aloeg

United Kingdom

Romans 8:39

Writing*
Lettering
Funny things
Theatre&musicals
Love a good rhyme
(Or even a bad one)

*(admittedly fairly intermittently)
Joined May 2020

Message from Writer

If you want to review any of my writing, please do criticise it so i can improve, don't be afraid to be blunt! I will try and review people's writing too - if you want a review do ask! :)

Published Work

25 Words

Cinematic Ending

Tears ran down her cheeks, salting her popcorn; a cold draft blew in as he left the cinema. On the screen, romance continued to blossom.

25 Words

Cinematic Ending

She'd found him out. They were over. Dramatic music.
Watching the film together in the warm cinema, she got up and left.
Life imitates art

Freedom's New Reality

The creatures in the bubbling deep
Crawling nonchalantly, turn
To shadows that we're forced to keep
Confound, confuse our minds to churn

Capricious winds shake grains of sand
In isolated pools of thought
Vibrating, grating chains of can
And must and should and have and ought

They shake up all the globes of snow
Reverberating all around
Shimmering through the state of woe
Transcending every rational bound

This swirling of the universe
And fortunately swelling tide
Gives colour to cadaverous
And bleached emotions, far and wide

A glorious multitudinous
Upheaval of our muffled state
Revitalising broodiness
And ending boredom's lonely wait

Exhilarating colour streams
That spiral through the atmosphere
Dissolving functional grey seams
Lift faces to the brand-new year

The glass is clear, the page is fresh
To wait for serendipity
Our hopes and dreams are free to mesh
With freedom's new reality

Scarf

    The scarf is soft, felt or even cashmere, and checked with quiet pastel squares: green, yellow, pink. The shapes overlap in a moment of fuzziness between the cosy squares, and a soft cottony haze clings to the surface of the fabric. The fabric is buried in itself, folds rising and falling over each other, twisting in silky confusion around an iron bar. The fringes wave damply and gently in the wind, too firmly connected to the pole to be moved by the gusts. Self-sufficient but lonely.
    A patterned scarf, rescued from the kerbside and tied hastily to the bikestand by a kind passer-by.

The Variable Messages of an Orange

When the scent escapes the bottle
And steals up to my nose
The vision is supposed to be
A glorious tropical island
Sun floating over empty sands
Criss-crossed with the palm leaves' shade
The sea at my feet
And the world in quiet bliss.

But where I am taken instead
Is the food bin in the church kitchen
Heaped with orange peel and teabags
Steaming
I'm chopping satsumas
For toddlers' hands to grab, chew, eat
Or discard for us to find
On plastic plates in a corner
When everyone's gone home

I hear children's shrieks of joy
And the murmured adults' conversation.

I would rather be there, to be honest.

Book Review Competition 2021

A Sky Painted Gold by Laura Wood

    Fresh, sparkling and mysterious as the Cornish sea - A Sky Painted Gold is a moving story of love, dreams and friendship in 1920s Cornwall.
    Lou lives with her seven siblings in a small farmhouse on the coast of Cornwall, England. In London, the glittering parties and balls of the 1920s are in full swing. Lou eagerly follows their stories in the newspaper - including the adventures of the Cardew family, who own the Cardew House - "a treasure left alone and unloved for too long" - which is situated on an island off the coast of Lou's home town. Lou has longed to visit the house for years, and one day she finally submits to her curiosity and makes her way over the causeway.
    Lou secretly visits the house often, and falls in love with it. But then the owners return, bringing with them the cream of London society to spend the summer partying and relaxing. Suddenly, the sumptuous,...

Why Do I Write?

Do I write to wander through
The past and distant times?
Or purely for that instant
When words are joined in rhymes?

Is it to keep some memories
Preserved in one safe place?
(I won't write about painful things;
They'd slap me in the face)

Is it because I love to?
It's something for enjoying?
But is it though, for often I
Can find it more annoying?

Is it just enough to say
Sometimes I want to write?
As for the rest, I'm not too sure
How much of it is right

I don't know why I write, but now
It's evident I do
Can someone tell me why it is?
Can anyone? Can you?

Gone Is The Wind

I.
Gone is the wind
Gone from the clouds
With busyness twinned
And fast-moving crowds

Gone is the sky
The glorious blue dome
Just seen once a day
When we venture from home

Gone is the world
All the places outdoor
Replaced with a ceiling
Four walls and a floor

II.
Outside, ripples blow through
The whispering grass
While we're inside, waiting
For all this to pass

The wind has not gone
The wind is still there
Still working its magic
On lacklustre air

We are still together
In mind and in thought
Just physically split while
This battle is fought

This won't last forever
We will meet again
When rules will allow it
Stay safe till then.

Historical Fiction Competition 2020

Telegram

April 1917    
    Olivia stepped cautiously down the slippery marble stairs, toe to heel flat on the floor. She peered through the wrought-iron banister; nobody was in sight, the silver-edged post tray was empty. She breathed a sigh of relief and completed the rest of the journey wearily, perfectly upright as ever; balancing an invisible weight on her head that would break her if she stumbled. She flinched at the sound leaking through the small gaps in the window; a dog barking, a tram clanking towards Westminster... a split-second determined that they were safe sounds: the rattle of the telegram boy's bicycle was absent. She paused in front of the photo of her brother Tristan in his soldier's uniform, the glass shiny under the morning sun, then passed into the dining room, where John Spokes - tall, handsome and rather young to be a butler - was sorting the piles of post. He looked up as she entered.
   ...

Inventory

Inventory

Character Name: Abby Chaia Vanilla Laurence
Age: 20
Location: currently Kiev, Ukraine
From the car she is driving

A sunglasses case, monogrammed A.V.L
A red pencil
An expensive fountain pen, broken, with a warped and scratched lid
A second-hand road map of Ukraine, a route traced on in red ink and crosses
A very basic car repair book
A sepia-toned photograph of a boy standing in front of an old-fashioned building
The terms of agreement from the car rental company
A visa for 4 weeks' stay



 

Magnet Man

Although it is a cliche
If you had seen him there
His face was like a magnet
Iron filings for his hair.

A lot of people liked him
To his successes drawn
He looked the part, but in his games
He used them as a pawn

They said he was like a magnet
And that may well be true
If you were in the way of his goal
Like filings he'd crush you

voice

She droops
like a lily
her nose purple
and her cheeks flushed from cold
her voice is like
a dripping dewdrop
falling slowly
and splashing to the floor

Psychic Distance

Strawberry Fields Forever

The tall dark-haired woman scurried along the street, her head down and her steps quick. Her air was of a mouse quietly going about its business, trying to keep out of sight of the people.

The latest of the new bunch of strawberry pickers was leaving. The one with the black hair and slanted eyes; distinctive rather than pretty. She had been there a month; happy or sad, he couldn't tell. He wasn't even sure of her name; Annie, was it? Ken leaned back in his chair and sighed.

The air was crisp rather than cold, in her native Poland this was like a mild September day. Anna hurried along, her spirits low because she knew now she had handed in her notice, there was no going back.

Of course she had to leave, it was becoming too difficult to stay. Only last week there had been reports of rising hate crime in the local news; "Immigrants get out" smeared...

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 7

Challenge Completed

Day 1
At the beginning of this year (well, a bit late), I made a list of 20 things to do in 2020 (okay, it wasn't even 20 ... it's the thought that counts?). Unfortunately, some of these things became unattainable a while after I wrote the list, due to COVID-19. For example, one of them was (roughly) "Go to see some shows". A few months later, the theatres were shut and are looking unlikely to reopen (indoors at least) for some time. So that's looking more difficult at the moment.
    Among the other items on the list was number 6, which was simply: "Write something". (This was originally because I was just being vague, but I'm repurposing it for this prompt!) "Write something". Nothing specific. Not "write something long and impressive". It was just to write something. It doesn't matter if I think it's bad at first. Write the World has taught me the importance of revision,...

The Last Service

Church was subdued on the last Sunday. Most of the pews were half-empty; spaces were left where the children had sat. The vicar smiled at us last few, yet to leave. He said he'd miss us when we went to the country, miss our higher-pitched chirps punctuating the low murmur of older voices.

Writing Streak Challenge - Week 7

Challenge Completed

    At the beginning of this year (well, a bit late), I made a list of 20 things to do in 2020 (okay, it wasn't even 20 ... it's the thought that counts?). Unfortunately, some of these things became unattainable a while after I wrote the list, due to COVID-19. For example, one of them was (roughly) "Go to see some shows". A few months later, the theatres were shut and are looking unlikely to reopen (indoors at least) for some time. So that's looking more difficult at the moment.
    Among the other items on the list was number 6, which was simply: "Write something". (This was originally because I was just being vague, but I'm repurposing it for this prompt!) "Write something". Nothing specific. Not "write something long and impressive". It was just to write something. It doesn't matter if I think it's bad at first. Write the World has taught me the importance of revision, of reviewing....

The Last Service

The church service was subdued on the last Sunday. Most of the pews were half-empty; spaces were left where the children had sat. Tomorrow, the train would take the last handful of us away. We would be sent like packages, attached to brown luggage labels written with love by our senders. To safety.

The Last Service

The dying leaves slid down the window, glued by the rain, as I lay awake, waiting for Monday morning. I saw the clouds of steam, the tears, the brown labels, the farewells. I knew I had to go. I turned over, reluctantly closing the gap between now and tomorrow; between staying and leaving.

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Run

The roaring of the planes is broken by a shattering crash. The forest shivers; my temporary hideout shields me from the blast. I am crouched, muscles tensed. 
The planes retreat; fainter, fainter, fainter... gone. The forest is deserted, save for needles of sunlight falling from the trees.
Go now; it's clear. My feet smash into the soft forest ground as I run.
A cloud explodes, surrounding me; I am thrown violently upwards, flailing helplessly through the fog; flying blind-
My shoulder crashes into the floor; I'm coughing, rolling, groaning. Alive.
Keep going. To the border.
And I run on.

November in August

November came to knock today
On summer's golden door
Fog hid the smiling sun away
And rolled in off the moor

Yesterday's wide and azure sky
That lifts my spirits higher
Has been replaced with clouds that lie
Furled around a church spire

The sea, once there to marvel at
A glit'ring azure hue
Has now turned cloudy, grey and flat:
A drab and foggy view

Of course, this is a biased view
Of summer that I've written
True "perfect summer days" are few
This, after all, is Britain.

Voyage of Rediscovery

The lady sits in the chair, her face blank like paper, as Liz walks over to her and sits down opposite.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Liz, your niece."
"Well!" The lady seems astonished. "And where are we?"
"We're in Falmouth."
"And do I live in Falmouth?"
"Yes, you came to live here after you retired from your charity work. You used to travel a lot for your job, with your friend Janet."
"Janet." A spark of memory lights her face; she struggles to keep it alive and ask another question.
"Yes, you went all over the world together. And you've been a member of lots of churches and choirs."
"Goodness! What a busy life I've led." The lady seems surprised yet pleased; looking on her own life with interest, as if it were a stranger's.
"Yes, and a lovely one."

Flash Fiction Competition 2020

Run

Needles of sunlight fall around me, through the thick leaves. I am crouched, ears pricked and muscles tensed. The droning of the planes is broken by a shattering crash. The branches shiver; my hideout shields me from the blast.
The planes retreat; fainter, fainter, fainter ... gone.
Go now; it's clear. My feet smash into the forest ground as I run.
A cloud explodes, surrounding me; I am thrown upwards, flailing helplessly through the fog; flying blind, floating ...
My shoulder crashes into the floor; I'm coughing, rolling, groaning. Alive.
Keep going. To the border.
And I run on.

Admin

(MELANIE, a receptionist, is sorting papers. ELLIE, her colleague, walks in)
MELANIE: You’re late.
ELLIE: No.
(She walks over to the desk and shows Melanie her watch)
ELLIE: (cont’d):7:50
MELANIE: (showing ELLIE her phone screen) 8:50. You haven’t set your watch forward yet.
(ELLIE groans.)
ELLIE: Why are you so organised?
MELANIE: Clocks went forward a month ago. And why didn’t you check your phone?
ELLIE: It’s broken. It said it was 1923 last week so I don’t trust it any more.
MELANIE: Are you sure it wasn’t actually 1923? (she gestures to ELLIE’S huge, old-fashioned watch and her old-fashioned clothes.)
ELLIE: It’s my dad’s, family heirloom bla bla whatever. He said to be really careful with it, I mean I’m not stupid, I’m always careful-
(ELLIE nearly knocks over an ugly vase that is on the desk. MELANIE grabs it before it falls over and knocks Ellie’s chair. ELLIE goes to sit down behind the desk and misses her...

Telegram

Scene 1
(Lights up, a house. OLIVIA, nervous and fragile, stands next to TRISTAN, her brother. They are surrounded by packing cases.)
OLIVIA: Do you have everything?
TRISTAN: (carelessly) I think so.
(OLIVIA straightens his tie and brushes his shoulders.)
TRISTAN: (impatiently) Appearance won't matter . . . where I'm going.
OLIVIA: It does to me.
TRISTAN: (apologetically)  I'm sorry.
(TRISTAN takes OLIVIA by the shoulders)
TRISTAN: Look, Olivia, the small things don’t matter.
(OLIVIA looks at him)
TRISTAN: Well, not in the end - not as much as . . . as the big things: love, friendship, adventure-
OLIVIA: Is that why you’re going, then? Excitement? (She turns away) Adventure?
(TRISTAN walks round to face her)
TRISTAN: You know it’s not. I have to do my duty.
OLIVIA: (quietly) I'm sorry. (wiping her face)
TRISTAN: That's all right. (seriously) Don't worry. God will look after...

Writing Streak Challenge Week 9

Writing Streak Week 9 Challenge Completed

Day 1
He wasn't expecting to see her there when he walked in to the office - the memory of that long-ago time had faded like the old photograph she kept next to her desk, though now it leapt into full life and colour in his mind again; still, he was pleased, if a little nervous, to meet her again - would she remember the time they had shared before, or would he be a stranger to her now, after all that had happened?

Day 2
She heard the noise of the aeroplanes as they buzzed around overhead and looked down at the photo in her hand, wondering if it was the right place, right city, right country even; this photograph was all she had to go on, to try and find them; they could be anywhere, but here seemed like a good enough place to start.

Day 3
"I really think it is quite offensive for you to tell...

Playwriting Competition 2020

Telegram

Telegram
Scene 1
(The year is 1917. OLIVIA is perched elegantly on a sofa in her London house. JOHN the butler enters.)
JOHN: A telegram for you, my lady. (He hands it to her and their fingertips touch. He stays frozen for a millisecond then moves off.)
OLIVIA: Thank you, Spokes. (She opens it precisely, reads it and smiles, refolding the paper exactly and placing it on the table next to her) Spokes, would you fetch my pen and paper?
JOHN: Of course, my lady.
OLIVIA: Thank you, Spokes. That will be all. (She stays watching him as he turns and leaves.)
Scene 2 
(The same house, two months later. OLIVIA, noticeably more nervous and fragile, stands next to TRISTAN who is surrounded by packing cases.)
OLIVIA: Do you have everything?
TRISTAN: (carelessly) I think so.
(OLIVIA straightens his tie and brushes his shoulders.)
TRISTAN: Appearance...