9 minute read
Creative Writing
What a wonderful winter world
By Louise collins
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Even before you open your eyes, you know it’s brighter than usual. Something has happened overnight. Something magical. Your eyes flutter open, darting towards your bedroom window, where a sliver of light peeks through. A small smile flashes onto your face as you sit up, noticing the cold, crisp air for the first time. Even through the smallest gap, you know. It’s bright white outside. It’s snowing. Standing up and pulling your duvet around you so you’re swallowed by it, you shuffle to the window, holding the cover with one hand, drawing the curtains back with the other. Your smile widens as you take in the sight before you.
Your whole garden is covered in a thick, bright layer of snow. You can barely make out the steps out of your conservatory, it’s that deep. It’s a winter wonderland, and snowflakes of all sizes are still falling, finding their place in the white abyss. The conifers outside your window look like they’re straight out of a Christmas tree farm with their sprinkling of snow, and you can’t help but feel the excitement bubble up. It’s a week until Christmas, and the hope it’ll be a white one is ever-growing. You quickly pull a pair of your fluffiest socks on, wrap yourself in your dressing gown, and head along the corridor.
Sinking into the window seat in your living room, looking out onto the falling snow, you breathe in the scent of rich hot chocolate. The steaming mug in your hands heating you up and taking over your senses. The thick dollop of whipped cream and the smattering of marshmallows look straight out of a Christmas movie, but you don’t care if you look cheesy; you’re too content at this moment. You’re curled up tight, cushions surrounding you like a nest. You hear the click of a camera, and turn around, noticing your brother for the first time, capturing you in all your comfort.
An hour later, you’re both wrapped up warm. You’re in your favourite knitted sweater and fleecelined leggings. Three pairs of fluffy socks keeping your feet warm, and your new winter coat zipped all the way up. The pair of you cross the road, meeting up with your cousin and your friends, who live just down the street from you. Their cheeks are tinted pink from the cold, and you know yours will soon join them. As the five of you start walking, desperately trying to keep yourselves warm, you take in the freshness of the still almost-untouched snow. It’s still falling, and it’s already thick, but you’d never pass on a walk through the forest in this weather; not with all these stunning sights to be seen.
Soon enough, the five of you have become too cold just walking, and you find yourself in one of the surrounding fields, throwing snowballs at each other with absolutely no loyalty to anyone; it’s every man for themself. You’re dodging snowballsas best as you can, but just as you throw the perfect arm, seeing it hit your cousin smack bang in her shoulder, you see a flash ofwhite before your face stings with cold. Your brother lets out a victorious whoop before you can regain your senses and you’re bolting after him, speeding to get your revenge.
An hour later, the five of you are back in your living room, socks on the radiators, pants in the dryer, blankets wrapped around you. Your faces are all bright pink, and your hair is soaking wet, but you’re all wearing the same matching grins as you look out onto the winter wonderland in your backyard, and plan for tomorrow’s activities.
Photo: Unsplash
an ordinary man, an extraordinary day
By hamilton brown
Mr Jones liked to think that ordinary was better. If you’re ordinary, you’re neither noteworthy for being smart, nor noteworthy for being dumb; neither talented nor useless. If you’re altogether B grade – do a bit of everything relatively well – then you slide right past others’ peripheral visions.
He took pride in the fact he was born on a Tuesday, a very ordinary day indeed; had a job as a barista at a Marks and Spencer’s café, a very ordinary job indeed; and had a wife and two kids, a very ordinary family indeed.
He liked his job; it wasn’t particularly taxing, but there was still a skill to be had for it, in terms of latte art. But then again, there wasn’t an inordinate amount of pressure placed on him for that skill to be honed. Nobody really cared if their coffee looked like a heart or a phallic appendage, and the lack of expectations made him feel safe.
Nearing the end of his Thursday shift, Mr Jones put through his customer’s order with a smile. ‘Thank you! Who’s next, there? Ah, James Gordon – how’re you today?’
James shrugged, ‘Yeah, good.’ But his dejected features and furrowed brows explained otherwise. This insular body language looked rather incongruous on his solid frame and large stature. ‘Just the usual, cheers, David.’
‘A cappuccino, please, Karen!’ Mr Jones called to his colleague as he scanned through James’ usual cheese and mushroom toastie. James checked his watch, and as he did so, Mr Jones caught a glimpse of a Chinese dragon illustration snaking down his arm. ‘New tattoo, eh?’ he said, perhaps a little too energetically to counterbalance James’ mood. ‘Makes that sleeve of yours complete, now doesn’t it?’
‘Cheers mate,’ James snorted politely, but his limp reply lacked any of the jovial laddishness that frequently dominated his tone.
Mr Jones was a creature of habit. A habit was something comforting, to be enjoyed; nothing could go wrong if one continually revolved one’s life round a series of actions, the way the sun orbits the earth. But, as he entered the newsagents at seven forty-five for his morning newspaper, James Gordon was the person that occupied his mind most habitually. If something was bothering his regular customers, then it was bothering Mr Jones. The elusive cause of James’ gloom buzzed inside Mr Jones’ head like a fly pelting on glass, scouting for an open window.
Suddenly a small pistol was thrust into his face. Orders were barked at him by a balaclava with eyes. ‘I’m sorry?’ he asked, coming into consciousness and away from James Gordon.
‘Get on the floor now!’ the balaclava thundered, shoving his gun to Mr Jones’ forehead.
He complied sedately. Sitting on the linoleum, he unfolded his paper and turned to the astrology section, to look for answers as to why this day had become so unordinary. Particularly for one who was born on such an ordinary day as Tuesday, and works in M&S.
Perhaps it was because he was a Leo, he reasoned. Judging by the vague yet ominous prophecy he read, it was just a bad day for Leos. He wondered whether the person writing this supposed someone born under his star would get caught up in a robbery today, or if the inauspicious message meant they’d lose an umbrella, or some such ordinary item.
Whatever the reason for this speedbump in his life, Mr Jones had never experienced such a ruckus before. But somebody had to do something. And, judging by the hopeless elderly gentleman behind the till and the pregnant woman with her crying toddler, it looked like the stars were calling on him to diffuse the situation.
A divorce from tradition
By bella hatch
2012. Christmas with Mum. You’ve been told to act normal, so you’re singing while you bring the coal but now you’re singing solo. There’s still just as much food, just as much drink, but no matter how full you stock the cupboards, something in the kitchen is missing. The tree is up, the lights are on, but you walk in on Mum struggling to light the fire herself. She turns and rolls her eyes and laughs, cracking a joke about needing a man about the house. The joke falls cold. The front door has been left open, and you sweep the snow back outside. There’s an empty space at the table, but no one mentions this. The turkey is dry in your mouth. You pull a cracker with your brother and he wins. This time there’s no chuckle and ruffle of hair from Dad as he passes you his own paper hat. Mum tuts and gives you hers, but it’s not the same. 2013. First Christmas with Dad. It’s been the same year but everything is new. He’s still living in his best friend’s spare room, and as they cook they joke about how it’s just like being back at university, but with better wine. Dad gives you a glass, handing it over with a wink, and tells you not to tell Mum. You don’t mention that there’s so much you don’t tell her now. You eat roast potatoes from a bag and store bought green beans, pigs in blankets fresh from the freezer burnt to crisps around the edges because “the football highlights are on, I bloody forgot to check the oven!”. The tree is smaller, and Dad apologises about there being less presents this year. You want to tell him it was never about the presents, but you just smile and hug him tighter than usual. 2014. Christmas at Mum’s. There’s a new name under the tree, just one present addressed to the newcomer. Cautious teenage eyes follow Mum as she fetches the present and gives it to her recipient, followed by a kiss. The empty space at the table has been filled, but no one mentions this. You walk in on him lighting the fire, and he cracks a joke about how your mum has said she needs a man about the house. The joke lands cold. The fire is slow to light, and the warmth eks slowly from the room. Your dad calls, and you tell him about the newcomer. Dad has nothing nice to say about him, but his swearing makes you laugh. When Mum asks what’s funny, you shake your head. You’re unhappy, but she doesn’t have to be anymore. 2015. Christmas at Dad’s. The new house smell still hasn’t dissipated, and half the rooms stand bare save for mountains of cardboard boxes. On Christmas morning you slide around in your socks on the polished wood, and heat milk over the stove for hot chocolate. You share bacon sandwiches while sitting on cushions on the bare living room floor, Christmas carols leaking from the tinny radio. Dad wraps a blanket around your shoulders while the turkey is roasting, and you duet Christmas songs for the first time in three years. Mum calls, and you tell her about the overcooked carrots, and she sighs and says Dad could never get them right. She wishes you a Happy Christmas and when you say it back, you think maybe this year you really mean it.
