<![CDATA[Not All About Boys - My Other Literature]]>Mon, 30 Nov 2015 03:33:44 +0000Weebly<![CDATA[Useless.]]>Tue, 27 May 2014 14:09:07 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/uselessRebecca flicked the lighter and raised it to her cigarette, her fingers shaking in the crisp autumn air. With a deep breath in, she sat herself on the wall, and winced. Fresh bruises, she thought. Great.

The afternoon was drawing to a close and clouds gathered above her. Shivering, she pulled her hood over her dark, thin hair and inhaled again. This spot, on the wall near the corner shops, was more than familiar to her. Two, three times a week, she would come here and have a smoke, usually when things got too much with Steven or if she just needed to get out of the flat. Just sick of everything, but somehow, after sitting down on this brown-brick wall for a cigarette, she’d feel a little better, and would manage to pick herself up, ready to face him again.

Rebecca tucked a hand tentatively under her coat, near the base of her rib cage and gently pinched the skin. Yes, it still hurt. She closed her tired, darkened eyes and tried to forget the evening, two nights ago, when that blotched purple and yellow mark had appeared. He’d gotten angry again after another afternoon at the pub with the boys, all in a rage about a cracked mug this time. Bloody useless, he’d grunted at her, throwing a tea towel in her face. Useless, he’d repeated, coming closer and grabbing her arm. Fucking useless, he shouted, pushing her to the floor and kicking, stomping at her repeatedly, until she lay still, whimpering quietly on the stained linoleum tiling.

Useless, she muttered weakly, smoke drifting from her lips. It began to rain softly, and Rebecca pulled her thin grey coat tighter around herself, taking another deep suck on her cigarette. It wasn’t that he meant to get angry, she said, inwardly. He just - he drinks, and then he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But when he sees me... the bruises, he’s always sorry. Always.

Stubbing the butt of her cigarette, she sighed and looked around. Rain’s getting heavier, she thought, stretching out a hand and letting the cold water trickle over her fingers. Won’t go back in just yet. Another quick fag and then... then I can. She lit another, and let her thoughts drift back to the incident again. It's just a mug, Stephen, she had tried to say, apologising over and over, thinking maybe he’d back down and forget it. Just a bloody mug? You CLUMSY bitch, lunging for her and then turning away, as she panted breathlessly and tried to explain. But she couldn’t explain anything, and he didn’t want to hear it.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, she repeated to herself firmly. He loves me, he doesn’t know what he’s doing and he loves me and he just doesn't know, she chanted internally. His final word rang in her head again: useless.

Rebecca sat in silence for a minute or so, and then, taking the last puff of her cigarette, she flicked it on the floor and trod the stub into the wet, grimy pavement. With both hands, she wiped at the dark bags under her eyes, and steeled herself. 

Dinner time, she thought, as she stepped off the wall.]]>
<![CDATA[Thoughts from a London tube station...]]>Thu, 27 Sep 2012 19:10:29 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/thoughts-from-a-london-tube-station This is something I wrote whilst waiting for a train. I actually got so carried away writing, I let about three trains go past, but I didn't care because I was just enjoying the atmosphere of the station (I'm such a boring artistic writer, I know. I can't help it!).
PictureThe station in question...
As the solemn black hands of the clock snap into position to signal five O'clock, the orange station lights simultaneously flicker into existence. The bright orange domes -orbs, even- hang, still, underneath the lofty concrete ceiling.

Yet, despite the thick grey concrete, the false lighting, and the omnipresent smell of commuters' coffee and fags, this is hardly an oppressive place.

Far from it. Rather, it is quiet, peaceful, and the light streaming in through the thick glass windows above all those unnatural glowing orange orbs creates an unparallelled sense of stillness.

Really, it's not a place of stillness. Of course it's not. It is a place of moving - of transportation, of going to places and coming back. Or going away and never coming back at all. No, the one thing that it's certainly not, is a place for staying still.

Even the clock knows seems to know this - so with that in mind, as it strikes five past five, I board my train and depart.

I hope you enjoyed that, I know I haven't written anything in this section of the site for a while, so I thought I'd post something a bit different today! If you liked this, comment below, and who knows- I might do more of this kind of blog.
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<![CDATA[Two sides to every story- HIS.]]>Sat, 16 Jun 2012 16:07:35 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/two-sides-to-every-story-his1Picture
Do you really believe him?
On Saturday 27th February 2010, I woke up late, at maybe two in the afternoon. The boys and I had agreed to meet at four for a beer in the local pub, to watch the match, so after throwing on a plain black t-shirt and some jeans, I walked to the pub.

We watched the game on TV, had a bit of banter, and talked over drinks. After the match finished, we stayed on at the bar and celebrated the win with another round. At about eight we left though- a few of the guys had to get back home to their girlfriends, so the night ended there.

I walked home by myself, sobering up a bit.

To get to my flat, you can either go through a bunch of main roads, which takes ages, or you can just go through this alley. That night, I couldn’t be bothered to walk the long way, so I took the alley route.

Well, I was walking through, tripping over rubbish bags in the darkness, when I saw a woman at the end of the alley. She was hunched over a bit and muttering and cursing about something I couldn’t quite make out. Suddenly she froze, and she turned around slowly to look at me. She looked tired and very run down, but you could see she was pretty.

Then I saw the lighter in her hand, and realised she had been trying to light a cigarette, but couldn’t get it to work. I had a lighter in my pocket, so I offered it to her. She took it, and we got talking. She seemed kind of lonely.

After a couple of minutes, she started telling me about how she was single, and her husband was leaving her. I kind of thought she was coming on to me, and I tried to kiss her.

As I said, I was a bit drunk, so I don’t really remember what happened next too clearly. I just know she didn’t say no. She didn’t push me away.

I swear, your Honour- I didn’t rape her that night.

This is a two part story! If you'd like to read the other side of the story- HERS- click the link below. Comment your thoughts on this story- do you believe the man, or do you think he's lying? I love getting comments, so do tell me what you thought of the story, below!
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<![CDATA[Two sides to every story- HERS.]]>Sat, 16 Jun 2012 15:56:49 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/two-sides-to-every-story-hersPicture
Do you belive her?
On Saturday 27th February 2010 I woke up early, went to the supermarket to get breakfast for the kids, then came home and made eggs for them. We always have scrambled eggs and toast on Saturdays, because my kids love making toast soldiers. David and Jenny, aged 6 and 4. I love them more than anything.

It was the weekend, so I dropped them both at a friend’s house and went home to run some errands. Cleaning up, tidying their rooms, getting some work stuff done- just some admin things. Really a very ordinary day, if a bit boring.

At about 4 O’clock, I had to pick the kids up, and I brought them back home, made them an early dinner and tucked them into bed at about 7. It was Saturday, so they complained about going to bed early, but eventually I got them to go to sleep.

I sat around the house for about an hour, drinking cups of tea and watching the TV- the X factor was on, as I remember. But at about 9, I had to go out for a fag. I’d been resisting all day, but at 9 O’clock I snapped. Just one, I thought, and I popped into the alley behind the flats- if the kids smelt it inside, they’d only ask questions.

Standing outside, tucking my arms into my scraggy grey M&S cardigan and taking long, relieved breaths of smoke, I suddenly felt aware of a noise behind me. A slight rustle in the darkness- somewhere at the end of the alleyway.

Turning around, the silhouette of a man came into sight. For just a second, I stood completely still. Then, coming to my senses, I began to shuffle towards the street, wanting desperately to be back in the flat, safe with David and Jenny. He came towards me though, and he grabbed my arm. I screamed- he clawed at my face, hissing at me to be quiet. Dragging me down to the floor, he attacked me, and I whimpered and squealed. He hurt me... and then he left me there, and in the morning- when I remembered what happened, as I saw my ripped clothes and my purple bruises- I cried.

I wanted him dead, your Honour. I really did. And you know what? I still do.

This is a two part story! If you'd like to read the other side of the story- HIS- click the link below. Comment your thoughts on this story- do you believe the girl, or do you think she's lying? I love getting comments, so do tell me what you thought of the story, below!
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<![CDATA[A phone call for Louise...]]>Tue, 12 Jun 2012 21:12:45 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/a-phone-call-from-a-strangerSorry I haven't written any stories in a while, here's my latest, you absolute vultures!

Louise held her head in her hands as she sat in the toilet of the Italian restaurant. The date had gone badly. She’d spilt wine over his shirt, accidentally insulted him in the process, choked on a mushroom and tripped over a waitress- all in the first ten minutes. 

He had spouted some lousy excuse about twelve minutes into the date and practically scampered out of the door after another two.

Life was not going well for Louise. This was the sixth time in three weeks that she’d ended up in the toilet of ‘La Fontana’, lost for words at how unhappy she was.

Truth be told, she’d only noticed the number -07950178465- scrawled across the wall, in red sharpie, after the third time she’d found herself in this cubicle.

She hadn’t even thought of calling it. Why would she? But by that sixth disastrous date, temptation got the better of her. Why bloody not? Her night really couldn’t get much worse anyway, call it!

Dialling the numbers, she sighed, unsure why she was even bothering, and lifted the phone to her ear.
After just one ring, there was an answer.

 “Are you in the restaurant? I’ve been waiting for your call.” asked a man’s voice.

“What? Yes. How did you-”

“There’s no time for that, just come outside. They’re all waiting!” said the man, insistently.

Louise hung up, and walked- speechless- out of the cubicle, through the restaurant, and into the street.

Gasping as she saw the man, phone in hand, sitting in his silver convertible, she had a thought. Maybe this would be an interesting night after all...

I hope you enjoyed that little story. Comment below if you did, I love to get blog feedback! Or check out my other bits of recent non-blog writing, by clicking the links below!
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<![CDATA[What You were Not- A Eulogy]]>Tue, 08 May 2012 23:43:49 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/what-you-were-not-a-eulogyIn August of last year, my grandma died. I don't write about it a lot, but I thought I would now, because I do miss her, and I don't really know what to do with that pain sometimes.
What You were Not- A Eulogy
You were not particularly smart.
You were not tolerant.
You were not rich or young or stunning.

You did not use your manners.
You did not stand up straight.
You were not selfless- quite the opposite in fact, sometimes.

You did not sing in tune, not once.
You did not usually listen to us, when we gave you our advice.
You did not always wash your mug after tea.
You did not ever answer the phone the first time we called. We always had to call again.

You did not prepare me for this.
You did not make it.

Rest in peace.
I hope you enjoyed that (as much as a person can enjoy mopey teenage poetry about death...)! Comment your thoughts on the poem, below. I always love getting your feedback on my writing!

As always, if you have any poetry or short stories you'd like to send to me, my email address is notallaboutboys@hotmail.co.uk, so please do send it over!
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<![CDATA[The Crack!]]>Mon, 09 Apr 2012 19:08:53 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/the-crackWhen I think of that moment, I feel it in the present tense. The silence. Everything slows down, and I am left standing alone on the stage, staring at a never-ending audience. In slow motion, the innumerable faces curdle with disgust. They're making noises (booing, hissing, shouting, I was later told) but all I can hear right now is a high-pitched ringing. I'm frozen on the spot.

It was my solo. The high note of my BIG song. My voice cracked, and I couldn't contain the tears.

Of course I was upset. Of course I cried. Of course I screamed.

But that was afterwards. For those few moments immediately after The Crack- which to me still feel like hours- I stood still, my eyes piercing into the back of the audience, wishing for something else. Anything but this hatred.
I feel isolated- like the world boils down to just me and my spotlight- there is nothing else.

But then the world returns to normal speed, and I'm standing, and the audience's faces aren't screwed up with horror- they're actually smiling, and they're standing too, and clapping! The show has finished without a hitch!

There was no Crack. There was no silence. There were no tears.

I hope  you liked that short little story! I really dug deep for that one!
Comment what you thought below, or what you want me to write about next, because I always love hearing what you guys think!

And if you enjoyed this, check out some of my other stories too!
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<![CDATA[A Runaway in Paris!]]>Fri, 24 Feb 2012 23:04:47 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/a-runaway-in-parisI know! I haven't written any stories in a while! Well here's one, you vultures. Enjoy!
Picture
The picture that inspired the story!
Under the purple evening sky, and across the busy streets of Paris, ran a couple. They ran not out of gleeful, romantic love, as one might think- it being Paris, after all- but of fear. For Violet and Blaize were in trouble.

As they zipped between cars, running frantically across the road, Violet thought of how she had got to this point. In all honesty, it had been a very normal day on holiday. She’d planned to see a few museums, maybe do a river tour. Just a normal day of sightseeing for this little English runaway.

“Violet! Keep up!” screamed Blaize, snapping her out of her reverie.

“Where are we going?!”

“Where do you think?” he smirked, looking over his shoulder as he ran “The greatest monument in all of France- La Tour Eiffel! LEFT!”

“Left?? Oh!” she swerved into an alley, following Blaize “Wait, the Eiffel Tower? WHY??” she screeched, struggling to keep up.

“You’ll see!”

Darting through the crowd of strangers, pushing aside groups of fashionable Parisian twenty-somethings as she ran, Violet Candle -the normal, ordinary, well brought-up English girl- wondered if she regretted the decision she’d made, just an hour earlier.

He’d asked her for coffee. She’d said yes, on a whim. It was Paris for Christ’s sake- If you can’t go for a coffee here with a good-looking stranger, where in the world can you?

That was her reasoning anyway.

And then some men had arrived looking a bit shifty and angry, and his face dropped from a charming grin to an anxious frown. He’d whispered into her ear that they needed to leave, that she had to follow him. And since that moment, it had all been a blurry haze of running and screaming and thinking this was the worst first date she’d ever been on.

As she turned the corner, still following a practical stranger, she gasped. The Eiffel Tower, despite its enormity and lights, had somehow managed to sneak up on them.

“Here we are.”

She stood speechless, gazing upwards. At that moment, Violet felt as if the running no longer mattered. All the tension in her body just dissolved into nothing, as she stared up at the great monument, standing by a mad, wonderful man she’d met two hours ago.

This was mad. Totally, utterly, splendidly mad. So why not be mad?

“Let’s climb it.”

'A Runaway in Paris' was inspired by the photography of my friend, Lily, who runs an amazing photo blog called 'Lily Does Shots' which you should definitely check out. So please do, and tell her I sent you!
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<![CDATA[Lifeless.]]>Mon, 30 Jan 2012 23:54:37 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/lifeless To tell you the truth, I have always hated IKEA.

Everything about it reeks of conformity- the concrete, grey flooring; the shelves stacked impossibly high; the darkness; and the crowded corridors. It’s a dark, dead, grimy warehouse for bargain hunters and sofa fetishists.

My parents, however, do not see it this way. For them, it’s just a cheap place to buy a lamp- and they insist on dragging me there. Usually, I just do my own thing. Head into the cafeteria, buy myself some Swedish meatballs and chips, and wait for them to return, tacky goods in hand.

But today, Tuesday 12th of February, the canteen was closed.

“Kitchen problems” explained the janitor, mopping his way past me as if that explained things.

So with nowhere to sit, I went for a walk. I wasn’t really doing anything, just mindlessly wandering and looking at desks, bored out of my mind, when I found myself in a warehouse.

It was far quieter, and filled with 10 metre metal shelves and white overhead lights. From one corner of the room, muffled shouts sounded in the distance.

“Why don’t you just... tell us... give...don’t play...”

I strained to hear, and walked silently towards them.

“TELL US...”

BAM! A metallic clang suddenly rang throughout the warehouse, followed by a groan, and loud footsteps, running away.

At that point, curiosity and fear overcame me- and I started to sprint.

As I turned the corner, I glimpsed two men, fleeing the scene.

But then something else...

Twisted, and lying against the wall, was a woman. Closed eyes, a cut on her face, and blood across her arms- one look and I knew. She was dead.

To tell you the truth, I have always hated IKEA.

Thanks for reading! Comment what you thought!
Oh and if you liked this, check out some of my other stories!
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<![CDATA[Who am I?]]>Mon, 02 Jan 2012 23:10:00 GMThttp://www.notallaboutboys.com/my-other-literature/who-am-iPicture
This sheet of paper, crumpled and used, is a part of me that I have lost.

On it are words that I recognise to be my own, but can no longer read.

Hebrew. I’m Jewish by birth, see. And once I could read these words with fluency and confidence- confidence not just in my writing, but in my religion. Ha! Just look at the gold star; once upon a time, a teacher must have believed in me too. It’s ridiculous- funny even.

And now look at this piece of paper. Old and crinkled, with childish ink, where a pen -pressed too hard into the page- has left its mark.

Yes, this part of me has definitely been diminished.
But it does still live on. The paper is still here, and although it’s years after I can remember ever writing those words, this side of me is certainly still around.

In fact, I think I’d have to try pretty hard to get rid of whatever it is about me that’s Jewish. I don’t pray. I don’t go to Synagogues. I don’t even believe in God. 

But I’m -somehow, some way that I don’t yet understand- still Jewish.

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