It was only so long before coexisting dimensions began to bleed together. Inevitable that they would weep their sorrows and guffaw their joys into one another. And it was, of course, equally natural that despite all evidence against it, humans would assume this to be a unique ability they had developed. A sixth sense.
Shadow Sensing was coined and sensationalised by a television psychic who claimed she could view versions of herself in alternate realities, catch glimpses through to other worlds, through the actions of her shadows. She professed she was gifted, the church cried demonic, and skeptics - delusional. That was until others proclaimed they were experiencing a similar sense, a feeling of knowing, often beginning with deja vu and developing into visions and tactile experiences. News headlines broke out in bold and scientists homed in to debunk.
Though it soon became apparent that it could not in fact be debunked. Studies found continuity and reliability in visions of other worlds. They found absence of any other indications of mental illness in those experiencing Shadow Sensing, and soon they found evidence of shadows that moved independently of their source.
Shadow Sensing spread. Thousands, millions, billions of people started to make claims and science began working on explanations. Explanations that I am sure made perfect sense to them, but very little to the layman. The layman just said “Well shit, Psychic Sue was onto something.”
And again, people did what people do and assumed that all of this meant something. That this unique ability was a gift of god or some other higher power. An act of fate. Something that just had to be harnessed for some kind of good. Because, often, visions of other planes were apocalyptic terrors, filled with bombed buildings, wild fires, chemical leaks, invasions of privacy, land, bodies. Except, despite the distance these realities may once have had from one another, they were not at all different from the one another. Destruction and dystopia were everywhere.
Humans may have “developed” the sixth sense of shadow sensing, but what would have been much more useful was if they had developed some common sense.
In the kitchen she fries bacon, eggs, and her mind. Scrambled and sunny-side down.
Fat spits in her eyes, Sweat drops, temperate rises, And she wishes drops in the pan were cyanide.
The kettle whistles high, Pressure builds, they sit behind, Scratching on papers, impatient but Never helping.
Whistle away your song, This songbirds long gone, Monotony will leave you despairing.
Four boys at the table, Father, sons, all grown males, Her youngest daughter’s frail hands scald in dishwater.
They say women belong in the kitchen. That’s where they cook and do knitting, And gossip the day away with friends.
But when you’re out working, We women aren’t shirking, We get out our battle maps and plans.
In the kitchen we free ourselves of your chains. In the kitchen is where revolution was made.
I duck and I dive, swing my arms wide try and fly, but you took my wings, left lead-heavy arms, cuffed to this box of mine.
I bend myself backwards snap my spine, crunch it down into a space you allow me to occupy, I cower inside - inside this box of mine.
You send in your spikes, coat even this place in your plague, make me change, puncturing skin, leave me to cry, bleeding in this box of mine.
I'm a contortionist for you, but there's nothing in it leaves me destitute, relying on you, inside this box of mine.
Need to Houdini, escape like a bird out a cage, I know it's cliché. need the pieces of me you took away, reconstruct them in a new way, make me better, make me brave, so next time I won't stay in this box of mine.
crooked teeth, bruised knees, and capital cities sent my head spinning, questioning things I didn’t think needed questioning. dance down the aisle to the supermarket radio. fluorescent lights scrutinise words that ring true, but we don’t have to acknowledge them if you don’t want to, not until shared smiles and looks caught across kitchen tiles make it the unavoidable conclusion.
russian wine, taxi rides, the worlds worst tour guide, swear you took me down the same street six times, but I don’t mind, I can talk for both of us when cold air gets you tongue-tied, and besides, there’s safety in your feet clipping the backs of mine.
tension isn’t cut with a knife, it’s built checking the cars locked three times, with shared playlists and drinks and hands placed on thighs, it’s grown when watchful eyes mean loose limbs stay by your side, but intertwine come the late night, and when planets align mapping out star signs that I explain to you because I believe in the divine, and in the early hours’ haze tension dies, as our realities awaken and live and thrive.
crooked teeth, bruised knees, and capital cities sent my head spinning, questioning things I didn’t think needed questioning. dance down the aisle to the supermarket radio. fluorescent lights scrutinise words that ring true, but we don’t have to acknowledge them if you don’t want to, not until shared smiles and looks caught across kitchen tiles make it the unavoidable conclusion.
russian wine, taxi rides, the worlds worst tour guide, swear you took me down the same street six times, but I don’t mind, I can’t talk for both of us when cold air gets you tongue-tied, and besides, there’s safety in your feet clipping the backs of mine.
tension isn’t cut with a knife, it’s built checking the cars locked three times, with shared playlists and drinks and hands placed on thighs, it’s grown when watchful eyes mean loose limbs stay by your side, but intertwine come the late night, and when planets align mapping out star signs that I explain to you because I believe in the divine, and in the early hours’ haze tension dies, as our realities awaken and live and thrive.
Trixie is a fireball of a girl - a careering clump of fire and gas, whipping flames too hot to touch, spiralling too fast to catch. Trixie is chaos. But Trixie is also brilliance. Writing spoken word with a crumpled rollie hanging from her bitten, peeling lips. Dry curls of tobacco peaking from the end until she lights them with a practiced, calloused thumb and a plastic, neon lighter. Inhaling the dusty remnants of her bag and exhaling wispy smoke into winter air that nips at her fingers.
“Don’t kill the vibe, Graham,” Sadie trawled.
Vibe? The vibe? How does one go about killing a vibe? Do vibes have sentience now? Can you take the consciousness from a vibe? What the fuck even is a vibe?
God, Graham hated hipsters, and as someone who worked in advertisement, he was becoming increasingly surrounded by them, because, apparently, all young media students are hipsters.
Sadie was a prime example of one. She was young, barely out of her degree, bright and, as of yet, brandishing an unbroken spirit, but she still somehow talked in unwavering monotone; carrying every word to its grave, letting it take its last lifeless breath still on her lips. It wasn’t that he actively hated her just... no, no there was definitely some active hatred.
They’d been spitballing ideas for a car advert, which, since the office had been transformed into a children’s clubhouse at some point during the last five years, was taking place sat on bean bags, using the process of throwing a small blue bouncy ball at each other. Graham had finally received the ball and simply proposed it might be an idea to actually mention the car they were trying to sell at some point during the advert, be it before or after the explosion of multicoloured balloons and montage of all the different countries the balloons had escaped to. Even just for a second. Right at the end. A quick photo of the car. It wasn’t a lot to ask of, well, a car advert.
“You see Graham,” Harry proposed, leaning forward on his purple beanbag, propping his elbows up and weaving his fingers together in a ‘power stance’ Graham was sure would’ve looked much more impressive at a table. “We’re trying to sell the message.”
If Graham believe in a God he would’ve called on him to give him strength. That was the first half of the golden line -
“Yah, yah,” Nathan added, “the car will sell itself.”
There it was! The second half! Graham resisted the urge to slap his hands either side of Nathan’s face and shout “No! No! That is what YOU are paid to do.” He did it in his head. It didn’t give him the level of satisfaction he was hoping for.
“Hmmph,” was what he actually said. Even less satisfaction.
What got to him most about these hipsters was the condescending way they spoke to him. He could put up with the golden lines. The bizarre storylines of adverts that never featured the products they were selling. Even the Monday morning Starbucks Frapa-choo-choo train, though it physically pained him, was something he was prepared to see as the way the office was changing. But the patronising? Graham was a forty-six year old man. He’d worked in advertising before some of these kids had popped out of the womb! He’d done his time in the retail industry, selling products to the public, learning what people wanted, what they needed, what made them go “wow” - the features that needed featuring. These kids didn’t know anything of the sort, they were just concerned with making pretty, Instagramable videos. With his expertise, he should be leading them, not being told what to do.
That’s it. Graham was up from his beanbag with a start.
“It’s clear what you all think of me,” he said before he really knew what he was doing. He needed to be careful, he was pretty sure Nathan’s dad was the director of the company or some such thing. “But I’ve been in this industry longer than you’ve all been pottering about this Earth and I think I deserve some respect.”
The three hipsters just looked at him. Probably a little stunned by his outburst. They were all pacifists, he was sure, did that mean no conflict or just no violence? Was it like the peace equivalent of vegetarians or vegans?
“Well, I’ve thought about it. You come up with your advert, and I’ll come up with mine. We’ll present them both, and the best advert wins.”
“Graham,” Sadie retorted, “you really have killed the vibe now.”
Heroin capital of the UK, Eyeroll, yeah we know - Don’t have to remind us, They made a film about it Or something. “Pretty, shitty city,” it said.
We’ve got that street where the piss-ups get featured on the TV, Lads gurning, off their faces on ecstasy, The girls are fucking freezing in tight dresses showing off tattooed chests and nipple piercings - They just want to get in on the interview, don’t matter they’re standing in the rain.
Twelve year olds in trackies Chain-smoking outside the maccies, Squaring up? Mate, you look about five, Take a seat.
But then there’s the other side, The most beautiful beaches that stretch for miles, That thing where you make energy just from the tide. Stand there, close your eyes, Dig your hands into the sand, it’s nice But bear it in mind You’ve not got up the posh end yet - Should probably look out for needles.
If you go further up you’ve got the cliffs, By all the big houses, red brick. Can keep walking, and walking and walking, Breathing in salted air. The sea can even whip at you from up here. And you grin. And it’s the best place you’ve ever been. There’s a lot wrong with it, When you walk back the other way And forget that all this even exists but Right now, this is the only place you need to be, Take in everything you can see, Be free.
needs editing but wanted to get it in to keep up a streak
He’s called me exotic three times already and I’ve only been sat here twenty minutes. I’m a person not an item on the menu for God’s sake.
He’s talked nonstop about his life. I know he’s an accountant with two french bulldogs and his own two bedroomed home, whose favourite colour is blue (typical) and who doesn’t agree with vegans. I don’t know what he knows about me because he only stops talking about himself to say things like -
“Your skin is beautiful, such a rich chocolate.”
There’s the jackpot! Was this why I stopped dating white guys? It’s a definite contender. I sigh.
“I’m going to the toilet,” I mutter, the scraping of the chair like nails on chalkboard, distressing. I hope the sound makes him uncomfortable, so he can feel like I have the whole date.
*
The woman sat opposite me is pretty, I can’t deny that. She’s got auburn hair and pale skin and wide, doe-like eyes. But that’s about it. Her personality thus far is a stale slice of plain white bread. No, bread has too much to it. A stale, dry, unsalted, broken-up rice cracker...
“Luke?” She looks at me as though I was supposed to have replied. I’ve been zoned out, twirling the same strands of spaghetti round my fork over and over again.
“Sorry, what was it?” I say, reminding myself of how I should behave. My mother taught me to be a gentleman, after all.
“What music are you into?” Even her voice is monotone.
At least I can sink my teeth into this one, give her something to work with.
“I love everything but particularly indie music, it’s defined the big guys like Arctic Monkeys, The Strokes, and before them the The Beatles, but I’m not really fussed on them. I’m more into the less well known stuff, Broken Social Scene, Reverie Sound Revue, The Belle Game - all Canadian. Any band with a horn section is great too. Then there’s old school rap and hip hop, 80s music and 90s grunge, and shoegaze ...’ I trail off, stopping myself from speaking before I go off on one. “What about you?”
Her eyes are looking at me but glazed over. “I don’t really listen to music.”
Dear god. That is the final straw.
“I have to pop to the toilet sorry. Won’t be long!”
*
Having sent a text to my best friend requesting an “emergency phone call” in about twenty minutes, I leave the bathroom and turn the corner back down the dimly lit corridor leading the way to the tables. The music is loud in here; they’re playing First Love by The Maccabees, it’s a good tune.
I glance around, there’s nobody else here, I start to sing along, taking my time down the long corridor, in no rush to return to Mr. Egocentric. I run my hands over the papered walls, the rips and tears only add to the rustic vibe of the place.
“Oh nothing’s perfect, I’m hoping I’ll doooo.”
Singing spills from somewhere other than the speakers as the door to the men’s swings open. It’s a nice voice, happy and melodic. I stop singing quickly as a lanky guy of about my age, early twenties, with curly brown hair strolls out the door, still singing.
“Hey, don’t stop, you have a nice voice,” he says with a smile as he walks towards me, pausing just before he passes.
“Oh no, you heard me?”
“Thought I’d join in for a duet. It’s a great song.”
“Epic,” I agree.
“Ada,” someone calls, dragging my name out. “Where have you gone? Did you want me to follow you here? We could go back to mine if that’s what you were thinking.”
Oh dear, he’s back to follow me round telling me how exotic I am as if I’m some kind of endangered species on a David fucking Attenborough documentary. I cringe and search for somewhere to hide.
The singing guy looks at me, bewildered. He points and mouths. “Are you Ada?”
I nod.
His brows furrow. “Are you ok?” He mouths again, moving closer.
“Yeah,” I whisper, but roll my eyes. I spot what looks like a maintenance cupboard and find it’s unlocked. “Follow me,” I mouth and drag him in with me.
I close the door behind me as quietly as I can, consuming us in darkness. If the other weirdo was in here, he’d probably say something about how my skin is so dark he can’t see me. News flash, I can’t see you either dickhead, it’s dark.
I don’t dare turn the light on, incase the light seeps from the crack at the bottom of the door. Also, I don’t know where the light switch is.
When I hear his irritating, articulate posh-boy voice disappear a bit further down the corridor, I turn to the guy I’ve trapped in the cupboard with me.
“Sorry about this,” I mutter, still taking care to be quiet and not to draw attention to the cupboard.
I can’t see his face, but I think he grins, or maybe smirks, I can’t distinguish from mouth sounds alone.
“No problem. You’ve rescued me from the most boring night of my life. I should be thanking you.”
I giggle quietly. “At least I’m not the only one who’s having a bad night.”
“So tell me Ada - I’m Luke by the way - what exactly is going on here?”
I explain the whole night to him, starting from the seemingly innocent comments about how my hair was “refreshing” to his total obsession with my ethnicity, and all the self-obsession in between.
Luke grimaced. “God, that’s rank, I think I’d have knocked him out if I were you, and I’m not a violent man.”
“Trust me, I imagined doing it the whole time I was sat there.”
“It’s just so weird and creepy to be that fixated on it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t buy into the whole colour-blind shit, but there’s more to you than that. I mean, cracking music taste for one, and humour and something to say. But even in terms of how you look, yeah your skin is beautiful but so is the rest of you. Your teeth.”
My hand instinctively jumps to cover my mouth before I remember we are in complete darkness and there’s no need to hide them. “They’re disgusting,” I say. “They’re huge and so gappy.”
“Noooo,” Luke protests. “The gaps are cute. It’s what I noticed about you. Not in a bad way, just, like if I had to characterise you, you’d would be the girl with the cute teeth.
I smile and am glad of the darkness as I fidget. I’m not the best at taking compliments.
“Sorry, bit of a tangent, but you know what I mean. You’re a person, not someone’s fetish. Your guy sounds like a complete...”
“Wanker,” we say together and laugh.
I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re stood in this cupboard. My hands are down by my sides, but I can feel Luke fidgeting with his. They catch mine every time he moves, sending a shockwave of warmth up my arms. Action potentials shooting up my neurons to release happiness into my brain at his touch. I tiptoe and I can feel his breath on my face. He’s closer now. And closer again.
And then there’s a bang on the door and we both jump backwards, biting our lips to keep quiet.
“Fuck sake,” comes my date’s voice through the heavy wooden door. “I suppose that’s what I get for going on a date with someone like her.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I’m frozen in shock but my mind continues to race and fuel a flame that is growing inside of me. Luke is tense beside me and his hand moves to my arm in support of whatever I do.
Finally, the friction of my racing thoughts turns the flame into a wild fire which spurs my body to move. I swing the door open with all the force of my small frame, knocking my date further into the corridor.
“There you are!” He shouts.
“What the fuck are you trying to say?” I demand. “Someone like me? You’ve been a racist, fetishising prick all night and I’m putting my foot down now.”
“Stupid bitch,” he mutters, rubbing his head where the door must have smacked him.
Luke and I both move towards him, but Luke steps back and let’s me have my moment.
I grab my date’s collar and throw him against the wall with force I didn’t know I had. He hurls abuse at me and I take a step back and headbutt him right in his nose. He swears and grabs his nose.
“Don’t you ever say anything like that ever again.” I turn and walk away.
Luke smiles and excitedly runs over and drops to the floor on one knee.
“Marry me?” He says.
I raise my eyebrow at him.
“Sorry, got carried away with all the adrenaline.” He gets to his feet and dusts off the knees of his denim jeans. “Want to go on a date though?”
“Certainly.” I smile. “Shall we be off?”
Luke stands tall beside me and positions his arm so I can slip my own through the gap and around it, as though he is a prince escorting me to a dance.
“M’lady,” he says, as though to prove my point. And we make our way away from the scene together.
more of a spoken word piece
the thing is I can’t shut my mouth, bite my tongue, for one thing my pain tolerance is too low - wouldn’t allow it. plus I’m a taurus with a leo moon so it’s not in my astrological profile to stand down. go on, come at me, I’ll come back at you with all the rage of a million oppressed women, beaten down, called out, told we’re not good enough for the job, told we’re not worth listening to, our friends are not worth listening to, nor our mothers, nor our sisters, but our brothers, oh yeah, you’ll hear what they have to say. our stories don’t matter, unless we’re using them to flanter, because we only get listened to when we’re paying you direct attention. you’ve been mollycoddled. but that too will get blamed on your mother, not your dad who perpetuated boys will be boys. and since when did wearing short shorts become a statement? my legs are not a statement, my body is not political, of course everything is political these days, it’s us Gen Z kids making ~everything about politics~ except you missed the part where a decade of Tory austerity made human rights a political battlefield, where Cameron fucked a pig to take away from his racist crackdown on multiculturalism, where May danced onto stage so we would forget she said “There are boys jobs, and there are girls jobs”, where corruption and cronyism rotted the NHS and a centurion raised money for it - the NHS is not a charity it is a public service - and where Johnson’s funny hair and bumbling demeanour led us into an Orwellian state but yeah ok, it’s all our fault really, for protesting our right to walk down the street, for the rights of black boys to breathe, for an Earth that can remain green, but just like teenagers downing spirits and rolling joints in the park at night, just because we’re not allowed to do something, doesn’t mean we won’t. that’s what they forgot. we’re resilient, we bounce back, we don’t do what we’re told, there’s power in the people, and power in the proles.