Storms by Melania Chukwu

MEMOR IES ARE T HE ST OR IES Y OU T ELL Y OURSELF

hosted by Jared McGuiness

“Lived experiences (yours and others’) can be the starting point for your fiction. Everyone, especially you, has stories worth telling.”

Jared McGinnis was chosen as one of the UK’s ten best emerging writers. His debut novel The Coward was selected for BBC 2’s Between the Covers, BBC Radio 2’s Book Club and the Barbellion Prize.

We watched a recording of a workshop he delivered for the 2021 Writer’s Week to find inspiration for our own writing.

Workshop recording courtesy of the Arvon Foundation

I remember.

The soft lapping of waves on the beach, the gentle breeze ruffling your hair.

Your smile, when I stole your hat, and how you chased me into the sea, the laughter drowning out everything else.

The joy on my face and the hot drink in my hand, and how you teased me for it. Because ‘who drinks herbal tea in 30 degree heat?’

Our little group, talking about things that seemed so big then, but now seem so small.

The music, and how it was stuck in my head for days afterwards, because you wouldn’t stop whistling it.

Charades, cake, presents, hugs, and everything a birthday was supposed to have.

Sunbathing, swimming, chatting, flirting and everything a birthday should have.

You looking at me.

I remember all the good things.

But also when it all went wrong.

The harsh bang of gunfire, how it startled us, and how it wouldn’t stop. It was so loud, God it was so loud, and persistent, like a siren.

The dark figures chasing us around, laughing, and the screams that drowned out everything else.

The fear in your eyes, and how you looked around wildly for me. But while you looked for me, I was down already, my vision blurring.

Our little group, reduced by half, as they lay face-down in the sand, you with them.

How the music kept playing even after there was no one to enjoy it.

Red sand, silence, pain, and nothing a holiday should have.

Memories

I Remembe th Ne

Frien

Iremember when we met. Not for the first time, but yes, for the first time… sort of. It was like I had opened my eyes and I saw a missed opportunity that had returned. I can almost hear the dull buzzing of the air con and that particular smell of the room that I can’t quite place. The blue mats that lined the darker floor and the lights that crawled into the corner of my eye.

Mostly I remember the shade of their hair, that warm brown - homelike. I remember the sickness in my stomach, fear I felt thinking about talking to them for the first time. I remember their softened eyes and welcoming aura. I remember a new feeling.

By Arlo Evans