Funeral: A short story
Today is Sunday, which means that yesterday was Saturday, but today doesn’t feel like a Sunday. Last Sunday, I was in my study finishing up notes on my students’ recent submissions of their analysis of the character development of Derek Vinyard in David McKenna’s American History X. Today, I am burying my mother, and I am relieved. Now, you’re waiting for me to describe the turmoil that I’ve been enduring ever since I discovered my mother was ill; you think that I’ve surely only reached this point after helplessly watching her deteriorate from the side-line for months and months. Really, I simply don’t like her. Never have, never will.
The language of love
“Did you ring about the electricity bill?” / “I’ll have dinner ready for when you get home.” / “Remember to pick up some teabags on your way.” / “Shall I turn the heating on before I go?” / “What’s our council tax reference number?” / “We’ve ran out of milk again”
Groundhog Day: A short story
Jackson felt awkward stepping out of the taxi and not paying, even though he knew that Floyd had already footed the bill. He'd sent him home early. Assured him he would drop his car off in the morning. Told him to take the next month off – to take as long as he needed. Hell, Floyd would probably wipe his arse if Jackson asked him to. Jackson knew he meant well, but he still couldn't help feeling like a baby.
There's no place like home
'Home' - a simple word that means a million different things to a million different people. For some, it's the smell of a parent's cooking, headlights setting the front room aglow as your partner pulls into the driveway, or the sound of your dog's tail thwacking against the cupboards in excitement as you return home to them.
An ode to the rom-com
This is a post for all of the Cool Girls out there who’re still insisting Reservoir Dogs is their favourite film – when really, all of their Netflix suggestions point towards Clueless. There is nothing cosier than a romantic comedy. I’m referring to a very specific type: sure, I can quote Noah Calhoun's entire “I want all of you, every day speech” to Allie in The Notebook, and I recently tried to make my boyfriend write one of his university assignments on How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, but the ones that my inner hopeless romantic holds on a pedestal have to pre-date the noughties and star Tom Hanks - or someone with a similar haircut. I'm talking When Harry Met Sally, Sleepless in Seattle, You've Got Mail, 10 Things I Hate About You, and Pretty Woman.
Reclaiming my body
On November 1st 2014, I was sexually assaulted. It took me almost two years to say those words – to define it. My attacker was someone I’d known for almost half of my life. My friend. My boyfriend’s friend. I awoke to it happening. I didn’t fight back or scream, nor did I get up. I pretended I wasn’t awake, and I waited for it to end. My actions – or lack thereof – did not constitute consent. It’s taken me a long time to tell myself that, too – to fight the part of myself that questioned, "What if you'd resisted? Would things be different now?”