Word Up by Writing on the Wall

Liverpool Young Writers ‘Word Up’

Writing on the Wall Kuumba Imani Millennium Centre 4, Princes Road, Liverpool L8 1TH Published by Writing on the Wall 2014 Copyright ÂŠ remains with authors, 2014 Design and layout by Rosa Murdoch All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. 0151 703 0020 info@writingonthewall.org.uk www.writingonthewall.org.uk

Word Up

Contents Introduction

Ellie Weaver

Lauren Lynn

Abigail Neve

Carys Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Sullivan

Thomas Fennell

Reece Goldstein

Liam Porter

Amina Atiq

Jaylyn Blank

Foreword Writing on the Wall are proud to showcase ‘Word Up’ based on the work of our very own Young Writers Group. Their writing and spoken word art has been developed during a twelve week course with renowned performance artist, Nikki Blaze and writer, Jack Finch who have supported them to create their very own original writing. From flash fiction to spoken word and performance poetry, there’s nothing to stop our young writers from reaching for the stars.

The Wingless: Open Your Eyes (Excerpt from novel) Shrill shrieking morphed into the howling wind, as the figure fell motionlessly towards the hard ground. The wind felt like it was forcing into her skin, going through each of her layers, until it will have all been ripped apart by the adamantine wind. She inhaled her last breath of air, firmly closed her eyes, unwillingly waiting. Suddenly her body smashed against the hard sand with rocks protruding out. She lay there still. No blood surrounded her. Just the scene of death. Frigid water lapped over the young girl’s feet, yet her movement was still. Her face was porcelain and empty. No light or colour appeared in her, just dull, dense colours. The tide was slowly drifting in, lapping over the girl’s body, and then lapping back out. If the worst were to come true she would be washed out to sea - undiscovered and her life a mystery from that day forward, her family confused and distraught. She lay on her back, as if any minute the coast air would flow through her mouth, into her lungs and she’d begin breathing again. The tide was now skimming her body and soon would be carrying her out to the vast ocean. No bruises appeared on the young girl’s body, no marks and no cuts. Just a girl helplessly laying there, none of her family or friends aware, of the tragic accident that had occurred. For that matter if it was an accident or not. The water had now begun brushing above her and her body slowly started slinking into the dark, penetrating water. Suddenly her back jerked up, as she began wheezing for air, spluttering the saltiness out of her mouth and coughing desperately. Gazing around her, memories flashed in her head-she remembered every bit of the ‘accident’. Ellie Weaver 1

Rollercoaster of Emotions How can you run when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve only just learnt how to walk? 10x10 is the hundredth person, If a fish had no fins, How would one swim? If we had no heart, How would we prevail through life? Life is like a rollercoaster, You can get on with emotions, Or Get off with help, The heavy weight of decisions, Cramp together in our bags, Trying to figure out your next move, Is the equivalent of reading miniature writing, Courage is like the knight in shining armour, Whilst pressure is the masked figure, You can cover up with the sprays and make-up, Or, You can reveal your true self, Life is like a rollercoaster, You can get on with emotions, Or Get off with help.

Ellie Weaver

Basic Training They say water is an odourless, tasteless liquid. For islanders, the sea is their kingdom, water their element. Rhythmical patterns coming and going, as enthusiasm ebbs away with the tide. If you watch closely you can see speckled gulls, comrades of the waves, bobbing up and down singing songs of home. We all have a course to follow. Last night, there was an eclipse. I was a dead star burning out. Someone pulled the plug on all of the celestial illuminations in the world, and there I was, fading, barely flickering. As darkness began to tug at my heartstrings, I was reminded of how quickly shadows can consume bodies. We are basic units of chemical components. Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus. We are periodic tables, compounds, foundations. We are all the power of an atom, holding artificial light in our hands when our own is fading, learning to breathe for one. Lauren Lynn

I used to be Gold I used to be gold. First prize collarbones, atomic number 79. I think of our bodies unhinging. Dismantling a masterpiece we worked so hard to build with creased hands. A workshop of cracking spines to straighten out the way we would slouch. Maintenance was: drilling openings inside each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s joints, stitching ligaments, embroidering our hopes beneath surfaces in cryptic codes unseen. When I arrived I was sun. Already sweltering inside your pores, glazing skin in honey residue. My promises rinsed over in drizzling rain, marinating your bones, flooding, breaking into the current network of your nerves. Often, all I have are promises. It starts with a loud rumbling noise from the inside out, a vicious clap of thunder rendering breathing patterns defenceless. An expansion of pressure that is too close for comfort.

When I think of slipped disks, they remind me of those stepping stones we crossed towards the Coliseum we had in our minds. We hung expectations from our shoulders. Self-depreciation is a gale force wind who knocks once, twice, strikes fragility down with her fury—ungluing the grip beneath my feet, begging that I get familiar with my knees. She says, “You’re going to have to look at them up close if you want to learn how to assess damage.” When I unzipped my ribcage I saw those impressions that you’d left on my heart, ransacked awareness told me you’d been here, moulding yourself between my ventricles. Last night I set a fire, and watched as it burned the end of the rope that I’d been holding to keep you close. Lauren Lynn

Why You Should Never Look Forward to Things There it is Sitting softly on the horizon Looking down on the rusty ocean that is time It looks like a slice of God Glowing, burning, glaring, blinding Casting a bright blanket on everything else Making it impossible to see anything but the bright future It puts things off balance Where there is bright, inevitably there is dark And the days in between sink into grey but It’s okay! You can still see the sun It takes a while for you to realise Yours are the hands that cover your eyes And the sun on the horizon Is a lie, is synthetic light The bulb is dead before you cross the sea You look back and to your surprise A million stars line the skies If you’d have taken the time to play dot to dot The constellations would teach you a lot Forming freeze frames of you in happy poses But blocked noses can’t smell the roses Which wilt in your wake Wake up! Turn around Breathe before you dive 6

I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t realise I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t swim Until I was already in the deep end I jumped in on a whim Left the ground, faked a fin And now the waves, they grasp me Abigail Neve

Horoscopes and Other Scary Coincidences Too much scope in horoscopes Soul mates based on the tragic fate Of a movie most people seem to hate How profound is the shape of a cloud An innocent ball of gas Accused of all sorts of crass A simple song between two kids Balloons into a lustful charm The artist meant no harm Abigail Neve

Pregnant Pauses that Never Gave Birth Red cheeked amongst disarray Hands touch cheek; it burns Eyes stinging, wet needles falling out Mind rolling through muddy fields Through an abandoned house where you stand Reeling back in the words hanging from your mouth Wishing you could take it back Not what you said, but what you didn’t If only the pregnant pauses had given birth I’m sure the child would have been A bouncing baby And when it rained he would dance And the droplets would land on his eyelashes And she would wear them like diamonds You wish you wouldn’t have let the chance of a stillborn Stop you from saying the truth But you’re still torn Still stuck One foot in the muddy fields And one so far away Planted in the grass of today Abigail Neve

Rain Have you ever just stopped for a moment Took a break from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and just Noticed? Noticed the tiny droplets of water, racing down the window Falling silently to the ground, and finding their way To potholes and shoe soles Or any other indent they can squeeze themselves into. Did you even notice it was raining at all? I mean, it’s not like it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity here in Britain; Raining is a pretty much every day custom for the clouds of the UK. So I suppose it’s easy to let it wash over your head like that: not really taking it in. But if you just once stopped to look, and notice, you’ll realise the true beauty of the rainfall. How it can be noisy, yet somehow soothing Taking with it the stress of a busy lifestyle when it evaporates Into the atmosphere. And what’s left is a picturesque sight A mixture of dull raindrops and radiant sunlight: the consolation prize after a storm, With a pot of gold at one end and a cloud at the other. A vibrant variety of different colours my eyes land upon as I gaze out 10

Curled up on the windowsill with a tattered blanket and a captivating book Desperately trying to finish that one last chapter before slowly falling to sleep. Carys Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Sullivan

So-Called Duet Normally I’m forced to hang limp and lifeless, Occasionally swinging in the draughty side-lines, Unless I’m being used to help him express himself, Or to hold something up, a support of some kind. I never get to grip his expensive new fountain pen, To guide it effortlessly across a crisp, white sheet, Crafting a sentence or etching a doodle, Or completing a sonnet with an elegant sweep. Even the pen lid I’m obliged to share With the slobbering abyss that hangs open up top; I’m sometimes plunged in to meet with decay, Examine the plaque, check the bleeding has stopped. Years pass by, I feel myself grow weak, An unworthy opponent to the vascular king; I’m the one left buried deep in his pocket, Remaining utterly useless when the telephone rings. I welcome the moment he’s craving a smoke, When my enemy is stained by the sixth cigarette, Whilst I provide the power to set the whole room alight, My solo performance is this so-called duet. An on-going battle between the strong and the weak, A horrific injustice he just doesn’t understand. He’s completely oblivious to how he favours his right, Yet completely neglects me, his miserable left hand. Thomas Fennell 12

The Lost Generation We’re part of what some like to call the lost generation, The unruly youths who kicked and screamed our way through Into the 21st Century, Without any manners, without a scrap of ambition, But somehow with the whole world at our feet. We all breeze through school, naturally, Because with only 415 exams each year, it’s all become just a little too easy. Some of us choose to go on to study at university, Where instead of going to lectures, We all actually morph into 24-hour party animals, Forced to spend our student loan, On Tesco Value Vodka and beans on toast alone, Still emerging on the other side with a second class degree, and only 30 grand’s worth of debt, How lucky are we?! Then some of us decide that we love not working Too much to put the hard work in, To apply for any jobs, Even though we’ve been told, If you look properly there’s loads! Some of them even offer us zero hour contracts and minimum wage in this age of austerity, This economic climate, Where really we should be pleased To work anywhere for free. 13

But some of us would rather sit on our arse all day, Thinking up new ways to be lazy, Perfecting the art of taking the most flattering selfie, Reclining in front of our parent’s 79” Telly, Eating a shit load of biscuits for breakfast, dinner and tea. We’re part of what some like to call the lost generation, The wayward ones, the misguided millennials, The imperfect products of our time. We go through education, Being force-fed feast after feast of useless information, Facts and figures pushed through tubes Down our bruised throats, Choking on another algebraic equation, Struggling to digest Chaucer at fourteen, Punished for leaving a tiny morsel of French Grammar, As if school is our last supper, Our last chance to swallow The periodic table whole. We stumble out of university, immediately Consumed by dark, empty rooms, Our qualifications gathering dust about the walls. We all cry out for just a nod of appreciation, Ten seconds’ worth of applause For our hard work. But we never quite receive that praise, Because, well, everyone’s done one of them dissertation things, These days. 14

And so what was once the 24 hour party animal, Morphs, once more, This time into a deflated shadow cast across a sunken settee, Waiting ‘til boredom descends And becomes just one more addiction, A hand reaching out for comfort again In another empty biscuit tin, A rapidly fading silhouette, Whose outline is only defined by other people’s light, Waking at midday Monday to Friday To the beaming faces of the Loose Women, Waiting ‘til depression hits, Because believe you me, It hits us all like a ton of brick, Watching that s**t. Thomas Fennell

What’s In It For Me? Language, Currency, National identity, Taste strange in the mouth, Foreign coins, now, Who's that stranger in the mirror you see  Turned inside out? By careless scribbles on maps, Continents redrawn, The East eats the West, which feeds off the East Like before. They’re choking on their natural gas, And they’re drowning in their oil. They’re silenced by their dollar bills, They’re buried under whose soil? Pacts, Agreement, Treaties  Rendered Obsolete by hypocrisy. New economic sanctions, Rewritten foreign policies. They, who were once allies, Overnight become an enemy, As every country cries: "What's in it for me?" Thomas Fennell 16

Bloody sympathy Cash, it begs, it offers, it pleads Get rich quick or you’ll never be freed New wing market takes your rights So you can bum your money all f*****g night! Open a wound, time to infect Lawful extortion for operations to erect Pretty little England for fat cat America Your contributions operate an alternative generica Bloody sympathy, an expensive emergency Do you want fries with another f*****g catastrophe? Or maybe a discount, cause we’ll never surrender It’s an unintentional, fascist agenda! Reece Goldstein

Eviscerate the non believer! Blood for oil and oil for gold Manic depression and another corpse decomposed Voluntary genocide to diminish population so the profits arise through the oppressorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s collaboration The pool of tax is painted red so we swear our loyalty and linger with the dead This is our kingdom of freedom in a tiny portion Built on exploitation and persistent distortion So, when you dance with rhea diseased you better march in line Or remain a victim of treason, tortured for the crimes Reece Goldstein

Alchemy There's a greater gap Between the numbers one and two Than any other of the countless numbers One can count themselves through A gap filled with hesitant romance With unsaid words and un-held hands With hurricanes of thought Blowing themselves Across the wild geography of the mind Ripping up pre-supposed ideas Planting memory and feeling in new places In new places, under new lights. A red sea Separating Egyptians from their prisoners Inscriptions from their stone Me from you Him from her Together from alone. A gap, filled with limitless paths Easy ones, which lead Straight back, to the start Harder ones, which lead In the end, to her heart. Paths on which you don't know Whether you'll explode and burn Or turn to gold. But remember: Alchemy is not easy. The best roads are the dangerous ones. Liam Porter 19

The Lost Diamond I held a perfect diamond in my hand Threw it to the other side of the world Discarded it amongst the rubble For somebody else to pick up And place inside a ring. For a year and a half I held it Learned its every surface Searched its every groove Caressed and undressed it Made it squirm, scream and move But the more I looked At its clear and perfect surface The more I saw My own face Looking back at me Distorted and flawed So I put it to one side Left it ignored and hidden Ignored the consistent insistence That something was missing That these other stones I was kissing Was not because I wanted them But because You can't see yourself In any other rock than a diamond Because you can't remember 20

The things you do when drowned in cider And because you can't hurt yourself If you can't see yourself inside her. Liam Porter

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Hell created by M A Nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. Scene 1- Act 1 Once-A-Upon-A-Time. They used to climb ladders, they were so high. Even human tears could cry. It was like fire without its burning coal. Even human tears could cry. Even two plus two equals four, Was common sense in the human eye? Why now? Why are we so naive, to believe such a lie. Like watching blindly, those in Syria, fight for their lives. And assume they all died. When in fact, their breathing souls, shed a tear. They are still alive, waiting for us to call 9 9 9. Scene 1- Act 2 Come closer I want to share another. If you cross the bridge with me, will you? Run across the Red Sea, leave Africa behind heads towards Asia. Or will you leave me with no answer? Jump over the Palestine Wall. Turn back to observe the creative absurd graffiti. Please will you? Or maybe climb the highest skyscraper, 22

They call it AL- KALIFA. Swim across the Atlantic Ocean, bump into another in London. PAUSE Bulls**t. My century is over, minus one. Whenever I descend, it does not matter. It crumbled the day I was S E V E N. Like when the bombs hit the mirrors in Afghanistan. It only took one click, BANG BANG. She was a dead woman walking. W A L K I N G. A.PhotoPoetic Ameena Atiq

Hell Created By Man- Part 2. “Can you hear what I hear, obscene sounds of sadness. Can you see what I see, darkness that was filled and murdered. Can you taste what I taste, air contaminated and poisoned. Can you smell what I smell, dead bodies that are scattered. Can you feel what I feel, the sharp demolished edges”. If you can feel the edges, Smell the dead bodies, Taste the air poisoned, Hear the sounds of sadness, See the sky filed with darkness. I am the One who is Free, You are who is murdered. For you can-not understand what a sufferer is suffering. Feel what they feel, but you share my story like you healed. They have scarred my heart, healed my soul. Lost my way to home, For hardship comes in shapes and sizes, Colours and LOUDNESS. “She said I was a mother, a wife and a friend. You pointed your gun at my own head, It only took one click BANG BANG.” “He said Mama don’t cry, Let me picture my emotion, 24

My tears are missing, I refused to open, Too much disaster. They have destroyed our ocean. Left me to be missing, now they call me A Orphan. Mama, they name me A Orphan. Mama, without you and Baba. I am An Orphan”. “She said, Let me F R E E I am nothing but a child. Don’t abuse me”. But it is the One who dies, The index finger stands and speaks, For my soul can rest in peace. While my witnessed body leaks. A.PhotoPoetic Ameena Atiq

Many People Wonder Many people wonder into infinity lose sight of perception and then gain rights to their energy ten of me is enough to save the world now its justified the thirst for success is an excess now I'm satisfied the mood set heart check precaution when the beats hit the thick of the air splits the world turns as life twist changing faces tiny tortures bigger offers Shut eyes, dreams stream with flying saucers learn the wave and this undying culture watched by spying vultures objects floatin like gravity's a casualty endings come rapidly startin a newer novelty feels better when I'm lied to with honesty ABUVV (Jaylyn) Recording artist and songwriter, Jaylyn joined our Young Writers group as a special guest artist from New York. 26