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Published Short-Stories:
Tone Deaf. Cafe Lit Magazine. May, 2o23
Giles no longer found white women attractive. Their shoulders were too wide, their voices too loud, and their ideologies detestable. It seemed to him that white women, and English women in particular, now expected a subservience that Giles absolutely refused to cow down to, and rightly so, as the complete obedience they craved still seemed to leave them unsatisfied. No. They were spoilt, ungrateful, and entitled, with completely inflated senses of self-importance which repelled him entirely, repelling him across oceans and continents, no less.
White Butterflies. And Marvel. New Writing. March, 2o23
He wasn’t the first man I’d ever loved, but he was the first man I’d ever loved who then went on to kill himself, and I suppose that gives him a particular significance in the grand scheme of my life. I remember sitting outside with his mother while she handed over all the things from his will. This was during the part of the grieving process where I drank myself to near-death just trying to get through the weeks. A white butterfly landed on the wooden table of that bright, British beer-garden, and his mother told me, her eyes wet and shining like goldfish, that whenever she saw a white butterfly, she liked to think it was her son saying hello, promising he was still watching over her. I’ve never been able to prevent cynicism from twisting my crooked, facial features. For this, naturally, I detest myself.
Le Laurier Rose. Sad Girl's Club. November, 2022.
Something was amiss. The rings were gold in colour, but that was where all resemblance ended. The so-called diamonds hung heavy and dull against her neck, a shadow of green tainting her lobes. I glanced from her shoes, heeled with the diamante strap, to her head, brown, frizzy hair greying at the roots, lips pursed and painted red with something I doubted was a cosmetic in the traditional sense. The lines around her mouth told tales of a lifetime of smoking.
'Love in the Time of Welly Vodka'. Scrawl Place. September, 2022.
I want to tell the story about the two boys I saw at a Pigeon Detectives concert, stacked together like a totem pole, arms spread wide while the audience milled under them like clumsy, bumbling ants. It was a crazy, hectic, coked-up-wearing-sunglasses-inside kind of crowd. One friend had pointed to another and gestured him to climb aboard. Fast, fast, fast, fast, loud, loud, loud, loud, the tiny, sweaty room had painted-black walls and the floor was still tainted with the traces of poorly mopped-up vomit. The stink of that illegal vodka never left the premises. I don’t believe it ever will.
'Starman'. The Wire's Dream Magazine 10/11th Collection. June, 2o22.
My dad’s well smart. He can tell you all the planets off by heart, and the names of the moons that float around them too. Miss Baker got in a fight with him on parent’s evening about it. In lesson, she told us Pluto weren’t a planet and when I told my dad he said that he’d take it up with her when he next saw her. He didn’t forget either. It were the first thing he brought up.
'Reading Position for Second Degree Burn'. Fluid. The Bookends Review. January 2022.
Paul can hear the sound of the fairground rides a little way away. There’s shouting from the pikeys trying to get the dodgems working so they can spin the pretty girls around. Closer, there’s his mates kicking the ball about, the girls lathering themselves up with oil hoping to get brown. He’s aware that there’s chatter but Paul can’t hear what they’re saying. He could if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to right now. He likes the sound of the waves gushing in and out, the seagulls cawing obnoxiously. It’s nice here. He feels safe.
'Sang / Lait Chaud'. Fluid. The Fictional Café. December 2021.
What’s good about the telly is that Susie can blather on and on and it doesn’t bother Dave at all. He’s always been pretty good at multi-tasking, keeping his mind on two things at once. It was a nice evening. Dave managed to leave work at the door. Susie was doing her knitting and the Tigers were still drawing with Stoke City. Dave sipped his beer. It was good to be home.
'Nunca Más'. Sparkle and Blink 112.Quiet Lighning. November 2021.
The church bells chimed, a deep vibrato, signaling a quarter to the hour. It was nearing midnight, and I felt I could not have been more prepared. Rain pounded heavy on the sky-light, but the rest was all in silence. My room was dimmed, the only means of viewing my surroundings was through candle and lamplight, the candle flavored pleasantly with cinnamon and nutmeg. This scent intermingled with that of my clean bedsheets. Today I'd got around to all those pernickety errangs that often elude us for days longer than they should, and with my head against my soft clean pillow, I was comforted by the lemony, soapy scent of Lenor. I rested, a paperback between my fingers, with every intention of finishing the story but alas, my eyelids drooped and the words swam in front of me in such a way that signaled any reading done would have to be repeated. I placed the book aside, yawning, and went to flick off the lamp beside me.
'The Tracks'. Beneath the Soil: Queer Survivor's E-Zine. Time to Tell. September 2021.
It was too cold for stilletos. The ground was concrete and icy and there weren't any shelters or coffee shops nearby. The girls had walked to the only train station in their village and all they had was sign and two platforms.
'Snow Days'. Issue 8: Rest and Recovery. Please See Me August 2021.
Isabelle was walking to the bus stop when she noticed the gravel glittering with frost beneath her. She placed her feet carefully, one in front of the other, keeping her eyes on those shiny, black, buckled boots, her white socks warm and snug over woolen tights. They’d be soaked through by the end of the day. Isabelle never managed to keep her feet dry.
'Frankie Says Relax'. Wyld Blood Press. May 2021.
5”5, BMI above average, no history of blood disease, age twenty-five, a smoker (regrettably), with a few major injuries including the loss of both feet and (currently) an open rib-cage. She would die soon. That was infuriating. I’d asked my assistant to keep her alive for me and it seems he couldn’t even manage even that simple task.
'To The Girl'. Severine Magazine. June 2020.
I think I owe a thank you to the girl with long black hair – twisted and clipped up in seminars, trailing down her back in dresses and up my nose when she lay next to me at night. I miss the awkward kisses, fingers trailing down bodies’ sides, each thinking ‘is this okay? Am I doing alright?’ I miss kissing her thighs. Thank you to the girl whose gasps still play in my head when I am lonely. Just gals being pals.
'Your Son's Good at Times Tables'. The Maine Review. June 2020
I’m sorry, I really am. I know my general demeanor isn’t threatening (sad eyes, nose in book, phone that I neurotically check placed on the tray-table ), but still, I know I can’t look approachable. You’re traveling with your son, but you don’t look like a mum. There’re no lines around your mouth, no tight-lipped expression. Your son looks maybe nine or ten, but you can’t have reached thirty yet. I like your pink hair and your denim dungarees. I like your firm Doncaster accent. I like the way you speak to me through him.
'The Family'. Miracle Monocle: Issue 14. May 2020
Witness Statement No. 248
He never wore shoes during sermons. Brown toes curled up in the grass, his long hair brushed against his shoulders while he played guitar. His dark glasses meant he could stare at the sun without flinching. He was handsome. So human it was inhuman. Above human, you could say. Sometimes he’d stroke my hair while I was praying.
'Untitled: Self Portrait with Blood'. Storgy Magazine. May 2019.
Mary couldn’t feel the cold, though her sister complained it was freezing. Perhaps she was warm from all the love and generosity. More likely, it was all the jumpers she’d nicked. The year was creeping into October, and while the sky was bright and the air fresh, biting chills were starting to take effect. According to news reports, the upcoming winter would be a bad one, and Mary and Hannah were contributing to a giveaway outside a multi-faith community centre which the girls had nicknamed ‘The Church’. The church because it wasn’t their church, and this had been cause for concern.
Respite. Storgy Magazine. December 2018.
An essay in happiness gathered over the course of five and a half summers.
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‘I think you’re afraid to write a story with a happy ending. That’s what I think.’[1]
'Natural Selection.' New Writing. June 2o22.
There was a bullet-hole in my school. They didn’t even try to cover it up with educational posters. The perfectly circular hole exposed the brown plaster underneath, white paint peeled around the edges. I suppose they assumed none of us would guess what it was. The teacher, Miss Jones, didn’t address the issue. She must have been terrified. I’d been at that school a few years and she’d always taught in the same classroom; I knew that because I had her last year, there wasn’t a bullet-hole then, and I wondered if she’d been shot at. I worried about her. She was nice to me; sometimes she asked me to read aloud in class.