Ellie Lockhart
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
Ellie Lockhart
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
3rd year Creative Writing & English Literature Student @ University of Portsmouth
I like the colour of the sun.
No, not the oranges and pinks and purples and reds of the sky when it sets.
Most people only appreciate those.
The colours in those final moments before it disappears, perhaps forever.
Funny that people only truly notice beautiful things when they’re gone.
No, I like the colour of the sun itself.
What colour is that, you might ask?
After all, you can’t even look...
I should have seen it coming.
Ever since the day I met him, he always wanted change. It started small; the way I dressed, the way I laughed, smiled. But then the adjustments got bigger. More personal. The way I spoke, the way I moved - never preserve, always alter.
We would take a photo. He would edit me beyond recognition before I even got a chance to see it. Even skin tone here, erase a pimp...
The Girl in The Window is
not a girl at all.
The Girl in The Window is
a great Bernini masterpiece preserved in magnificent marble.
The Girl in The Window is
a shadow bathing in the spaces between the light.
The Girl in The Window is
a mirage within the steam tendrils writhing up from cup in her hands.
Or, perhaps
The Girl in The Window is
not in a window at all.
The Girl in The Window ...
I think we need to talk.
I’m thinking of making a roast for dinner.
I’m being serious.
If you’re working late, I can wait for the weekend.
Please, I’m trying to tell you something.
I quite fancy roast, though.
You see the thing is, I’ve met someone else.
I can always reheat it when you come home.
And I know this is hard to hear.
Yes, I think I’ll cook a roast.
And I know you won’t want to...
I lift my shoulders to block my ears as I fumble desperately for my earplugs. My fingers search in vain as they come up empty. I have a suspicion, but I hope it’s not true.
My manic internal pondering is confirmed as the mob flaunts multiple pairs in their outstretched fingers, their leering gazes sparkling with mutual humour.
‘Looking for something?’ one of them mocks.
No, not now, not yet. It’...