Writing portfolio

Writing so far...


The yellow car crawled along in front of them. It was acceptable to go at this speed when the tractor had been going ten miles an hour but it had turned off a while back.


Face twisted in tight knots, acid fizzing like Pop Rocks in his throat. He spat, blood and green hammered the cold grey slabs. Black flints sparkled, hands like windmills, a chaos of limbs.


At the slope

Brown eyes, so loud over the wind; voice so quiet. He moved in silence. Poplars waved, screaming with joy. I strained to hear. He paused, blackberry bruised wood. A game.


Cracked maps knitted with moss, the bark warm under tips.

Blind Digger

Heavy earth on my shoulders, like the tide. A soft cave was my home, like Play Dough. My hands were broad and curved, like a shovel. I created a network of tunnels, like veins.


its not finished yet!


Poem from childhood on the farm


I pushed my way through the thicket of people at the bar and stumbled over a hidden step.


An old Oak branch jumped against my shin as I thundered down the smuggler's path. Low hanging holly leaves clawed at my face; cold amber swallowed my faded black trainers.


Acid burned in her mouth. She swallowed hard; wishing the taste away. She clenched and unclenched her fists behind his back. His strong broad shoulders clad with a faded black t shirt.


Through the eyes of a student on a gap year, romance

Hard Life

The hard life of a young adult


Snow tiger under the gunera, his favourite place at the bottom of the garden. Green eyes wide and still, his body pressed flat to the thick grass. Mum’s favourite bird,

The Six Shooter

Sunlight poured into the cave, teasing the stream that stumbled over rocks. Curved trees scowled, their skin like a map, the ivy like roads. Six old drains lined the wall,

The Pig Meadow

Marguerite Daises held tight, amongst the ivy and creepers. Wet, wood stung our noses. Cindered dolls, eyes blackened, broken faces aged with soot. Our patchwork quilt, chewed at the edge.

Seaford Beach

Broken shells crunched under my callous feet skin worn, an old tyre. The sand swelled, greedy for each step swallowing, a reptile. The sea drowned the foot holes the foaming scum welded.

Oak Leaves

Crinkled skin made dents in my palm as I clambered higher. The golden beech jeered I lost my grip, a twig snapped beneath my red welly, wood burnt my leathery hands.

The Cottage Field

A puddle mistaken for a pond, orange feet splashing, black beads watching. Amber set amongst branches, dark fingers slack. The new fields trembled in the ashen haze,

Escaping Nothing

“You stopping another night?” Damien grunted from the fridge. Sam yawned, delicately, as she mulled over her options.


For once, I’d woken up with a grin on my face. I actually felt like pulling the curtains open like one of those breakfast adverts but thought better of it when I caught sight of my hair.

Dr Otswold

“What can you tell me about this dream?” Dr Otswold enquired; carefully slicing the end of his cigar before taking it between his teeth and striking a match.


A stiff upper lip softened by drizzle. A hardy frown melted with wellies. A ruddy complexion a welcome replacement. Clouds of fresh air the perfect cleanser. The Tamworth pigs


Red should be blood, green should be jealousy. But colours cannot spell out, how much I hate you. Take no more and take no less because I have nothing left. I want to turn

Night Driving

Pupils swallowing the shadows, skin washed away. Eyes sore in the cloudy moonlight, another slow coach, another five miles. A rumble of pollution,...


I stepped back for the sound of metal on metal, the rush of air and red paint. The 18:45 was two minutes behind schedule. I had savoured those...

Could We Be Friends

When a relationship suddenly stops – isn’t your world meant to fall apart? I was full of passion, lust and future designs. How am I happier now? It...