Eggs. Bacon. A gun. – Short Story

My boyfriend gave me an opening line to a story which I found odd, but it was surprisingly interesting to write a stream of consciousness from it. While we, my boyfriend, his friends and I, were in Longleat Center Parcs, this is when I wrote this. I am still there, and I haven’t finished the story, but I would like to share this before I ruin it. The bit in bold is what he gave me to write about, not that I have written much about it yet.


Eggs. Bacon. A gun. That’s what the boy bought. Why? He was hungry, and it was dawn and ready for the first meal of the day. The gun? He was so tall that his head was in the solar system, so they didn’t even question his age. His mind was in a daze and the world was a spin of circles and spheres and cylinders wrapped around his ears. In this time-consuming moment, his appetite was huge for the revenge he had never gotten throughout his very little childhood, and ten years later, he was ready to fight back with a full stomach.

His serene silhouette sat as a two-year-old in his mothers’ arms, the cuddle was delicate, but distant. His mother was attached to her employment; constant phone calls to her clients, offering acts and money and acts and money. He didn’t even know what her job was, or is, or ever would be. She had a phone sewn onto her ear, and with the press of a button she could answer the concurrent calls, speaking to multiple people at every moment possible. What time did she have for him? He was a doll. Plastic, a façade of a child. And nothing was going to get better until her company booted her straight out of the archway and into hell.

He got shoved into the saturation of bath water, in which his mother had just soaked in, where she removed the hair from her legs, ready for her tenth consecutive date. Despite her delightfully vile relationship with her job, she always found time for a romantic rendezvous every day, with a different man, every time. His petite body drowned in the water until his mother cared enough to stop fiddling with her tangled hair and bring him up to breathe. The oxygen gushed in and out of his lungs like it were trapped in an elastic band, but his mother never cared to notice while she admired her sinfully smooth skin.

He, despite being only two years into his life, felt isolated in an ice cube. His mother may as well have poured water over his body, and crammed him in the freezer. God knows his life would have been better as an ice sculpture. His mother wouldn’t know, she didn’t pack all of her concerns into her son’s wellbeing, not even one concern. His mother would not delve into his world and think, what should I be doing for my son? The word cherishing never filled her brain, as if her vocabulary was so insufficient that she only knew words like, selfishness, bitterness, and sex.

From shadow to shadow, the boy grew up into a fine seven-year-old. The word fine has too many definitions to have clarity, but it is imagined that he was the most negative definition due to his damaged infancy. His school uniform was persistently too tight, or too stretched, or too stained. He begged his mother for a new set of clothes, or to use the washing machine for anything but her own clothes, but nothing came of it. Albeit she had a successful business in which it gave her millions of pounds a year, her son got a marginally miniscule sum of her income. And she would frequently tell him that she was bankrupt, which would be somewhat surprising and deceptive, or she really was insolvent due to her compulsion to not being able to wear the same pair of shoes twice in a lifetime.

The beginning of his junior school experience was a day-to-day torture of struggling into his polo-shirts and shorts, and the other children picked on him and teased his voluptuousness. Ironically, his weight was under the average, as his mother didn’t feed him properly. There was always an endless supply of peas and beans and cheese, so most of his meals consisted of cheese on toast, or beans on toast, and then peas. He was very restricted of what he could consume, due to the selfishness his mother endured in; he was frightened that the egotism would be hereditary, and he was apprehensive with good reason.



How I Met You – short story

Here is the beginning of a short story that I have been composing recently, as I have finished my exams I can be free now.

I hope you enjoy it.


You have that something; a special serenity that conjures the hope that something will turn into wonder. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how to describe it, but I know it is there.

I find it so inexpressibly strange how little hope that the grey clouds give the world. The environment is a cultural phenomenon of pollution and contamination, so much so that the idea of optimism seems like a lost notion. However, that something that you fashion burns brightly in bronze; brazen and insightful. The way I met you, that silly silly occasion, was the most hopeful situation I have ever encountered.

A tie was pressed into my chest; the long blue and light blue stripes wandered down the congruent-shade-of-blue shirt to the stripes of the tie. The blazer that I was forced to wear was, indeed, not worn by myself, or many other people for that matter, as the humidity and the raw sunlight baked us like cakes or bread, like we were in a patisserie in Paris.

You remember the day, don’t you? I was wearing my hair down, in a way in which the purple at the tips of the locks beamed in the midsummer air. It was bleached, so the artificiality was coherent, and I knew that the lack of hope for the next few years of my life would cascade into the ocean of disruption. My skirt was also the same shade of blue as the tie, not the stripes but the background; navy, a night-sky. Every girl used to wear their skirts a few inches down from their waist so that the boys could check them out efficiently. I was one of those girls, not because I wanted to be objectified and put into vulnerability, but because I wanted to fit in, you know that. I don’t need to remind you. This isn’t helping you remember the day; every day was like this.

We were sat on the green sea, which was our field of freedom, with litter floating in and we were all sitting on our blazers, or we allowed the emerald water to wash our clothes muddy. There were plenty of us there, not just you and I, but a group of around twenty. Before then, I had seen you before, and you had seen me, but never had we conversed. Our bodies never so close to touch. The grass underneath our physiques spread for miles, and it let us forget about the stiflingly hot day in the stifling school of horror in front of us, or behind us. It was behind me, and in front of you.

I knew your name, and I knew that the curls of your hair were not permed or false in any way. I knew that you were a good guy, and the hope emerged from your glow. It was apparent that you weren’t out in the streets to jog with the mainstream magnets, but you would fly alone, or with a couple of unique models; you were the art paintings that don’t have a clear reading, but everyone thought they understood.

I could perceive that you were an interesting obscurity; you thought that throwing twigs at people was fun. You know that. But why? The pain included in the final result of the fun was surprisingly agonising, but it was lovely to feel.



Predicting a Person’s Background: a short story

I feel as if ‘exam’ is a word that doesn’t even exist, anymore. I have found myself lost, for the past week, of anything to do. Reruns of reality shows, eating way too much, and the sheer boredom of watching bugs crawl is beginning to get to me.

However, as you know I write something every day, and if I don’t my brain will probably melt into nothingness. Therefore, I give you something that I wrote yesterday, which, I have no idea if it is good, or awful or just ridiculous.

I made up a person, I also made up their life background; that was the whole point.


His body flew onto the track like an aeroplane from a runway. For some reason, the astonishing view he had from the air made him feel closer and closer to the ground. In a split second he was where he wanted to be, with the click of his pointer finger and thumb, he was there. After being surrounded by vortexes and whirlpools…he was there! He saved himself from being in the awkward situation that enforced his face to dribble and his toes to tingle and his hair on the back of his neck whistle in the wind and rain and cold air.

He had been standing there, the tracks glistening with the rain. It was beginning to break, you could see. There were people there defying the rules to ‘stand behind the yellow line’ whilst the train was bearing in. His foot inched towards the edge of the pavement, far past the painted sunny streak. His mind was lost, in this moment. With his hands knotted and his body denied by society. He would turn back to the other people just standing on the yellow line, knowing it was a symbol for something. He was unsure, but I knew it was a symbol for something. Watching his body portray a burning building was heart breaking. No. Astonishing.

I could imagine what his life had been like. He was a tall, handsome man, probably in his early twenties, with a brown hedgehog sitting on his head. His eyes were blue, behind his dark, so black shades. He was a façade. Forcing himself to hide behind black inked exteriors.

He had a cat, at home. One that would follow him around everywhere: the bathroom, the kitchen, then it would take the place of the hedgehog and sleep on his head during the night. He would sleep like a daemon. Stirring his body about like a blender in spherical motions; he would be surprised that he couldn’t sleep, some nights, due to his subconscious unifying of his physique. At around midnight he would arise to go to the loo; this would happen every night. His frustration would build and build up until he would, without a doubt, scream until his lungs leapt out of his rib cage and onto the floor of the bathroom. He would stand there, staring at his two lungs thinking, I deserve betterWhy don’t I have better? 

He was a university student, in my mind. He took a psychology degree. He was interested in how people’s brains worked, especially his. He wondered how he could possibly be so miserable with smiles and beams and sunny Supremes around him. It took time for him to understand, in psychology that half the brain is for logics and half for emotions and creativity, when his emotions would always get the better of his brain. He felt like a bottle of fizz ready to burst because he’d been shaken so much; his head fell off at more than one point during the day. He became a collection of wits and tricks and was the clown of his class, due to his façade of a smile and pretence of a well working, pumping heart. In reality, he was downhill to the uphill and uphill to the down… so far away from the middle and equality deserved.

When he started at university, his self esteem was as high as an eagle flying with springs on its feet. He was so comfortable in the environment he could take off his socks in the middle of a lecture and people would praise him like he was God up in heaven. But as time went on he started to feel like the devil lived inside of him. He was unbelievably clumsy; on his first day not only did he spill his black coffee down his pure white and wintery shirt, he tried to wash it off which endured the stain to become bigger and bigger with no intention of getting any smaller. With his brown patterned angel white shirt on, he jumped on the bus to funny-ville, teaser-town…need I go on? Everyone thought he was positively hilarious with his accidental brown splash coating his white exterior.