Poem. Katie Lewington.

poetry
no, this is for a living
this is an appreciated form of writing
call it poetry and it
will have people saying no, no I don’t read poetry
but in a different guise it’s a meme, a share
and soul comforting like a hand held

college kids, I’m writing
published in a few zines

you’ll give it up, you don’t know your limits,  you only think you do and one day, going through the archives
laughing with your children
oh yeah mummy used to write poetry, experimenting as if it may be your sexuality, drugs, drink

ever tried to sniff or drink a poem?

poetry because that’s quaint and cute
I was writing about my feelings, ain’t that something
look, this is a poem about your dad
oh no, don’t look that’s rude
ha, I forgot I wrote that

and not a long term solution for paying the mortgage, filling the car with petrol,  bills,  clothes,
the cost of living

I’ll eat my rejection slips and sew them into clothes or else join a nudist camp
this is for a living
I didn’t fuck up my life, become a drop out, discover Ginsberg and give poetry my all to be a hobby that might be spoken of in my eulogy.

K.L 2016  ©

Short Story.Mushrooms. Katie Lewington.

The lights illuminate the tunnel that confronts me as I step from the bus, of which the door flips shut and I am alone, to walk this corridor and as I do my thoughts turn to food.
We hit turbulence, my heart jumps to my throat and I instinctively reach for a handle to ride it out on but I have picked up a cable instead and it shocks the palm of my hand with its insatiable energy.
‘I do bloody hate you’ I address, not only the cable, but this whole stinking situation.
I raise my hand to swipe the door pad and I hear Lucas before I see him.
‘Uh, what is this?’
I spin around, walking backwards into the room. Lucas stands in the frame of the door. He is pointing to the heart shaped tattoos dotting my knuckles.
‘It’s nothing ’ I use my non accused hand to pick the chunks of chicken from his stir fry, leaning over the stove, digging my fingers into the soy sauce and sifting through the vegetables.
‘Well, to me it doesn’t appear to be nothing’ He strides towards me, lightening speed and I can’t avoid it. He picks up my hand, his fingers to my pulse and I snatch it from him.
‘Where have you been. It has been two days. You have this tattoo and a bruise-‘
Bruise? Oh the shut eye.
‘Forget it’ I snap. Two years of sharing with Lucas my secrets, dreams and hopes now dropping away and leaving me with the truth. I had gone to be with my dad and Lucas couldn’t approve. I had felt, busing the way here, my freedom slipping and so I had had the tattoo inked onto my hand.
I feel the thump of objects on my sleeve and my eyes fly up. Lucas is picking up mushrooms, mud still clung to them. Mud which sticks to my chest and shoulders as he pelts me with them.
I turn away, take my knitting to the bed, crumple up, knees to chest and head to knees.
He has scattered the mushrooms, is selecting the saucepan that they resided in and, with my ears ringing, he smacks it on the door frame fracturing the metal handle and twisting his wrist.
‘I’ve had enough’ he shouts.
‘Tough’ I say. ‘We’re on this flight until we reach the planet we’re assigned to’

K.L 2016 (C)

image

Poem. Me. Katie Lewington.

Who is a broken person anyway
somebody you wouldn’t bet on to win? 

well, that’s me
you wouldn’t notice me
not ever
I don’t make myself loud enough or clear

Is it attention or validation we crave and is it that we get the two confused? 

Broken, I don’t like that
I’m not broken,  I am
I’m –
shit, I don’t know

You cannot assume from my past that I am broken and therefore a lesser person
anybody that meets me says I look innocent
but my demons chuckle because they are aware of the thoughts I have had

from my past that I am experienced and worn, used like an old shoe
handle carefully
she has nothing to lose

Is this my own paranoia? 

fuck,  I forgot what I was really going to write

that is maddening

Maybe that
I’m an outsider but

I don’t want to be
given me a stripe of head down, it isn’t you they are talking about
why would they

Yeah, you’re beautiful but only to fuck with
your mind isn’t worth enquiring about

It’s obscene,  really
for anybody to be sure of themselves

Perhaps it takes years to be in that position

this was going to be more of a poem
it’s turned into this
tripe

though really do we say yes I have had a mental illness,  the same as you have had a broken arm, nose –
breast implants

in recovery,  now? no
I am growing, evolving
constantly
that is my recovery
to not stagnate,  to grasp every opportunity

for every one of me
there is a person that has committed suicide
that is not with us
can not be

the demons are silent while they eat, scrape the plate clean
but they wish to claim more victims

mustn’t let them

I guess I am looking for somebody to tell me otherwise.

K.L 2016  ©

Short Story.

I lay flat and smooth my hand over my stomach. In this position I am slim and I am not fat.
This is an illusion because I am fat fat fat fat FAT
And the word screams at me, even when I don’t want it to, and I listen to 1D and The Vamp’s through my headphones, although I feel deaf and my head is pounding.
FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT FAT
Fat stomach and fat thighs and fat bingo wing arms and wobbly fat knees and a fat chin.
I can’t even take a selfie without the correct lighting, with my face pointed downwards, to slim my chin.
My friends ask why I have less selfies than them . They want to know why I don’t go to Nando’s with them and their boyfriends.
I haven’t got a boyfriend  because I am fat. Nobody wants to date a fat chubby girl.
‘Do you think I can get a gastric band?’ I ask my mum. I’m whispering. My heart is nauseous, like this is bad and a not in church thing. I have to do something. I need to get rid of the fat, the fat wobbly flesh. She glances at me and her eyes flicker.
‘Why would you want a gastric band. Don’t be silly’ she told me.
Silly, fat, silly, fat, silly, fat, silly.
I have read stories in the news. Stories about girls that lose weight by taking pills, slimming pills and their flesh vanishes. It rubs away like with an eraser. All the mistakes gone.
I, on my laptop, type slimming pills into the search box. There are pages of companies selling these pills. I choose one and read the product information. I know the numbers of my dads credit card. I go downstairs to take one of his cards from his wallet in his jacket pocket.
Upstairs again and in my room I purchase 100mg of the pills.
Hopefully when they arrive, as does the credit bill, I can start taking them and the weight will drop from me and I can explain it away, like look I’m thin and happy and my parents will be happy because I’m happy.

The pills take two weeks and they arrive on a Wednesday, not the Saturday that I had calculated. So I arrive home from 6th form and even my dad is home early. My parents are on the couch, calling my name and looking worried. I drop my bag at my feet and my stomach twists in knots as I see the container of MY fat burning pills in my mum’s hands.
‘Those are mine, thanks’ I say and try to take them from her.
‘You can’t have these, are you mad?’ My mum asks. ‘Do you know young girls have died because they took these?’
‘So, it won’t happen to me. They will make me happy’
‘Do you have a death wish?’
‘No’
‘Why will they make you happy?’ my dad asks.
‘I’m fat and they will take my fat away and then I’ll be happy’
‘Rubbish’ my mum said. ‘I’ve made you a doctors appointment and it’s for tomorrow evening. Don’t be late home’

K.L 2016  (C)

Guest Post: Andrew Joyce. Danny’s girlfriend.

Resolution

It is 1896 in the Yukon Territory, Canada. The largest gold strike in the annals of human history has just been made; however, word of the discovery will not reach the outside world for another year.
By happenstance, a fifty-nine-year-old Huck Finn and his lady friend, Molly Lee, are on hand, but they are not interested in gold. They have come to that neck of the woods seeking adventure.
Someone should have warned them, “Be careful what you wish for.”
When disaster strikes, they volunteer to save the day by making an arduous six hundred mile journey by dog sled in the depths of a Yukon winter. They race against time, nature, and man. With the temperature hovering around seventy degrees below zero, they must fight every day if they are to live to see the next.
On the frozen trail, they are put upon by murderers, hungry wolves, and hostile Indians, but those adversaries have nothing over the weather. At seventy below, your spit freezes a foot from your face. Your cheeks burn—your skin turns purple and black as it dies from the cold. You are in constant danger of losing fingers and toes to frostbite.
It is into this world that Huck and Molly race.
They cannot stop. They cannot turn back. They can only go on. Lives hang in the balance—including theirs.

My name is Andrew Joyce and I write books for a living. Katie has been kind enough to allow me a little space on her blog to promote my new novel RESOLUTION: Huck Finn’s Greatest Adventure. I think it’s a good book, but what do I know? Anyway, I’m kinda shy about tooting my own horn. So I think I’ll turn things over to my dog. He always has an attitude and usually does not speak highly of me. But please understand that we co-exist as the old Soviet Union and the United States once co-existed. We tolerate each other. So without further ado, here’s Danny the Dog.

Hello, all you dog lovers out there. It’s me, Danny the Dog. Andrew took me away from sitting in the shade of a beautiful old oak tree and chewing on a nice piece of rawhide. It seems he needs me to help him out here. For a person that works with words for a living, he has very little to say in real life. He wants me to tout his book for him, but I don’t think I will. Instead, I think I’ll tell you about my new girlfriend. Her name is Heather. I have many girlfriends, but Heather is my favorite. She lives on a sailboat a couple of slips down from the boat Andrew and I live on.
First of all, I bet you all think Heather is a dog. Well you’re wrong; she’s a human. I know, no one is perfect, except maybe me. But human or not, Heather is cool. We first met a few months ago when she brought her sailboat to the marina for repairs.
The first time I saw her, I was outside on the dock catching a few rays. I like to soak up a little sun in the wintertime (when it’s cool) to lighten my fur. I think it makes me look more attractive. Anyway, she came off her boat and scratched me behind the ear. It was love at first scratch.
I’m sure she feels the same way about me because she is always giving me “cookies” as she calls them. They’re really just dog biscuits, but what the hell. A few years ago, Andrew brought some home and I wouldn’t eat one of them. He eventually ended up having to throw them out. But somehow, from Heather’s hand they are oh-so sweet. She also gave me a water bowl as a present.
Nowadays when I take Andrew for a walk, the first thing that I do is run right up to Heather’s boat with my tail a-waggin’ and I won’t move until she comes out and pats me on the head. Andrew doesn’t like the delay to his walk, but he’s so well trained by now, he’ll stand there until I’m ready to go.
But I’m sad as I write these words. You see, Heather is leaving me. Her boat is repaired and she will be setting sail for the Islands in about a week. I would like to go with her, and she has offered to take me, but I can’t leave Andrew. He would be lost without me. He can’t even find his shoes in the morning without my help. And who would write his books for him? No, I can’t go away with Heather. I will miss her, and out of memory of her, I swear I will never eat another dog biscuit once she is gone.
That’s about it for now. If I hurry, I might be able to get home in time to have dinner with Heather. She’s a much better cook than Andrew.
Oh yeah, I almost forgot—go out and buy Andrew’s new book and make the old guy happy.

This is Andrew again. On behalf of Danny and myself, I would like to thank Katie for having us over. It’s been a real pleasure.

image

image

Resolution

It is 1896 in the Yukon Territory, Canada. The largest gold strike in the annals of human history has just been made; however, word of the discovery will not reach the outside world for another year.
By happenstance, a fifty-nine-year-old Huck Finn and his lady friend, Molly Lee, are on hand, but they are not interested in gold. They have come to that neck of the woods seeking adventure.
Someone should have warned them, “Be careful what you wish for.”
When disaster strikes, they volunteer to save the day by making an arduous six hundred mile journey by dog sled in the depths of a Yukon winter. They race against time, nature, and man. With the temperature hovering around seventy degrees below zero, they must fight every day if they are to live to see the next.
On the frozen trail, they are put upon by murderers, hungry wolves, and hostile Indians, but those adversaries have nothing over the weather. At seventy below, your spit freezes a foot from your face. Your cheeks burn—your skin turns purple and black as it dies from the cold. You are in constant danger of losing fingers and toes to frostbite.
It is into this world that Huck and Molly race.
They cannot stop. They cannot turn back. They can only go on. Lives hang in the balance—including theirs.

Author Bio
Andrew Joyce left high school at seventeen to hitchhike throughout the US, Canada, and Mexico. He wouldn’t return from his journey until decades later when he decided to become a writer. Joyce has written four books, including a two-volume collection of one hundred and forty short stories comprised of his hitching adventures called BEDTIME STORIES FOR GROWN-UPS (as yet unpublished), and his latest novel, RESOLUTION. He now lives aboard a boat in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, with his dog, Danny, where he is busy working on his next book, YELLOW HAIR.

Website   Amazon

image

Short Story. Death of Innocence. Katie Lewington.

(I’m aware this story has its faults and I’m not sure what they are! Any feedback is welcome :))

He roamed through the woods. He needed to find a shagpad for him and his girlfriend. Their current arrangement was not panning out. Tree branches hung over his face, booing shadows at him and he pushed them aside as he stepped onto leaves and logs, which lay like crocodiles in a swamp at his feet. He stepped over those to only land in a puddle of steaming muck.
The ground began to drop and all around him were whispering trees. He was aware they had secrets and he knew enough to leave them be. He had never much liked these surroundings. His boy Scout days had been numbered after the first camping trip, not that he minded. Bunch of do gooders. He liked the boxing training classes that he took years later. They didn’t teach you to be a sissy but to use your fists.

Barry Innocence had one purpose this afternoon, which caused him to have his blinkers on. He had walked the perimeters of the wood and hadn’t seen any cars in sight. He didn’t want a witness. Not that the wood wasn’t large enough and he doubted death made a noise. He strode into the dense shade of the trees and glanced back, once, at the cottage. Good luck to whoever had to kip there next. He had taken the steps out with him and the rope wound around his arm. He marched on regardless of his fears and tripped on the odd fallen branch. A rabbit darted in front of him and he remembered the rabbit he had caught a few days ago. It hadn’t been bad tasting either. He faced his tree, a solid oak, and, ultimately, his death. He placed down his steps, wedging the metal legs into the soft mud. He tested the noose that he had tied. Thank the Lord for Scouts. He then climbed onto his steps to fix the end of the rope to the arm of the tree that hung gamely. He patted the rough bark, almost sentimentally, and checking his tie was neat, Barry Innocence stuck his head through the noose and knocked away the steps.

He stopped, as if he had been held back by a force field. A man was dangling from a rope. He questioned- was it a dummy, joke?
He stepped forward and then turned back. He didn’t want to be a part of this. He didn’t want to.
He ran past the man, who wore a red suit and yellow tie. Loose straps of hair clung to his scalp. That wasn’t a dummy. He thought he might vomit. The eyes of the man flickered and he pissed himself. He continued to run, right onto the cottage.
The wind collided with his scattered breaths. He clutched the picket fence, scouring his palms and bruising his forehead with smeared sweat. He glanced at the cottage. It was compact, like one square of a Battenberg bake – a dull pinky colour, his girlfriend would have picked off the marzipan. He walked into the garden, which was pickled in weeds, slugs and rubbish. He rolled the wheel on an abandoned tricycle and shoved over the rotted washing machine, exposing the open grave underneath.
The door was nondescript, the windows obscure like lidded eyes. The thatch on the roof had wasted away. It was coming up to summer. It could be open topped. This was a perfect shagpad.
He walked in on a hard stone floor and embers smoking in the chimney grate. There were takeaway cartons in the kitchen and excrement in the sink, which gurgled at him and he leapt back. There was damp here and there. The whiff of it was strong but it was like a sea breeze. It was pleasant and earthy.  Only had to spray some Febreeze. If he also bought blankets, cushions, then his girlfriend would love this. A rug that what was also needed and lamps.
He hurried away, needing to immediately tell his girlfriend. He passed the man again. This time he stood closer, and prodded him. He wasn’t stiff yet. He went through the pockets of the suit, and kept the twenty that he found.                      
‘Barry Innocence’ he read from the national insurance card. ‘The death of Innocence’ he said. ‘I hope you’ve gone somewhere better, sissy or not. Cheerio’
When he was on the bus home he rang the police and tipped them off. After that he did not spend his time thinking about Innocence.
He took his girlfriend shopping to buy what was needed to furnish the house.
‘It’s a shithole, Damien’ She told him as she viewed the place for herself.
Uh-oh.
‘I love it’ She hugs him.
‘It’s a shithole but you like that?’
‘Lets fuck’ She unzipped her coat.
Music to his ears.

Poem. A Nightmare. Loathinglothario.

I had a dream about you too but it was more of a nightmare.
Could you imagine that? a house, you, me and having to stay a night there?
Now I don’t believe in ghosts and demons but people can do ghastly things and boast of no reasons.
That’s the type of shit that I think scary, not mystical things – spirits, orbs and death fairies.
I believe in life and the way that it wants to hurt you – murder, rape and leaving people right in the dirt too.
I want you to know that you made my fears come true, I expected you to leave me and you sure flew.
I always wanted what I thought was best for you but it seems like our love just wasn’t a strong enough glue.
Couldn’t keep together what was already pieced sloppily –
Commonly, awfully bodily, you could hear our pain audibly.
Honestly, consciously, making a mockery of modesty and honesty constantly. I guess our relationship was just a novelty.
You’ve found a new nest and, boy, what a winner. I’m sure you clean, study, fuck and make dinner.
And every night you sleep so sound, ignoring the fact that you’re captured and bound.
Not a single real soul will ever have you found, dug both our graves and left yourself six foot in the ground.
But I’ve crawled out and I’m back to life, free from your clutches and emotional strife.
There’s nothing I can do but leave you right there, in the hell you made, now its your nightmare.

Taken by permission from the author loathinglothario .
Read more of their work at Tumblr