The Ringing

I thought it was normal

The ringing

So when the doctor asked me

‘When did it start?’

I had to tell him that I couldn’t remember not hearing it.

It used to be just in the quiet of the night,

When everyone was in bed,

That my ears would fill with the high pitched hum

But the volume has been turned up over the years

Now it persists constantly,

Only ever drowned out by noise that turns my ears

into three hundred pound weights in the morning.

When I strain to hear something, the ringing becomes offended,

And rings ever louder to grab my attention.

The ringing is not only a noise,

It is a constant distraction,

It is an ache through my skull,

And it almost seemed to mock me in the doctor’s office

When I was told there was no way of stopping it.

 

© Alyx Hurst 2017

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Under the customer service smile

The clock on my car

(which is always seven minutes fast)

tells me that I am three minutes late

and I sigh

the click of my seatbelt unfastening

making my heart flutter and thrum. A new day

in this hellscape begins.

The next time I get in this car, I will be

exhausted, probably

will not have eaten for ten hours,

and have been standing up for

just as long, and unless

my boss has had her 9am pinot grigio,

will probably have been yelled at at least twice.

The gravel slips under my feet

I sneak a glance through the window,

I don’t see them,

I am relieved, for a second.

I greet my colleague, who is clearly high, again,

greet the chef, already busy chopping –

he inhales his way to an early grave regularly

in pursuit of five minutes of peace.

We all brace when the boss walks in,

wanting to be a victim of just a patronising word

and a smile, rather than face her full wrath.

I give a rueful smile to the regulars in for lunch who say ‘it must be wonderful

to work here.’ I clock out

at half past six, stomach growling, head misting,

and drive home along roads stained with tears.

© Alyx Hurst 2017

The Turtle

She shuffles, head bowed

through the rain, desperate

to make it back home.

The shell on her back gets heavier 

with every step,

she pauses, 

turtles,

and starts again.

She tries not to complain, 

for this is the baggage she chose to bear

but there are days like this

when the weight becomes difficult to shoulder.
She persists.

The Three Fates

The three girls sit across the aisle from me on the train. They stare in my general direction, and although I am not so vain to think of myself as the object of their eyes, it starts to feel personal after two stops. They have to angle their bodies in a very bizarre fashion in order to continuously stare in my direction; the squish of their limbs doesn’t look at all comfortable. 

They vacate the two seats they were sharing when the train reaches Coventry. Their frigid stares and the spatial vacuum left in their absence haunts me for the remainder of my journey.

As they walk down the platform, they fan out into a V formation, synchronised steps drawing them closer to me, their heads turning to face me as their bodies change their viewing angle. I wonder whether I am in some way taunting them for a moment, searching my person for the focus of their attention.

But I find nothing, they walk away, and am left to wonder what they were so fixated on for the rest of my life.

Forgetting can help you remember

‘Lovely night, isn’t it?’ Julie stretched into the emptiness of the sky, soaking in the ambient city discord.

‘Not for them.’ Greg pulled his coat closer around himself and scuffed his shoe against the tarmac of the balcony floor.

Julia frowned, tuning back in to the cacophony of yelling erupting from the windows just below them. ‘Do you think if I leant over the edge of the balcony, with that broom, I could just…’ She mimed picking up the broom, standing on her tiptoes, and using the end of the broom to shut the window below, popping her lips.

‘Julia, no, we’ve only got a couple of months left here max, let’s not get evicted before we finish the job.’ Greg sighed and folded his arms.

‘But they’re so noisy!’ Julia stamped her feet like a petulant child, ‘And they argue all the time! I don’t even know why he expected her to remember their anniversary, it’s not like she pays much attention to their supposed marital bliss.’ Julia wandered to the edge of the balcony and leant forwards to rest on her elbows. Greg walked to join her, and as she turned and took in his profile she marvelled at how quickly they had become so similar. In their line of work, you had to be flexible, malleable, fitting into whatever hole the brief required, but in the three months they’d been living as husband and wife, whilst simultaneously trying to take down one of the biggest criminal gangs the world had ever seen, she had learnt how to predict almost every move of his. For example, she knew he was going to trying to find the flicker of dying romance in the couple’s constant arguing below them.

‘I don’t know, I was holding out hope for them,’ Greg sighed, ‘It makes me happy I’m just getting paid to pretend to be straight.’

Julia laughed. ‘Us gays are definitely happier. They couldn’t have chosen a more appropriate word for us.’

© Alyx Hurst 2017

Surrounding yourself with creativity

Recently, I found myself in a creative slump. I wasn’t motivated to write anything – the ideas for the novel I’m working on were still ticking over in my brain, but I wasn’t actually writing, and I hadn’t even considered writing a poem for months, other than those I had to write for my seminars, and they were turning out flat and lifeless. I lacked motivation, I lacked inspiration, I lacked drive.

And then I went to my local poetry night at the local pub.

It was like a switch was flipped; I got home and immediately wrote two (admittedly godawful) first drafts of poems, and I wrote two more today. Just being in a creative atmosphere made me want to write again. I got my drive back.

It’s worth noting as well that I think it was partially that I was so invested in writing this novel. Not that I don’t want to write it, but I think after being so focused on one thing – especially when it’s taking so long to write given my lack of free time – I needed a little break from it to allow some of the other ideas I’d had in the mean time to work their way out.

So if you’re feeling like you’re in a bit of a writing funk, all I’m saying is that it might be worth stepping back from what you’re working on, and surrounding yourself with people who inspire you with their creativity. Easier said than done sometimes, I know, but it just might be what you need.

In the clouds

Fog falls over us with misty silence,

twisting and curling its fingers around us

until we’re it and it’s us

and we can’t see our hands in front of our faces for trying, but

I can hear you, and

by hearing you I can see you,

see your laugh

lighting up your face, from

its infant stages as an impish grin

to its spread, as it contorts

your whole body in joy and I,

too, laugh,

and smile about how strange we must look,

joy making us glow

as our heads sit

in the clouds.

© Alyx Hurst 2017

The Pink Pyjamas

The pyjamas sat, untouched, on the rooftop. Despite the relative suburbia that the roof resided in, very few people noticed them. Those that did thought about them for only the brief period of time that it took until keen eyes were distracted by something else. Anyone who would speculate about them would be highly unlikely to deduce the reason for their rather peculiar placement, for the reason, as would be expected, was as strange as the result.

Tom woke up with a start, covered in a sheen of sweat. He checked the clock. Five hours until he had to get up. Five hours that he knew would be spent lying wide awake.

The nightmares had only recently started. They ranged from horrific, graphic affairs, with maniacs wielding chainsaws and killing everyone he loved, to being trapped in a white room. Well, not trapped, exactly, but with no way out. Endless solitude, in whatever direction he ran screaming. It was one of the latter that had visited him on this particular evening, and he was just shaking himself out of it when he saw her eyes.

They shone in the dim light in such a manner that they appeared to be without a body, just shining white orbs with wide, black pupils in the centre surrounded by violet. They stared at him, unflinching.

Just a dream, just a dream, Tom thought to himself, turning to face the open door of his bedroom. He wriggled restlessly, attempting push the look of those eyes out of his head. Eventually comfortable after much rearranging of the bedding, he turned back to the window, just to check. Just for some peace of mind.

They were still there.

Still staring.

He stared back.

There was something tempting in the eyes, as if they were beckoning him over. Wincing as his feet touched the cold tiles, he shuffled over to the window and looked out.

A giggle flew from the figure before it leapt out of sight, upwards, towards the roof. It was clearly a figure now, for the manner in which it had jumped from the window showed its arms and legs trailing behind it.

Tom opened the window and bent his body to look out, up at the roof. His room sat in the top of the house, but slightly set back from the furthest point that it jutted out, giving him a clear view from his window of the furrow that formed where the two gradients of the roof met. The figure, now merely a shadow, danced around, giggling.

Curiosity sufficiently piqued, he turned away from the window and walked to the ladder that lead up to the loft. Up until the age of eleven, Tom’s favourite place to sit was in the roof furrow. It was only then stopped by his mother, who had stood by the window and screamed at him to come back inside, reaching her hands out to attempt to pull him back inside. As soon as his feet had hit the floor of the converted loft, the window had been locked, the key hidden in his parents’ room. It had taken years for that window to be opened again for fear that he might see it and attempt to climb out. His parents’ faith in his only desired exit method being the front or back door had returned when he had fallen off a climbing wall at the age of fourteen, and immediately lost the desire for climbing anything that was not stairs or a ladder.

Or so they thought. In truth, Tom had revisited the roof a handful of times since that incident, just to think. The key was still semi-hidden, but the under-the-plant-pot hiding place was hardly ground breaking. It took him all of three minutes to get into the loft and get the window open. He switched his torch on as he climbed out, shining it on to the figure.

A young girl appeared in the beam wearing pink cat pyjamas. Her hair seemed to float in the wind, the mousy tendrils flying about of their own accord. Her feet were bare, her lips were dry and cracked; she looked almost feral.

“Hi,” Tom said, confusion making his voice waver.

She simply smiled, extending her hand towards him. He took it and she pulled him across the top of the roof, no hesitation in her steps. He followed gingerly, wishing that he had grabbed a jacket. The t-shirt and boxers that he usually slept in did little to protect him from the chilling wind.

The girl abruptly sat down in the roof furrow, and he joined her, the space not quite big enough for the both of them. “So,” he said, “where do you live?”

The girl turned to him, confusion washing over her features. “Here.” She turned back to looking at the night sky, and Tom considered this meant the conversation was over – besides, he was too afraid of this tiny girl to ask anything more. They sat like that for perhaps five minutes before he felt that sitting there much longer would result in his butt being frozen to the tiles. He got up and turned to leave, navigating the frosty tiles with extreme caution.

“Wait, don’t go!” the girl cried out. As he turned back to her, she slipped.

Her tiny bare feet struggled to find purchase on the roof. Her arms wind-milled wildly. She flew into the air, and just as Tom reached out to her, she turned to dust.

Her pyjamas were all that were left, floating to settle on the roof where she had been sitting moments before.

There was no caution in Tom’s steps now as he rushed to get inside. Lying in bed, he considered the events as he drifted back to sleep.

The daylight brought logic – it must have been a dream. There was no way that something like that could be real. He tried to push all thoughts of it from his mind as he trudged downstairs, ready for the monotony of another day.

Tom peeked into the utility room as he walked past, where he saw his mother, bent over a pair of pink cat pyjamas, sobbing.


© Alyx Hurst 2017

Returning to Square One

As I sat struggling to write chapter four of the novel I’m working on, I had a horrific realisation. I needed to go back and plan again.

There were several issues with the set up of the world (as it is a fantasy novel; I talked about the trials and tribulations of world building in my post here) that needed sorting, and could critically alter the plot depending on what I did; I needed to add to the beginning to fully explain this world, the ending that I had planned felt like it didn’t quite work, and I needed more time for a relationship to build between the characters. So, it was effectively back to square one.

It felt like a defeat, I felt despondent and demotivated. But I got a clean piece of paper and I wrote out everything that needed changing, brainstormed how I was going to change it, and ordered the changes. I’m currently only halfway through them, as they require a lot of working out, and something I always find difficult: important decisions. But I am making my way through them. And I’m very glad for realising the issues at this point, as it has made me rethink the story in many ways, and I have made a lot of changes – some minor, some major – for the better.

What I have now realised is that I never went back to square one. As long as you have something, however much it feels like you’re at square one, you never truly are. Maybe square two, or even square one point five, but you always have more than you started with, and going back can easily launch you a lot further than you were before. Think of it not as regression, but as going up to the line, walking back, and taking a run up.