.

And every time I think of your beauty,

Of your magical imperfection

That the line taught me to find in you,

It pushes deeper into the wound

Knowing that I’ll never see the

Tiny part of you

Which started it all

And I can’t help but think

If that mark of happiness

Never accompanied your smile

Would I have ever known you?

Would we ever have been together?

Would I have ever fallen in love?

We are given so many opportunities, it is hard to know which ones we should take. The endless possibility of the world is both exciting and overwhelming.

Relationships are already tough. It only takes one tiny thing, the flap of a butterfly wing, to break. And once the bond that took so long to build has fallen, there’s no going back. It’s unlikely things will ever be the same between those two people. Often, couples wrapped up in love that they become oblivious to the fragile nature of love and relationships. Even the most happy couple could easily be split up within a matter of moments.

Then, there are the forces we cannot control; the forces that cause the death and destruction we can only watch powerlessly.

From the processes that brought us life on this planet, to the processes that brought you the clothes you are wearing, millions of tiny things have built up. So, if one, just one of those things were different, would the end product be the same?

Be it a comfort or a cause of hopelessness, we can’t escape the possibility. We can only try our best at being human and see what becomes of our lives.

The Brown Leather Jacket

Writing 101: Third Time’s the Charm

It had been a long day. With only an hour to go, my weary eyes flickered from the clock to my work, and back to the clock. My hands continued to lift items from the boxes, but my mind was only half aware of those items. It wasn’t the brown leather jacket that grabbed my fading attention, but the contents of the pockets. At first, rummaging through someone’s pockets had seemed like an invasion of privacy. But after the days and weeks of having to look for any sign of the owner, I had become accustomed to this part of my job.

Time had cracked the leather along the edges and frayed the lining. Inside the pockets, I fished out a scrunched up tissue. Just as I dropped it into the bin along with the countless other pieces of rubbish, out rolled a white stick. A pregnancy test stick. Leaning in to grab it, a piece of chewing gum stuck to my gloves. But I didn’t care; the stick was positive.

With a new pair of gloves on, the stick still in my hand, I stared at the two lines. So many questions bubbled to the surface of my thoughts. What had happened to this woman? Did she have the baby? Who is she?

My hands trembled as I placed the stick on my desk, on top of a fresh tissue. I went back to the jacket, nervous for what else I might find. This time, out of the pocket fell a crimson lipstick and piece of folded up paper. As I unfolded the thin sheet, I saw the words, written with an eyeliner pencil: ‘Dear Vince’

But there was no message to this Vince. Just the brown ring of a coffee cup and splodges of what could only have been tears. The questions buzzed in my mind, so many, I could not process them all.

Staring at the scrawled letters, I wondered if they would have ever been read by Vince. Was she going to finish the letter? Or was it destined to be lost, here or dumped in a bin?

Whoever this girl was, something told me that she wouldn’t want to find this jacket. She wouldn’t want to stare at the two lines on the little stick; she wouldn’t want to open up the words she couldn’t finish and she wouldn’t want to run her finger over her own tears of the past.

Just don’t break her heart, okay?

You’ve been given the opportunity to send one message to one person you wouldn’t normally have access to (for example: the President. Kim Kardashian. A coffee grower in Ethiopia). Who’s the person you choose, and what’s the message?

Dear Future Boyfriend of Lucinda,

Hello. You got this far without being put off by her weirdness, so congratulations! Good luck with the strange things that will come out of her mouth as she gets more comfortable with you.

Anyway, let’s get down to business. Please don’t break her heart. You’re her first serious boyfriend, so she kinda deserves it to be special. So, don’t be a dick, don’t even think about cheating, and just treat her right. Believe me, her friends might not look tough, but if you do wrong, they WILL kill you. Beware…

The most important thing to her is honesty, so respect that, and be honest. Don’t expect her to change for you, or expect to change yourself for her.

And finally, thanks for picking her. The girl who can’t touch her own toes without bending her knees. The girl who hates dodgeball with passion. The girl who doesn’t usually get noticed. Thanks.

P.S. I know I’ve already said this, but don’t be dick. Really. Don’t.

‘Meant for each other’

I’ve just got back from a family holiday. Being surrounded by other families made me think about how some people stay together because of time and some people stay together because they are meant for each other. And it made me think about what that actually means. I think it means when both partners’ personalities fit together. What I mean is that, like a jigsaw puzzle, where one person lacks a quality, the other person makes up for it to make a balance. For example, a short temper and someone with bucket-loads of patience. This doesn’t work with everything because at the same time being too different can distance people. To me, that’s why finding ‘the one’ is so hard. I think that the people that are best suited to each other have equal amount of things in common to things that are different, which I realise is hard to judge. 

While people watching, I saw a lot of couples that didn’t seem to be ‘in love’. Maybe they were just having a rough day, I don’t know. But I found it saddening, because it led me to wonder how people decide whether to stay with someone through difficult times or not. Sometimes people stay with each other so long and try so hard to do so that they change as people and don’t love each other anymore. When you marry someone it’s impossible to know how people and situations will change ad if it’s for the good or the bad. So, making a lifelong declaration to someone seems awfully scary to me-which it probably should be since I’m only sixteen and have never even been in a relationship, let alone a serious one. 

I’m not going to delve any further into marriage and divorce, as it is a whole subject that I could write thousands and thousands of words on. My final thought on this ramble about love is that I believe people should be more forgiving when relationships go wrong. I feel that judgement, not just from the partner, but families and friends can scare people from doing the right thing for them, so people should allow for change and be forgiving if it distances them. 

The New Girl In Town

Hello bloggers,

My name is Lucinda and I am sixteen year old with aspirations to one day become a successful writer. At sixteen I’m still not sure what kind of writer, but maybe this blog will help me find out. My goal is to express my emotions and ideas in different forms, including poetry and short stories. I chose to start blogging because although writing a personal journal has always been something I have enjoyed, the idea of a community where I can talk to people who understand me and can relate to my situation is something that I am keen to be part of. The topics I’d like to write about are family and relationships, being a teenager, society and culture.

If my blog is successful, I hope to grow in confidence so that I believe in myself and I believe in my ability to write. Another accomplishment I would like to achieve is a relationship either as a reader or with readers of my work (hopefully both) that inspires me to write in new and exciting ways.

I can see that these ideas might be bold, daring and ambitious for a shy sixteen year old girl, but this place is, what seems to me, the kind of platform where nobody can shoot down my dreams or tell me I’m not good enough.

Finally, I want to say that I look forward to reading this in the future and hope for the success I will strive to achieve in this blog by trying, failing and learning from my mistakes-the way I always work.