The Coffee Bean

He wears a jacket to protect what lies inside, like a baby wrapped safe in his mother’s womb. His smooth protective shell rolled onto my tongue, instantly filling the valleys between my taste buds with the soft, oozy decay of his outer chocolate coating.

The aromas of his soul began to engulf my mouth, slowly spreading through into my body. Memories sparked at the crunch of his inner shell. A most beautiful sensation of his textured personality comforted my mouth on this cold, misty autumn morning.




A softened face almost lost in the dust
Unable to tell what was which way up
It was blurred as we bumped
Into the dust
But it was clear she wasn’t wearing a frown


Her eyes, so white, so deep and so mature
Never before was there a face so pure
Her tiny hand waved like a fan of age
And inside my mind,
She became a page.


This page went unwritten, month after month
Empty white paper, not even a smudge
But my mind yearned for food,
Something like fudge
And to feed it, I would begin in the sun


So now she lives, dancing upon this page
Just like she did in my mind for an age.


Writers are inspired by many things, from quirky, colourful street artists to the beauty of every lasting space, even the crackle of a camp fire can spark a writer’s imagination; from quaint cafes to late night dances, from Poe & Shakespeare to morning scribbles. Many people are writing to escape, a chance to explore love, pain & disappear, to create meaningful pieces that will last a lifetime and I am proud to say this very camp has inspired just that!



The tears trickled down her cheeks, glistening with pain. Why couldn’t she just stop? If she stopped, the sickness would never come. The overriding feeling of nausea would stop. Oh, how she wanted to digest it, swallow it, enjoy it… but she couldn’t.

There was no good reason. It wasn’t because she was unhappy with how she looked because she was beautiful. I could see it and she knew it too, in her heart.

She wanted to love it again but instead it made her stomach churn and head spin so she would just leave it. Leave it there on the china plate.  And just like that, everything just fell off her. Her body shrunk, eyes and face shallow, ribs glistening at every breath. People complimented her, commented on it… thinking it was on purpose.

At first, she’ll tell you she liked it, being just that little bit smaller.                                                                           But nothing could stop the water flowing in her time alone. The constant rocking back and forth on the wooden floor, no one ever hearing.                                                                                                          Except,

                                                       there was one,

                                                  her beautiful mother.

She wanted to stop her tears; she wanted to see the beautiful smile light up her face again, instead of the nights full of unrequited sleep. But no one could help. No doctor, no test could explain the nausea and churning that sent her body into havoc, the want for leaving bed almost gone  completely.

Oh, how she wanted to taste it again but the consequences weren’t worth it so she just stopped. Stopped wanting, stopped trying to get her body to love her back. She just… gave up.

She never understood why she deserved this suffocating infirmity, when all she wanted was for it to go away. To leave for good.

And then, one day, there was someone. Someone who could help, like, actually help. They could make it go away. Slowly she gained control again, her eyes began to smile, her ribs became shy and things no longer fell.

Every so often it comes back, niggling in the depths of her stomach, and in the very depths of her soul, the dread begins to fill. For fear of losing herself within herself. And then it’s gone, sometimes quickly, sometimes longer, but it always goes.

She will forever ponder its return.


The Writer’s World

The voices go round and around, bouncing

and flying from one to the next gaining

enthusiasm with each passing breath.

Within each girl a new world comes to life.

Stories of fairies and murderous clowns

dripping from pens and jittering lips as

well as the tapping of fingers on keys.

Every so often a peace settles down,

each girl alone with their dreams and ideas,

close in proximity yet apart in

the mind. It’s magical, surreal and

I tell you it’s the most angelic thing.


Existential Emptiness