Drinking Games

I used to think drinking was cool. I longed to be 18 so I could sit in the pub and get royally hammered. And that’s what happened. I spent the best years of my youth drinking my ass off. Is there a bar here? What time is it open until? Do you mind if I get messed up?

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Young Butchers

Warning: this piece contains strong language

The Butchers had all the fun at school. I mean, they ran the place really. Tough, confident and full of spunk, their collective attitude more than compensated for their lack of traditional smarts. It was an outlook that militated against any prospect of academic success, but that’s not what they were about. Daz and his brethren epitomised carefree youth. 

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Rebel Schooldays

I was always at least half in love with my English teachers. Except one. I'll call him Mr. Mann. I think it was the hirsute-ness that intimidated us girls. The boys had nary a whisker between them, but Mr. Mann had hair escaping all over the place. Did I mention? It was the year An American Werewolf in London came out.

Try as I might I couldn't stop staring at his nostril jungle that first day. I was new to the phenomenon of a moustache that started somewhere up in the sinuses.

"Do I know you? I don't remember you from last year." He demanded.

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For Better, or Worse?

Willing expedition of the approaching sirens, I knelt by Ellie’s bruised, bleeding body. 

“You’re next, if you don’t disappear,” Karl growled at me, fists clenched. I was going nowhere; I knew he would finish the job if I did.

“Please,” Ellie moaned, “just go. He’s been inside for manslaughter before. He will kill you.”

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defiance, bravery, friendship

Rebellion in a Wasteland

I am a reader. Which means that I was brought up on rebellion, on change, on this isn’t right, on conflict, on resolution. Words on pages morphed into battle grounds as 9 o’clock and one more chapter morphed into one in the morning. Through their stories, other people’s stories, I have lived so many lives and rebelled in a million ways.

Aside from being a reader, I am already well-versed in rebellion. I had the good fortune to turn eighteen just last year. I don’t need to read fictitious stories about atrocities and oppressive systems, I only need to open a newspaper.

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The Rebel


As each day dawned I died a little more
Before the labour of my day began.
My life and work which once I’d held in awe
Induced the thought to flee.
I lived my time in sycophantic toil
In unremitting ennui. 

When they that matter say that time is money
Where goes my need for air and space and beauty.
Lack promotes the lessening of my being
And leaves me full of spleen.
Sustenance from these things dear to me
Lie buried and unseen.

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Prisoner of suits

I was sitting down, my bruised knees peeking out shyly from a skirt a little too short. I was watching the purple kaleidoscope of pain forming on my skin. I was surrounded by smiling strangers, their faces grey and sorrow. The mindless silhouettes – females wearing long skirts and blazers, mainly brown, grey or black.

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I was as quiet as a mouse
wouldn’t say boo to a goose
I was obedient
did as I was told
Got myself into deep water

My life changed
when I met Clara
with so many needs
I have become a lion
I roar out loud and break down barriers

I make people take notice
of Clara and of me
to give her sunshine 
and to give me hope
She is my cause, I have found my voice

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Breaking Free

We got off the train and stepped into the warm sunshine. I was really excited to see the blue sky, the sand, and the sea, any chance to escape the concrete jungle I lived in was always welcome. I felt very happy to feel the heat on my skin and was chatting away. The seaside has always struck a deep chord with me. I guess because it’s where I remember my happiest moments as a kid: swimming in the ocean, building sandcastles or burying my big sister in the sand. I can still remember watching an early morning sunrise over a Cornish Bay as I ate a pasty and did handstands in the sand.

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The declaration

Whoa, she thought. What was the point of getting out of bed, feeding the baby, putting the baby in his or her bed and then getting back into bed? It was cold in the middle of the night and there was never enough time for sleep. There had to be a better way and she knew what it was: let the baby sleep safely in the bed. That way she could sit up, feed, put the baby down, go to sleep and she’d never have to set foot out of the bed until morning – unless it was absolutely necessary to go to the toilet.

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