Sapphire Eyes

Your face appears to me amidst a dream
Sapphire eyes blinking, hot stars in the night sky
Peach lips part and you whisper softly
"You should open up more"
Your voice like a calm spring breeze

I didn't know what you meant
But I don't think you meant like this
No, never like this.

I open up and I bleed
All over my mother, she screams that I'm staining the floor
I open up and I bleed
All over my father, he shouts to get a plaster

I hear their voices
My insides coat the bannisters of our empty hallway
The oily red staining the brown, turning Maroon
I've always liked this colour I think to myself
But it makes my parents really mad

I hear them again
"Get a towel" my mother screams
Is it to stem the bleeding I wonder?
No. She starts scrubbing the floor.

I slump down. I see stars.
I hear my mother yelling
"What have you done?!"
What have I done?

Where are your sapphire eyes?
I blink my eyelids closed
I'll see them again once I sleep

Where are your sapphire eyes?
I feel your peach lips upon my cheek
As butterflies dance over our skin

I see your eyes.
Your sapphire eyes.

Dearest Ex Boyfriend

Dearest Ex Boyfriend,

The cruellest thing you ever did was make me believe that we were falling in love.

I was 16 years old, my hands were itching to experience a new world, where love was real and anything was possible.

We sat in that treehouse and you made me believe that all the stars in the sky aligned just for us.

The treehouse? You know the one.
It's just around the corner from my house, we sat there in the rain and listened to crappy bands on my iPod nano.

I played you my favourite song and your mouth was a straight line.

I guess I should have guessed from that moment that our melodies didn't match up.

I remember the way your hands felt as they grazed the pale skin of my arms, you ran your fingers up the inside of my cuff, hitching it up ever so slightly.

That's when you saw them, the tears in my lining.

You grabbed my arm so tightly and yelled at me to stop.

But my fabric kept tearing.
and you kept screaming.

I remember the sound of the rain on the treehouse roof as you walked away.
I remember the crack in my skull as I kept falling
But you kept walking, and I kept falling..
Down
Down
Down

Come and find me.

I'll always be here.

In the hole where you left me.

The Secret Vintage of Leamington Spa

I am a girl suffering from a major case of wanderlust, the only problem is I’m a poor student, therefore my metaphorical wings have been clipped and I’m forced to remain on the isle of my birth. Due to my emaciated wallet I have made it my mission to seek out the weird and wonderful right here in my home country, which is what led myself and my boyfriend, Dave to Leamington Spa one typically windy spring day. 

Prior to my trip when I thought of Leamington Spa my mind instantly pictured an attractive street, lined with regency style white washed main stream shops. I thought there had to be more to this elegant Georgian town, as it felt to me all at once incredibly chic, yet there was an old feeling underlying it, almost like an old set of bones with newly polished skin. So I decided to traipse all around it in search for the most charming vintage spots. 

Here are the top places from our day:

Blighty Bazaar 

Fresh off the bus and ready to start our adventure we decided to make our way over to Blighty Bazaar. The website boasted a whole bevy of things, from handmade garments to vintage memorabilia, so neither of us really knew what to expect before we walked through those standard shop glass doors. What awaited us upon stepping inside was a feast for the old soul residing within me. Countless number of stalls were set up throughout, some boasting clothing from the fashionable 1960’s, suitcases from World War 2, then around the corner pop culture items from the 1990’s. It almost felt as though every corner we turned we stepped into a different time period, Leamington Spa’s own little time machine.

Rosie’s Vintage Tea Shop

After spending an obscene amount of the morning winding around the vintage labyrinth, the clock struck one and we had grown rather hungry. Just a short jaunt away we stumbled across Rosie’s Vintage Tea Shop, a quaint little tea room with walls the colour of an ice cream parlour counter. We were greeted by smiling waitresses in little floral aprons and showed to a table for two. An extensive menu of loose teas sat upon the lace cloth, we could travel the world right from the delicate little china cups, with teas from Japan, Russia to South Africa. The tea room felt like the 1940’s and modern Parisian style mixed together in a harmonious cocktail, with the tasteful walls lined with vintage crockery and postcard wallpaper that appeared to be fresh out of a Parisian boutique. We could have easily been sat in a French café in the 40’s. However, one quick look out the window shook us out of our reverie and reminded us of the location, and the task we had came here to fulfil.

Berylune

With our stomachs satisfied we continued our little quest. The next place was hard to miss, it’s daffodil yellow painted front stuck out amongst the surrounding whites and creams, it’s sunshine face beckoning us inside. It was a squeeze to enter, given that the shop is literally no more than ten feet wide and there were already a few patrons browsing. Selling everything from homeware, to modern crafts we couldn’t help but be charmed by the pint-sized store. Despite it’s tiny size, we found ourselves gazing for ages at the little objects perched on the shelves. A rainbow of 1960’s corded telephones lined one wall, colours ranging all across the spectrum, in another corner typewriters sat on wooden crates, reborn as shelving units. It was a truly magical store that combined modern day style with the key staples of the vintage era.

The Stagey Fox

The last place on our list was quite a wonderfully strange one indeed. Foxes embellished every object within the store, cushions, t-shirts, stationary, you name it, it had a fox on it. Old jazz music fluttered from the speakers as we ambled around taking in the unusual sights. Toward the back of the store it appeared to transform into what felt like a theatre dressing room, old posters of well loved musicals and plays and the smell of cinnamon lingered throughout the air. The shop felt all at once homely, yet entirely surreal boasting such an unusual bevy of items, it was hard for us not to love this place.

30 Years Too Late

I can't remember my fathers smile or my mothers eyes, but I remember one thing. I'm in love with Viola Roberts. After my accident the doctors told me I'd likely never regain my memories, but I can remember the way she holds my hand like she's afraid I'll fall off the planet and the sound of my name on her lips. I'm still in the hospital. I can't remember how long I've been here but it must be a long time because the flowers by my bed are wilting. I think they're peonies, or they might be carnations, I'm not really too sure. I lie back in bed and drum my fingers against the metal frame. "Viola." I whisper like a secret to myself, savouring the taste of the words in my mouth. Had she been to visit me? Had she wept by my bedside praying I'd wake? I had only been awake for a few short hours but I already felt drained from all the information I'd absorbed. The words car accident, amnesia and coma all blurring, as thought it was too much for me to comprehend. My doctor had hurried to me as soon as I'd woke, she seemed like a nice lady with a kind face. She hadn't told me how long I'd been out, or when my parents were arriving, she simply said that she'd give me a few hours to adjust before coming to talk to me.
As I adjust myself in the uncomfortable bed I hear the sound of heels clacking down the hall, brunette hair framing a soft face comes into view, the face of my doctor. She flips a medical chart in her hand and smiles weakly, I can tell that something is very off.
"Zach Miller." I hear her mumble, twisting her lips from side to side in an unnatural expression.
"When are my parents or Viola coming?" When she doesn't respond I hastily add. "Viola Roberts, she must have come to see me, I mean I must have been in here for weeks." Whatever I said seemed to have grasped the doctors attention because she looked up at me with concern glazed over her face.
"Zach. This is going to be hard to hear okay? I'm going to need you to stay calm." She placed the medical chart on the foot of my bed and began worrying at a ring on her finger.
"Why do I need to stay calm? What's happened?" I begin to fidget nervously, was it Viola?
"You've been in a coma for 30 years."
I blink at her words, surely this was some kind of practical joke?
"I'm sorry, what?"

The Pursuit of Friendship: An Alternative 'Night Out'

Written By Seonaid Mckay, Leah Walker and Joe Bennett 

When it comes to going ‘out out’, the thought of spending the night being paralytically drunk whilst attempting to dance in a sweaty room filled with annoying people isn’t really our idea of ‘fun’. So, instead of wasting our money on unnecessary amounts of alcohol, we chose to embark on a little adventure to Fargo Village, a small artsy crafty hipster village loved and enjoyed by many Cov
Proceeding the quenching of our thirst on the Urban Café’s devilishly delicious drinks, our stomachs began rumbling, calling out for something more fulfilling. Our solution was to brave the cold over to Seonaid’s flat. Being the adorable crafty friends that we are, earlier on that day we’d had the completely genius idea of making homemade pizza. The recipe we used was not only cost efficient, setting us back a mere £2 each, but it was also so easy to make. We bought the bases from our local supermarket (being the lazy students we are, we didn’t fancy the extra effort), we also got tomato puree, an extortionate amount of cheese and pepperoni. For the thrifty students out there wanting to save a buck or two, but still have a good time with friends, this pizza recipe is perfect. Of course any good cooking venture needs a playlist to set the mood, in this case we blared out classic 80’s tunes which was the perfect soundtrack for our ultimate night in. From Blondie to Adam and the Ants, The Cure, to Men at Work’s ‘stomping’ tune ‘Down Under’, we dad danced our way to pizza perfection. The pizzas were done in no time at all, allowing us to continue our kitchen party whilst wolfing down copious amounts of cheese and tomato lathered dough.

entry students. Fargo is the home to The Big Comfy Bookshop, a lovely little café filled with tasty snacks, hot drinks and of course, books. Promised to us by the bookshop was a night completely filled with the joy that is Harry Potter – Butterbeer, crafts, the sorting hat and a massive quiz (which was really the selling point for us as we’re all competitive little assholes.) With ideas of a magical night filling our sad hearts with utter joy, we set off on our merry way to the land of books and Harry potter, only to stumble into a completely different land... a land full of screaming children, running around in over-sized wizard hats and poking each other with sticks. It didn’t take much crowd parting for us to change our minds about the whole ‘magical night out’ and one look at the cloudy apple-juice-like Butterbeer sent us practically running. As much we love The Big Comfy Bookshop, this event just wasn’t doing it for us, and it really was our fault for ignoring their Facebook posts which practically screamed ‘CHILDREN’ so loudly in our faces we felt the spit hit our lips. We found ourselves aimlessly wondering around Fargo in search of a new place to mend our half-destroyed hearts, we simply couldn’t just give up now. Luckily, the Urban Café was right on the cusp of our desires and as soon as we entered its glowing doors, we knew that it was where we were to spend the next few hours of our lives. Walls adorned with old instruments, the high warehouse ceiling covered in bicycle wheel chandeliers and the smell of brewing lattes essentially set our souls on fire – this was 100% our happy place. Sipping at our steaming hot chocolates (which tasted like liquid brownies) and Chai lattes (which are basically Christmas in a cup) whilst talking about our next great novels was better than any night out clubbing. And our night of magical fun had only just begun.
After our bellies were full and our appetite for greasy fast food was satisfied, it was time to settle down, get all cosy and play ‘The Great British Pub Quiz’. Now, as mentioned earlier, we are an extremely competitive group of friends, disaster assuredly awaited, right? Wrong. We found ourselves to be rather confused by most of the questions and it was obviously more than likely aimed at a different audience. You know, the sort of people who regularly frequented pubs, AKA not us. However, we still had fun whooping and screeching whenever we got an answer correct.

The stakes were high and with every mind boggling round the tension amongst us grew. Leah thought that her family’s in-depth love of old school rock would carry her to an intense victory through the music round, whilst Seonaid’s intercultural palette sent her score flying to heights that Leah and Joe thought they could never reached. However, come the end of the quiz a winner was destined to be crowned victorious, and Joe’s fundamental general knowledge and specialist subject (Film and Television) topped him off as the clear winner. Unfortunately, no real prize had been set for Joe’s minor success, so we had to settle for the satisfaction of seeing the happiness drain from the girl’s faces in a slum of a semi-gracious defeat. By this time, the clock had passed through multiple hours of our ‘Alternative Night Out’ and the minutes were approaching midnight faster than a fat kid to an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet. For now, it was time to sit back, throw off our thinking caps and settle down for a midnight movie; an indie flick by the name of ‘Struck by Lightning’, based off the book by Chris Colfer. However, in a moment of pure, unadulterated friendship, Joe decided to run back to his student halls in order to grab a few supplies after he had opted to sleep on the floor! It was a last minute and possibly reckless decision, but it had to be done. Bracing the Baltic winds typical to the British Isle, he ran… neigh, sprinted in an Olympic fashion to fetch his sleeping bag, toothbrush, apples and orange juice to come back in order to begin the film. God this boy knows how to party, and from this day forth, the sacrifice will be known as ‘Jose’s true dedication’. Upon his return, we forced and squeezed our way into Seonaid’s now cramped double bed and proceeded to start the film. Starring the likes of Rebel Wilson, Christina Hendricks and Chris Colfer himself, the film sees a budding young writer and journalist, Carson Phillips, attempting to use his high school's incredibly unpopular writers’ club to get into the university of his dreams. As a clichéd, outspoken student, representing the feelings of the high school underdog, Carson realises that the favours he needs from his fellow students aren’t achievable through ethical means, whereby he sets about to blackmail his rivals and get them to write for his paper; hopefully solidifying his chances of finally leaving his dismal home town. Along with family issues, unlikely friendships and a very personal raincloud, ‘Struck by Lightning’ is a brilliant teen comedy and, along with the book, a highly recommended read or watch. This being said, we did resort to chatting quite a lot throughout the film: we’re all loud mouths when it comes to arrogantly telling our ‘brilliant’ stories and therefore we never really shut up, leading us to learn things about one another that we definitely didn’t need to urgently know. Which for Joe was absolutely terrifying because he was trapped in-between two girls talking about shit he really didn’t know he could comprehend in his tiny little man brain. Eventually the film came to an end, and our dedication to chatting slowly decreased into a decision to move into our designated sleeping spots and fall into a glorious slumber, completely sober and drugged up on friendship.

Sand

There's a girl and she's sitting on the beach. Her left hand glides over the fine grains of sand, absentmindedly capturing parts between her long, slender fingers. There's something so familiar about this girl that my immediate thought is that I know her. Something about her resonates so truly in my soul, that I feel like I've been waiting for her for years. I look away for the briefest of moments and when I return, she's gazing across the ocean, eyes fixated on the distant horizon.
I'm not sure if it's the way her mouth is slightly down turned on the left side, or the fact her breathing catches ever so slightly, but I can tell that she's sad.
I know that I'm intruding on a very personal moment, but for some reason I can't look away from her. Something about this girl commands my attention, pulling me into the bubble she's created.
I attempt to walk towards her, but I pause, because I notice what she's doing. From this angle I can see that she's drawing, and the emotion I previously regarded as sadness is actually intense concentration. I continue intruding on her small existence, and I become completely fixated by the way her delicate hands move over the page, as though she holds the entire world on this canvas, bringing galaxies and mountains into creation by just the flick of her wrist.

Just A 'Tomboy'

I was born in the wrong body, this much I know. I came into this world as pretty, popular Jessica Hastings. I have loads of friends, a boyfriend and a family that loves me. Everything really sounds like it’s coming up Jessica doesn’t it? But that’s where you’re wrong. 

At college I’m the bubbly brunette everyone wants to either be with, or be friends with. But little do they know that it’s not the real me walking the hallways every day, smiling with the masses. The real me exists behind the comfort of my closed bedroom door. Where I tuck my long brown locks beneath a baseball cap and throw on an oversized sweater to disguise my feminine figure. Then I stand in front of my mirror analysing each and every part of my body that doesn’t feel truly me. I can’t see Jessica when I look in the mirror. I see Ollie, the boy I always was supposed to be. Only there are things in the way that prevent me fully from being him, curves where there should be straight lines.

Showering is the worst time, the time where I’m completely alone with the body that does not belong to me. I avoid seeing myself naked at all costs, I can’t bare to look in the mirror and see someone else staring back at me. It makes me feel inhuman, almost alien. 

I throw my clothes on the floor as quick as I can, not even pausing as I jump in the shower. The water’s not even warmed up yet, I’m just so desperate to get back inside the comfort of my oversized sweater that covers everything feminine about me. 

I quickly scrub my body with soap that smells too sweet to be used on my skin. I leap out the shower, anxiously reaching for the towel, but in my haste I slip. I grab onto the side of the bath, narrowly missing smacking my head; I look sideways still searching for my towel, but that’s not what I find when I glance to my right. I see a stranger looking back at me, a tall brunette girl with breasts and a narrow waist. I look away quickly, not wanting to acknowledge the alien in the glass; I find the towel and wrap it about myself, taking comfort in the covering. 

It’s been this way for as long as I can remember, I’ve always felt as though my skin doesn’t properly fit me, and no matter what I do to try and force it, I just end up feeling shittier than ever. Even when I was little, I never wanted to be the princess, always the knight, much to my mother’s dismay. She’d try and dress me in cute little dresses when I really just wanted to wear what the boys were wearing. My mum dismissed it as a phase, even thought it was cute and referred to me as her little tomboy. Only I was not playing dress up, I realise that now. It was Ollie bursting through the cracks, trying to tell me who I really was. 

I don’t dare to tell my mother that I still have those feelings, as far as she knows I’ve grown out of it and become yet another Barbie doll in society. She’s part of the reason I tend to dress so girly when I leave the house, a part of me still can’t bear to let her down. 

I could never tell my father about how I feel, he’d disown me for sure. He’s the kind of guy who makes fun of people like me, I’ve even heard to him refer to gay people as ‘god’s greatest mistake’. I think that quote alone is reason enough to why I stay hidden. 

So I wake up every morning, don my prettiest outfit, do my hair and makeup with my plastic smile to match, and pretend to be the little girl they’ve always wanted. 

My Summer Girl

It’s Tuesday, another typical college day, or at least it should be. I got up at the same time, left the house at the same time, but today is different, because I met her for the first time. I was sat in my usual spot on the bus doodling away in my notebook, I looked up for the briefest of moments and there she was, walking straight toward me, all ringlets and freckles and bulging green eyes. I held in my breath as she took the seat next to me, but before I do I inhale her scent. Her perfume, geraniums and patchouli, filling my brain with memories of a perfect summer day. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t know why the proximity was bothering me so much, possibly because this was likely to be the only time a girl this perfect would ever be in my vicinity again. My eyes drifted down to her hands where they lay in her lap, she was subconsciously worrying at the hem of her dress, eyes fixated on some distant world. Her skin was so impossibly pale, the colour of cream and as delicate as porcelain. I desperately wanted to reach out and take her hand, but that’d be weird considering I hadn't even spoken a single word to her yet. I opened my mouth to say hello, but it was too late, my stop was looming overhead. I hope she’s there tomorrow I thought to myself, I can’t say goodbye to her twice.

Gunmetal Blue

I never realised how much I truly wanted to live until the moment I was staring death straight in the face. I was standing in an empty parking lot at approximately 11pm on a Saturday night, when I heard footsteps on the smooth concrete behind me. Having suffered from serious paranoia my entire life, it took everything I had to convince myself that the footsteps were not in fact, a murderer, but rather just another innocent pedestrian en route to his car. Despite telling myself not to panic, my heart did not adhere to my head, and without my consent my feet began to quicken beneath me, ushering me toward my car, a mere ten feet away. It was at this point I felt the cold hard metal connect with the back of my head, followed by the distinct sound of a gun being cocked.
"I guess it's your unlucky day man." I dared not swivel around to stare my attacker in the face. The sound of my heart in my ears clouding any coherent thought I could muster.
"Now are we going to do this the easy way or the hard way?" The man's voice was thick and husky; his breath smelled of stale cigarettes and ale, assumedly he'd been out drinking tonight. That was the only reason I could conjure up for such an act of stupidity.
I felt the nozzle of the gun press harder into the back of my head, willing an action for me. I assumed he was requesting my wallet, given my knowledge of these situations. I slowly moved my hand to the pocket of my dark denim jeans, careful not to arouse any sudden reactions from the man. I felt my fingers close around the smooth leather of my wallet and carefully began to withdraw it.
"Okay, I'm going to turn around now so I can give this to you. Don't shoot okay?" I added hastily.
The man appeared to grunt in response, which I assumed to be agreement to my request. I turned steadily, for fear that if I moved too quickly I'd cause him to shoot me dead on the spot.
When I had fully turned around I was finally able to look the villain in the face; I was astounded to find that the man looking back at me was not a man at all, but a teenage boy. From the soft curves of his face and slight stubble along his lower jaw, I would have placed the boy at around 17 years old. Not old enough to drink, I pondered, but given his swaying hands and disheveled demeanor, the boy was clearly drunk.
"Come on then, hand it over." The boy demanded, crisp blue eyes boring into my face.
I took one last look at the wallet in my hand, and questioned how much I truly thought my life was worth. £1000? £3000? More? What would I be willing to give up to survive for a few more years on this miserable earth? I slipped my fingers over the soft surface of the wallet, fumbling for the button to open it.
"No, no. I want the whole thing. Hand it over." Blue eyes was clearly getting agitated at my delay.
I began to hand my wallet over to the boy, all the money I currently had stuffed firmly inside. However, as I did so, a gust of wind blew in from across the lot, causing my wallet to flutter open. The motion made me pause and look down at the piece of leather in my hand; that's when I saw you. Gazing up at me with expectant gunmetal blue eyes, promising me of a future that was ripped from us too young; filling me with half lived memories and a deep sorrowful regret. Then I realised, this was the only photo of you I had left, but it was so much more than a photo. It was the day I asked you to dance at the country fair and you said yes, it was the night we shared our first kiss under a blanket of obsidian stars; it was the first time I'd believed in a future that consisted of more than working on my dad's farm, and late nights of the local pub. I knew that I would give up all the money I possessed, for one more moment on this earth. But I couldn't give up you, no matter if it was just a memory.
"No." I whispered, pushing the wallet back into my pocket.
That was the last thing I heard before the sound of gun fire tore through the parking lot.