Dystopian story extract.

April stared at her reflection in the computer screen as her fingers tapped out rows of numbers. She worked on the top floor of the educational welfare centre, inputting data. The office was large with five long rows of desks. Each desk occupied by a key tapping assistant creating a chorus of drumming that failed to lull April into a relaxed mood today. The section managers were rushing between computers, swearing between breaths and loosening their tie’s whilst drinking endless cups of thick brown coffee whilst it was still fresh in the pot.
‘Conference room now.’ April’s manager, John, a large man with black rimmed glasses and greying hair said as he passed her desk.
‘Yes sir.’ April said snapping out of her day dream and gulping down the last of her coffee. She’d been in the office since seven, eager to keep her name at the top of the achievement board. John liked her enthusiasm. She was a good worker he thought to himself, above average intelligence and eager to learn more. But most of all she was the prettiest thing in the office. He gave her a thirty second head start, plenty of time to get that seat in the front row, where he could stare at her perfectly toned legs whilst pretending to be looking at the floor.
April practically skipped to the front of the conference room, eager to get the centre seat in the front row before Jeff from accounts. It was the perfect seat to get yourself seen by management. Jeff gave her a knowing nod of approval as he took his seat three rows back.
We need volunteers to take on extra work.’ John said suddenly appearing at the front of the room glancing around at the eager faces. April didn’t hesitate. She reached her arm up high and arched her back. The top button on her pink blouse popped open as she knew it would and John smiled handing her a thick yellow binder with a small yellow USB.
‘Croftpark Primary school, April, check for indiscretions, pupil numbers cross matched with the society training programme. Full investigation, by eight tomorrow morning.’ John said.
Jeff smirked, imagining April alone in the office surrounded by paperwork, tearful and frightened with John leering over her shoulder.
‘Yes sir, thank you sir.’ April said taking the folder with trembling hands. It didn’t occur to April until she was back in her seat that Croftpark was the school that her sister, Poppy, taught at. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. ‘I can do this, I. Can. Do. This.’ She said staring at her reflection in the blacked out window opposite her desk. She watched the way her lips curled as she pronounced each word.
‘Well played April, well played. You done an in-depth yet?’ Jeff perched himself on the corner of her desk blocking April’s view of her reflection.
‘Yes I have.’ April said, wondering if the case study in her first year of training counted.
‘Yeah? I must a been away that week. Pop down for your finance sheets, and hey,’ Jeff said walking away ‘Shout if you need anything.’
‘Sure thing.’ April said taking her mobile phone out from her draw. She called up her sister’s name and started to tap out a message, and then suddenly stopped dropping the phone onto her desk.
Right on cue thought Jeff as April called out his name.
‘What happens if.’ She said looking over her shoulder. ‘There’s a conflict of interest, you know like.’
‘Family? Then you need to buddy up my dear.’ Jeff wasn’t actually sure if that was true, but he liked the way it sounded. ‘You collect the data, and I’ll analyse. Only if you want to, you‘ll take full credit of course.’ Jeff said pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on the heels of feet.
‘So you’ll be like my assistant.’ April said. This caused her to smile, a wide beautiful smile that Jeff thought made her green eyes twinkle. Poppy liked the idea of having an assistant, off having Jeff as her assistant.

 

Karen Hayward* ©2017

nonsensical bible stories.

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The inspiration for this poem came from a story that was told at Messy Church on Saturday. Messy Church is an amazing venture where by different churches do arts and crafts for children on different days. The children get to play and learn about God at the same time. It’s fun, I like it, my daughter absolutely loves it!

 

Bemusement settled in my mind well before we were asked

to put our hands together,  I looked toward Jesus on the stained

glass that gleamed in the sun and listened as the children

recounted the story. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I told myself it was a kids story, I had no reason to understand

its purpose, perhaps it was purposeless!

Sitting inside the hall where I dance to the beat of old songs

I can hear the empty echo of Thursdays pain vibrating through me,

today is Saturday, today the hall is a community setting.

I gaze across the tables wondering if any of the other

parents had understood the story, they probably had I told

myself. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I am greeted by name and smiles reign upon me the

sweet tea tastes of comfort and the cake of friendship.

I am happy, I like these people and I like this…church.

But I am not religious and I cannot turn a blind eye to

stories that make no sense, and I remember, for me,

religion makes no sense. Awake alone at the kitchen table the

streets lay empty and quiet, I wonder does it matter

that I did not understand the story told to the children.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

Alice’s hole.

The futile existence of

an unforgotten society,

built upon the misfits of reality.

Here we stand in naked truth.

Our souls upon our sleeves,

our hearts the stepping stones

of corporal punishment.

An example.

Of the white rabbit in Alice’s world,

where the queen reigns and

in dictatorship, a fantasy

of the ugly truth.

No wardrobe to step into,

No light illuminated with snow,

No Lion to make right all that is wrong,

for now you are the strong, in this

battered corrupt world of egotistical

sexual exploits that fulfil a desire borne

not unto this world,

but another. One so broken

no passion can reach it,

no burning flame to light

the rabbit hole.

We are lost.

Forever to be too small for the giant door.

Karen Hayward copyright 2015.

Menstruation, a fucking curse.

Ha ha I just found this in draft on my phone, clearly, I was not having a good day when I wrote it. :-).

If you don’t do, gross, then i highly recommend you hit the back button, now. This is a poem about menstruation, yep. :-). It’s a subject that is not written about often enough, not in its true form.

I hate you, i actually fucking hate you,
a myth created centuries ago,
To smooth the transition,
Into the crimson flow.
It ain’t a fucking blessing,
Or mother nature caressing,
You, are, a, fucking curse,
You are, fucking, worse.

A gift straight from Eve,
Can you believe?
Here my dear child,
Go fucking wild.

The crimson flows
Like nobody knows,
A torrent of clot filled blood,
ripping through you,
Filthy like mud,
Too dirty to screw.
As you soak right through.

Tauntingly painful as you prickle,
The scar,
Pushing me out into the dark.
Taunting reminder,
Of the loss not the gain,
Of the darkness and evil that sometimes reign.
It’s not enough to cause me pain,
Or wash my iron stores down the drain,
You constantly remind,
The pain i did find,
The tears that once fell,
The story i don’t tell.

False imagination and lies.

They said,
My head is full of foolish dreams,
perhaps they are right.
They said,
Show gratitude for what you have,
but,
What do they know.
What do i have?
They don’t know,
They just watch the show.
perhaps
I
Have
Simply
Lost faith,
In the one upon a times,
Fairy tales,
That were never mine.
Or perhaps
They
Are
Just
Empty
Stories,
psychologically gory.
The knight,
does not exist,
nor the prince,
Or the hero…and i am no ones
Princess, and that’s alright,
i don’t want to sit up
high
On
A
pedal stool
Of false imagination
And lies.

The Broken Serial Killer

‘Your Dad was right, you’re useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper.’
Tim clumsily paced around the small cluttered living room, knocking into the old brown coffee table, sending a pile of paper work scuttling across the carpet. His hands were shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Tim grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor and took a long swig. He hoped the alcohol would invade his body, comatose him, he desperately needed sleep. He prayed that enough alcohol might bring him death, peace.
‘You’re not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make daddy proud.’
Tim turned to look toward the corner of the room, where the voice had come from. The girls soft voice reminded Tim of his Mother.
‘Pick up the gun, Tim.’ she whispered.

‘Are we doing this, or what ?’
Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he desperately replied,
‘I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy.’
Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but the memories crept into his dreams, forcing him awake, sweat covering his body, his heart beating rapidly as his screams echoed around the empty house. The scars that map out across his pale broken body, ache, constantly. Tim ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, rubbing the tip of his thumb along the groove of a ten year old scar. A constant reminder of why he must never ask questions about his Mother. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’mummy’ had left.

No one noticed the anxious man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. The bright florescent lights inside the shop stung Tim’s eyes, blinking he accustomed himself to the new and threatening surroundings. Slowly walking along the aisle toward the cashier at the far end, he watched the old man reading behind the counter, the graveyard shift was always the most peaceful. Without hesitation, Tim pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.
‘You stole my Mummy’
The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices. The shopkeeper had no time to react as the bullet hurtled towards him, entering his heart.
Tim ran from the shop, out into the night. Struggling to hold himself together, he shouted into the darkness
‘Please, I did it. Please let me sleep.’
It was quite the voices had gone… for now.

I wrote this is an excercise for a tutorial, please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.