Creative Wriiting

Fracture

By Molly Phillips

before I realise that I am dreaming

Falling

i am walking to the tower, (the same I walk round every day to watch the waves come home), and all is as it should be except it’s quieter, grayer and

My limbs pinned to my sides so I cannot even writhe, worm-like in the quieter gray and

and I realise.

The air does not feel like air, it feels like nothing, I feel like nothing, detached from the consequences of who I am and who I was

i am nothing and I like it and

When did I learn to be nothing? More than that, when did I learn to like it?

i used to be someone and enjoy it. long for it.

The ground is too far to be sensical I am waiting for

now I’m nothing and I like it.

Ground myself in sense, in remnants of my life, what my life was

And I wake.

I awake into what my life has now become. He is beside me, he is always beside me, asleep on the stool he’s spent the night perched on like a bird, but folded over, forehead on the straw mattress, accidental sleepbreath slow and sweet.

I think about what I thought. I never thought I’d see him again, but now he’s there and I see him so clearly. I could reach out and smooth the hair that sprouts so softly from his crown.

The sky outside the window is grey, and I am falling again, flexing my hands into branches at my side. My hands are bony, the veins are green and bold, with torn fingernails altering the line of their once confident edges.

He stirs beside me, to lift his head and turn, but does not wake.

I think about the moment that I knew I was going to die. I cannot find it. I cannot find a lot of moments I thought I’d made. If they exist they do so in halves and quarters. I think I exist in halves and quarters myself now that there’s light again.

I push myself into a sitting position. He sleeps on, so I slip out of the bed. Every movement feels wrong, each half of my body lagging like it barely exists. Looking out the window. I see where it all

Where it

Where it happened and parts of memories try to filter back through the recesses of my pounding skull. They do not succeed. They are fractured and they themselves are hairline cracks in the bone of thought. In the dream I was no one and I liked it but I can feel my splintered self becoming someone again because it’s over, isn’t it? Even though I feel like it will all fall away like a baby bird from a nest in moments, it doesn’t. I am a person now. I wasn’t, for a moment, but I am. What memories I can make to replace the ones I’ve lost. Must be something big. Something important, to have lost it so easily. Grapple with it, the weight of something forgotten, something that has passed and disappeared, yet somehow is heavier than what remains.

creative writing The Mirror

By Ella Weeks - Pearson

As I study the face I see before me, Old but with wisdom in those lines, The wrinkles tell a story of who they were, When they laughed, and when they cried.

I look at the woman quietly sitting there, Her hair so short, fragile, and grey, Quite a contrast to the fiery red locks I had, That I walked proudly with each day.

The sapphire of her eyes looks tired, Sad almost, but why? I’ve been told her family visited today, Though I’ve forgotten their names and the time.

That smile though, oh that beautiful smile, Has also faded and gone away. Those pearlescent white teeth that could light up a room, Hidden by the depression in the uncertainty of each day.

Though the necklace she wears is familiar, A golden padlock and delicate chain. My husband gave me one oh so similar, As to remind me of our wedding day.

Yet I look at the woman before me, Forgetting what I was going to say. The story of who I am and what I loved, Gone for another day.

Now I’m left simply looking at a mirror, Barely recognisable to myself, That woman is me, that face is mine, But the memories and life has drained out.

I hope I make another appearance tomorrow, I wish that this time I could stay, But dementia is a gatekeeper, Who pushes me and my memories away.

Photo: Unsplash

Memory Loss

By Louise Collins

My name is Lucy Greenland. I’m 56 years old. I have three sisters, and a brother. I had a brown Labrador called Billy. My parents were teachers. I broke my arm once whilst riding my bike. I had a red cast on for eight weeks. My favourite colour is orange. I wanted to be a dancer when I was growing up. Now, I’m a writer. I studied psychology at university. I met up with my friends for lunch yesterday. The five of us were friends from school. We went to a lovely vegan café in the city. I had a roasted vegetable pasta. It was so lovely catching up. I talked about getting a cat from a nearby shelter. We went to visit one, she was a lovely ginger tabby.

Memory. It’s a special thing. You don’t appreciate it until it’s gone. It’s all your favourite books, lyrics to beloved songs. It’s your mum’s mobile number, or your dad’s favourite colour. It has all your past holidays, all your old school friends. It’s the names of your neighbours, all your old addresses. Your memory makes up who you are, because it holds your past experiences, all of which shape you into your present self. Memories can be relived through photos and videos, or diary entries. But the best memories are the ones that come up out of the blue. You’re walking, and you see a woman in a dress, and you think back to that summer of ‘84, when you were on a beach with your family, eating ice-cream and turning golden in the sun.

My name is Lucy Greenland. I’m 56 years old. I have three sisters, and a brother. I had a brown Labrador, but I can’t remember his name. My parents were teachers. I broke my arm once, but all I can remember is that I wore a cast. I’m not sure what colour it was. My favourite colour is orange. I’m a writer. I studied psychology at university. I met up with some old friends last week, but I can’t remember what we did. I’d love to have a cat to keep me company, I saw a ginger tabby somewhere last week.

You hear a name, and you think back to school, laughing in class with your friends at something stupid the teacher did. You remember turning red with the effort not to laugh out loud, the ache in your side from trying to keep it in. The chuckles from the class as you were sent outside.

You try a drink, and you remember the night you had your first kiss. You were in a bar, and a cute guy came over and started chatting. It felt so natural, and you were so happy. It didn’t work out past two dates, but the kiss was nice. You remember feeling free, feeling so much love for everyone around you.

Memory. It's funny; It can come and go in a blink of an eye. You can walk into a room and forget what you wanted, or you can remember something from when you were four years old. Until, of course, you can’t.

My name is Lucy Greenland. I’m 56 years old. I have three sisters, and a brother. I had a dog called Billy. My favourite colour is orange. I’m a writer. I went to a cat shelter last week.

Memory. It’s a special thing. You don’t appreciate it until it’s gone.