Mawkish Magpie

Spreading their wings like a pair of well ridden legs Magpies like flying.

I am at home
a little visit before a long time away
in my little brothers bed
sleeping…but I’m not.
There is a sound
a creepy voice, that whispers
under my pillow
each night

 ‘I’m hungry…mememememe’

‘huggy, I like that’

When the voice stops
mechanical
like a transforming power ranger
on/off

                WHAT IS IT? WHERE IS IT COMING FROM!

I am going crazy
every night crazier
until I stub my toe
and the voice shouts

‘wakey wakey’

Following my toe, the place
the hide away
I find it
the eerie thing
the chill of my spine

‘Me no likey’

A fucking furbie. A mother fucking talking furbie.

New Julie from the Library video: just one click away from the sandal of the year.

It’s all about connections for Julie and her friends. Real connections, not those fickle ones you make on your own at home on the internet. Making friends in-line is much better than meeting people on-line right?

Julie knows what she’s doing.

Here is a sneaky peak at the up and coming web series set in Barcelona around four expats and the way the modern world and it’s advances are affecting their way of life.

Barcelona Improvisation group, B.I.G, Mayflower short form show.

Our good friend and photographer Alessio Carone took a bunch of flowery snaps capturing some golden moments of pollination. Here are just a few petals than fell into my folder.

Want to see more? Check out Mr Carone’s Flickr page:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/littlemad/sets/72157644730505712/

Julie From The Library Showcase!

A short video in eager anticipation for the up and coming web series. Celebrating music, comedy and storytelling the night was a big success with a great crowd and overwhelming talent.

Will you be at the next one? We hope so, July 5th: same time same venue. Save the date.

Cloud 9, Carol Churchill.

LIN          Don’t you like women?

BETTY    They don’t have such interesting conversations as men. There has never been a woman composer of genius. They don’t have a sense of humour. They spoil thing for themselves with their emotions. I can’t say I do like women very much, no.

LIN           But you’re a women

BETTY     There’s nothing says you have to like yourself.

A mini film, set and shot in Barcelona.

A Seat is a Place to Sit

You sit on a seat, any seat and somebody sits down next to you. You want to talk to them but a misjudged perception assumes that if you did, that the person might not refund your chat. This person is not the love of your life, nor your ‘type’, this person is a person and you want to talk to them because they have chanced upon the seat next to you.

The seat is in a public place, non-specific but because it was vacant it was filled. Filled with a person you still haven’t spoke to. You are reading a book, that you are not reading. You are merely acting intelligent by turning the pages and laughing every now and again. You strain your thoughts and play out numerous scenarios- projecting your own narrative onto the pages originally published by Penguin Books. You have not been published by Penguin Books. ‘One day’ you think One day!’

You find some words and mutter them to the person next to you. Unfortunatley you speak with no conviction and your words are painted vague with insecurity which causes the stranger to reply ‘what?’.

Your cheeks flush like sunburn. sunburn in nature is always red, though there are many different shades- your cheeks choose a brighter shade which takes a while to subside.

The person unplugs their headphones, and fuelled by nerves you ask for the time. Then you flick the ant off from the end of your ponytail and listen to the strangers response. They don’t have the time but out of politeness they grab a random number and add ‘ish’ to the end.

Out of courtesy you say thank-you but you don’t mean it. You are pissed off with the error of your own thoughts.

Your thoughts are not with error.
They are your thoughts and you should appreciate them, after all you wanted to talk to the person next to you, and you did.

A seat is a place to sit. But is it just a place where somebody sits?

Things that burn

Bridges
Hearts
Ovens
A naked flame, flickering.

Vaginas
Eyes
Chilli fingertips
Acid, thrown flesh.

Johnny Cash
Disco inferno
Bright eyes
Witches
Steak

Poets burn
Sun
Marshmallows
Forgotten pans

To burn
I was burnt
I will never burn again!

-I lied

My toast is black
In this poem
I forgot

Things that forget
You, Me and everybody I will never know or get to.

Fortunately I will not be able to forget them.

Burn baby burn
This is Dante’s inferno.

The Garden Flower

My green light, his red.
My blood, flowering tarmac.
His words.
My tears,
Sad from torn flesh.
It was just an accident, yes it was
One easy to avoid, if you look before you step.

I was on the floor with a heavy heart beat. I quickly darted my eyes to the traffic light to prove to myself that it wasn’t my fault. Under the green light I saw people shouting at the man who chanced his own red light and was about to run away. If it wasn’t for both our bikes being joined in bloody matrimony and the people’s commotion, he would have fled like the thief he was, stealing my day.

I remember my eighties. I was eight years old (obviously) and it was Christmas day. Santa had made each of my siblings and I, a brand new bike. Two days later I was forced to question the ‘brand new’ part, when I over-heard my neighbour say ‘ah that’s where my old bike went’. At first I was upset, like really upset. So upset, that I sat in the cupboard under the stairs for what felt like days. However, after careful deliberation with myself and Mum, I realised Santa was an avid recycler: ‘old toys should not be forgotten’ Mum cooed.  The bike was light green. Being green was ‘ironic’ as it was the process by which I received my present; it was also the colour Santa used to wear before he turned red.

For that, it was an extra special bike with a fairy pink basket and a horn. I thought the horn was crap.  All the other kids had tiny tinker bells that they used, to call out friends from their houses; you never knew who was calling for you unless you heard a massive traffic stopping ‘HONK!’ And when nobody rushed to their window to say ‘I’ll be one minute’ I cursed my ‘extra special bike’ and wished I had one like everybody else.

‘But a horn is louder Kayleigh, you dinne want everyone to think you’re a pansy do ya?’ The wise words of my Dad, a Scottish hard nut, cut through all the childish pretence.
‘I sound like a clown’ I whined.
‘Ta fuck ya do, you sound like a great American truck driver, now get up off ya arse and show those pathetic copy cats what you’re made of. Besides you haven’t even learnt to ride the fucking thing yet!’

So this horn and the bicycle it sat on gave me a sense of purpose: ‘I will learn to ride a bike’. For the first week of January I trundled about on the green horse with stabilisers. My younger sister laughed at me, she already knew how to cycle hers, she didn’t even need help she just tore down the back lane like a Trojan chariot. I was embarrassed, but not as embarrassed as my Dad. ‘Kayleigh you look like a pansy, take those things off!’ But I was too scared, two wheels were unstable, two wheels were wobbly, two wheels were abnormal, cars have four so why can’t I?

Two days later and the stabilisers were gone. I cried my self-conscious limbs into the crevice of the cupboard, just like the time when Mum entered me into a swimming competition even though I couldn’t swim without armbands.  When I arrived, nervous and chubby with my bright green bands, I was surrounded by laughing teenagers ‘you’re not allowed to compete wearing those’ they jeered and I left the poolside seven and sad.

Unlike Mum, Dad had no mercy. He forced me out into the back lane and in front of all the other children, he told me to cycle, ‘and I’ll be holding the back dalin’. I pedalled forward comforted by the support but without warning Dad let go and I fell, grazing my knee in the gravel.
‘Get up!’ He made me do this, again and again and again. Little faces sniggered and pointed, curtains twitched and parents judged. Oblivious to all those ‘feckers’ Dad persisted until finally I felt the power of the wheels turning. Each foot pressed each pedal, pushing me forward in a wiggly line while my nerves were kept balanced by own legs independence. Nobody was holding the back! There was nobody to hold me back!

I screamed as the wind flew through my ears; ‘I’m doing it Dad, I’m doing it Dad’. The feeling was immense like I was given free range in a sweet shop. I thought about all the opportunities that were now open to me, I could cycle to town, cycle around the block; I could go to the shop and put things in my basket. It was all so exciting: The world was round just like my TWO bike wheels. HONK! HONK!

It could have been worse, the accident. I could have thrown all those youthful days practicing in my back lane, down the drain and vowed never to ride again. What would Dad say now, if he saw me lying on a busy road, crying because I had a couple of bloody gouges? ‘Kayleigh now your of age, pour some cider into it and get the feck up! You dinne want the world to think you’re a pansy do ya?’

I got up but I couldn’t help crying, like I couldn’t help bleeding. Despite the large flap of skin on my thumb waving in the wind, I was upset because I was on my way to the gym. Thoughts of productivity were flying through my head like a storm of flying fish and suddenly my day was robbed, ruined and with a lumber some limp I had to resign myself to a day of reading on the couch with an ice pack. Where was my cupboard under the stairs? I wanted to crawl into it and sulk.

‘You can’t always have it your way’ Mum used to say when we begged her for an afternoon trip somewhere. ‘What I want, doesn’t necessarily get’ I heard her say, as we begged for an extra biscuit after dinner. It was true, sometimes we can’t control the way the day works. We have to slow down, take a break and appreciate the emptiness of such a day.

The Moroccan man came over and grabbed my head. He was shorter than me so he just grabbed my neck and yanked me down. I wondered why he didn’t just kiss my hand, like a normal small man does but instead he kissed my head, thus proving the sincerity of his apology. As the peak of a mountain range rose through my shins flesh, like a castle in a pop-up book when you turn onto that page, I grabbed my Bicing and left the scene.

My cheeks were like frozen lakes and my chest jolted outwards with every sniff, I didn’t care what I looked like until I reached my Bicing port and I had no strength to return it. As I tried two Germans, blonde like the beer they brew, stared at me. The man, posh and very tall with his hands clasped like a Butler behind his back, looked down on me and laughed, his wife copied. They stood there laughing at me while I tried to put the two plugs into the station.

Eventually the man reached out and helped me put my bike back into the station and they both spoke to me in German. I don’t know what they said but their enthusiastic facial expressions seemed to genuinely believe we had shared this hilarious moment together. Maybe they thought I was laughing and the blood drenched tights and the slashed thumb went over their heads like a low flying gull. But it was a strange interaction and I was far too weak to examine its significance.  

Yet, as I dragged my pregnant shin home, I rearranged the German guffaws into one phrase ‘It’s just a cut Kayleigh, you dinne want everyone to think you’re a pansy do ya? You’ll be laughing about this tomorrow’. With the addition of the Germans, the situation became absurd and hilarious and I started laughing…ironic that, people say German’s aren’t funny.