UoN's Creative Writing

UoN's Creative Writing

Matchsticks and dead things

by Aldea Toth

A small pale arm with a red glove reaches out to the lighter. It looks cold, icy blue sheen, tremoring, its top pointed and sharp, ready to prick. The little red fist hovers and catches a piece. It’s not cold as expected, it burns and eats and swallows. The red glove is in its hollow mouth, you can see it through the translucent yellow skin and teeth that latched on. It regenerates, grows up to cover the the fist, meshes itself on, as if you walked into a spiderweb that you can’t shake off. The glove goes from red to black and does not have long left, and yet it carries the burning tongue to my candle, so that I can remember the memory of you, make sure it still burns somewhere in there

Hibernation

by Clara Wodny

My shadow sits across from me, waiting for me to make the first move. I sit, holding my breath, wishing I could disappear. But the sun has other plans, and this poor reflection of who I am supposed to be flickers, shifts, but never fades. It tilts its head now, mocking me. There is more humanness in that one gesture than I can find in my entire being. I knew I couldn’t avoid it forever, but it turns out I’m pretty good at make-believe, so I forgot this day was coming. If I just try hard enough, I can go back to being a carefree child of the earth, fueled by nothing more than an empty field and the promise of a future. Any future. The sun shifts. My shadow sits next to me now, a position that feels almost intimate. I guess it is intimate, by its very nature, since the two of us technically belong to the same being. Finally, I reach out my hand. Our fingers touch. The contact is tangible, not at all like touching air. It is time, now, for the sun to retire, and I know my shadow will go with it. It’s easy to forget they were ever here, when they’re gone. The warmth and safety of my childhood fades seamlessly into icy sky, drowning out the last strain of hope that I can still be whatever I want to be. The only thing left to do is stay warm, in the winter, and trust the sun will one day rise again.

“too sentimental”

by Edward Farley

Her fingers run on cashmere sweaters, fibres smooth like cream. Her wedding ring catches on a loose thread. Something so expensive, ruined. She takes off the ring, a flings it over her shoulder. The smell of faded detergent and dust mix with the woody smell of the carboard box she’s packing them up in. In the silence, wind whistles through the window. She turns around and looks at the frost crystallising on it. Christmas lights fight to shine through, they glare at her angrily because they can’t. Thought the window encases the ice from the room she’s in, there’s a kinship between the two. Both are beautiful, and both would look nice on Christmas cards. But come into contact for too long, and you’ll know just how cold they both are. She takes the box to the front door. “You’re too sentimental” croaks a voice from across the room.

“And you pay too little attention to things” she snipes. He keeps reading the newspaper, not looking up once. The irony washes over his head. Once, it would’ve knocked the air out of chest. But she’s used to it now. Words no longer create papercuts as she begrudgingly presents the narrative that they’re fine. They’re not. She slides on a pair of old slippers and opens the door. The searing cold leaks into her nose, her mouth. It pierces through her clothes. Snow falls on her like powdered sugar on a beignet. Unlocking the car, she shoves the box in with the other ones. It’s her last Christmas in that house, with the croaky voice buried in a newspaper. He’s right though. She is too sentimental. It doesn’t mean however, that she doesn’t know how to leave things that are of little value.

Nostalgia

by Logan Fairclough

Some things cannot be so easily erased from the mind’s eye. I can recall each detail, true or false; it matters not since it has become my truth. I remember the impossibly tall spruce tree towering over me at the end of the garden, acting as a protector between the boundaries of comfort and the outside world. I knew I wasn’t far from home when I could see the tree. Every detail, even now, is painted once more within my imagination- from the crisp yet damp smell to the feeling of the needles between my forming hands. I remember the swing centred beneath the tree, the warmth of the setting sun piercing through the branches, and the birds, oh, their sweet sounds— stillness among the garden, painted by an orange summer sunset glow. Words cannot do justice to memory, not honestly. Shapes of different sizes, wondrous colours and grandeur engulf my eyes all around my little self as I hop down from the swing, my back to the Spruce, towards what I once called home, feeling a chill upon my spine as the branches shade me momentarily. All is well. All is safe. Off on a walk we went, with whom I once called brothers. I remember not the destination, only the journey and the warmth of the orange sun, always the orange sun.