oeuvrelydramatic

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Not A Dirty Word (Part 2)

It wasn’t until two years had passed, in January 2018 that I told her that I was in love with her. She’d been telling people we were girlfriends since August, but forgotten to tell me that. I spent months getting up the courage to tell her how I really felt and finally, at about half past midnight, she knew.

Not much had changed since last time. She was still way, way out of my league. I still made her laugh at my jokes like no other person did. I was much less stupid this time, but I was still so hopelessly in love. I’d seen queer relationships flourish around me. Alice and Seren were practically married at this point. And then I realised.

If my feelings for her have stayed for this long then that probably means that they’re going to stay forever, doesn’t it.

Shit.

I was pretty certain, before all this, that I was a lesbian. I wasn’t really comfortable with the label, and I sometimes still find myself replacing it with ‘gay’ because it’s a more comfortable term. I thought it sounded more like Eastern European porn than an actual label used to describe someone’s identity. But now I had to face it. I’m a lesbian. I don’t want to marry a man. I want to marry Molly. I don’t care about heaven anymore, I care about the white walls and ceiling and duvet of my bedroom, the smile in her eyes as she gazes into mine from across the room.

So everything was amazing.

I was in a weird place physically, not knowing if she was comfortable with kissing me again, after two years, not knowing how much more than friends we were, but everything was amazing.

Then my mum found out.

I’d dealt with years and years of homophobic Sundays, about how the only real family was a man, woman and children and those kinds of families were the only ones who would be together forever. I learned about how ‘same sex attraction’ was a sin, an affliction and a burden that should be treated as such. I knew I could never invite my family to my wedding.

But that didn’t take away the sting of the words ‘do you have something to tell me?’

I wasn’t ready in the slightest to tell her anything about my love life. I don’t know how she found out and I don’t want to but I do know that it sparked an hour long talk that ended in a flood of tears from both of us, and left me feeling more invalidated than ever.

She told me that she felt the same way about Penny, her best friend growing up. She asked me if I was sexually attracted to Molly, which I, for the sake of answering comfortably, denied and then she used that response to justify her complete dismissal of my relationship as nothing more that being super duper best friend gal pals. She said that she didn’t want me to make mistakes that would lead to a rift in my relationship with the church. She reduced my love for my girlfriend to a mistake.

We hugged, after an hour or so, and didn’t say anything more. A couple times afterwards she took the time to say some ill thought out things that could easily be concluded as to mean that she didn’t care about my happiness and only wanted what she wanted to happen.

So here I was, left again, with the impression that being a lesbian was wrong. It was a mistake. I was mistaking my friendship for love. I was mistaking my sins for happiness. But I was happy. I was more in love than ever.

I’m still falling in love. Every day I realise how much she means to me and every day I realise how wrong I was the day before to think I loved her as much as I possibly could.

My dad doesn’t mind taxiing around to let Molly come over whenever I want her to (because my mum doesn’t want us to lie in a bed together, even when there are other people in the room).

I still don’t love the label ‘lesbian’. I know it’s what I am but I often find myself erasing it in favour of something else.

I often find myself in toxic thought spirals. About how lesbian love is doomed to just be something I’ll grow out of. I’ve never really seen any lasting lesbian relationships on screen or in real life. I’ve not really seen anything more than ‘friends’, sex objects or teenagers going through phases.

I know that media shouldn’t dictate how I feel about my own identity but god knows I’ve tried to dictate how I feel about it myself a good number of times and I can’t do it.

For three years I tried to make myself ‘less gay’. I’ve always tried to disregard stereotypes of what lesbians are like and distance myself from the label in every way possible. But I can’t do that anymore.

I am a lesbian.

I am in love.

And it is not a mistake, it’s not just a friendship, I’m not sinning.

Lesbian is not a dirty word.

It’s fucking beautiful.

And so am I.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Not A Dirty Word (Part 1)

‘I’m not a lesbian’ I declared, offended in a skort too big for my year 7 thighs or lack thereof. ‘Just because I go to a girl’s school, they all think I’m going to be a lesbian. But I’m not.’ I don’t think she wanted my input really. She was making the point that she’d been made fun of for going to a girls’ school because they thought she’d end up gay. I never got any of that. But still I pretended to, just so I could clarify that I, 100%, definitely would not end up being a lesbian.

I don’t think I knew then that I’d end up being gay. I’m not trying to say that I’d had feelings for girls all the way through primary school, that I always knew that I was different. Because I didn’t. And I’m not, really.

I was one of the first people in my class to learn what a lesbian was. I remember Annabel Lloyd pointing out to me some graffiti on a sign that read ‘lesbian sex’ on the way back from a school trip at about 10 years old. I remember being very confused about anyone’s motive for writing such vulgar things on a road sign and very confused about why she’d point it out to me. But I was also extremely confused about what it actually meant. I remember getting out my kindle late at night, turning on the reading light clipped to the headboard of my bed, positioning it under my covers so that my mum wouldn’t see the light from under my door, and somehow finding my way to urban dictionary. Of course, I read the definition of ‘lesbian’ and learned what it meant but then I fell down the rabbit hole, learning about various things that 10 year old me shouldn’t have been learning.

And so it began. Being ‘lesbian’ meant that you liked girls, but it was an under-the-covers thing. It was something vulgar that stupid kids graffiti-ed onto road signs. It wasn’t anything I’d ever experienced, it wasn’t anything I’d ever be able to talk about. It was just another word I knew that I felt that I shouldn’t.

I don’t remember the first time I was exposed to lesbian relationships in media. I don’t even think I can remember the last time I was exposed to a lesbian relationship in media. It wasn’t really real to me. It was never anything I’d have to deal with.

Now I never really said I liked boys. My ideas about love were rather mixed up from the very beginning, from years of having confusing feelings about Holly Palmer that just crossed the line past friendship and into something a little bit more and the years and years of being told by the church that I would get married to a man, have lots of children and be a good wife and mother. So, when it came to boys this seemed easy: I’d pick a boy that I was really good friends with (because that’s just what Holly was, obviously) and then just marry him and have his kids because then I could go to heaven.

It didn’t bother me much. I never really spoke to anyone at all about crushes or romance or anything. My mum wasn’t interested, my dad would rather just play games than talk about that kind of stuff, so it was never important to me.

Until year 7. The first time that I’d ever had a discussion about lesbianism. And that’s where we come to my vast and sweeping statement ‘I am not a lesbian’. I pronounced it ‘lezz-bee-uuuuuun’, in the same way that you’d say ‘ommmmmmmmmmm’ when someone was doing something naughty in front of a teacher. And I felt the same. We were in the dance studio at school, ready for PE and we were discussing lesbians so, naturally I felt the need to clarify.

So my life was simple: I wasn’t a lesbian. I didn’t like boys. I didn’t like anyone. One day I’d end up with someone but it wasn’t a big deal. The only things on my list of life plans were to go to Australia and to go to university in America, (neither of which I want to do anymore).

I was in the school play. I’d been in the school play in year 7 and my passion and enthusiasm for my role of an unnamed chorus member coupled with my mediocre-at-best acting and singing skills earned me a callback for a main part in next year’s production. I met a girl called Seren in the callbacks. She was nice and pretty, talented and had an amazing mane of blonde curly hair. We talked a little, me being the only year 7 in the callbacks and, when neither of us got the parts we wanted, we ended up together in the (named!) chorus member chorus. So, here I was mixed up in a chorus full of girls who felt much much older than me and I fell in with Seren and her friends. And I met Alice. Seren’s friend, both of them a year older than me so had a far greater understanding of the world, as your worldly knowledge does seem to increase exponentially in between the ages of 13 and 14. So when Alice pointed to the logo on a flip chart which said something containing the word ‘bi’ and declared ‘haha me!’ they seemed rather confused at my confusion and must have thought it rather odd that they had to explain bisexuality to me.

From there I was exposed to a world of queer culture. When I was friends with them I learned about everything (or what I thought was everything at the time) and I really thought I knew what was what. After a couple of odd ‘slightly more than best friends’ crushes on other girls I made another proud declaration in regards to my sexuality.

‘I’m bisexual.’ I knew it would be fine because I’d end up with a man anyway eventually, I could marry him and then go to heaven no matter what I felt about girls.

I was telling my stepmum about all my friends in the top level car park of House of Fraser. I told her about how all my friends were some form of not-straight and she replied with a question that sent my brain into a meltdown ‘so, what are you then?’ I replied with a rather hesitant, cautious ‘I’m bisexual.’

She said it was no big deal. She said that she felt ‘that way’ about girls sometimes, and that she knew that I wasn’t straight as soon as I said that Jensen Ackles wasn’t that attractive. And so it was out in the open, in the closed bond of trust between the two of us. It was okay.

And I was okay.

At the start of the year I had been put (to my displeasure) in a new class. Instead of being taught in form groups, like the school used to do up until GCSE level, now we were all mixed up and I was in ‘8M’. I wasn’t very happy with my class. I didn’t really like anyone in it. I didn’t really like anyone who was in my year group for most of year 8, but there were a few people I did. And none of them were in 8M. So, I was forced to socialise and quickly learned that the girl I thought I’d recognised was ‘Mol’. I followed her on Instagram because she was friends with a scary girl from my form, who had tagged her in a post. From there I saw all the ‘aesthetical’ posts (as she used to call them) that she was so proud of and instantly deemed her much too cool for me to socialise with. So I knew who she was. I pointed her out to Hollie Bowker in the courtyard.

‘Oh I know her. That’s Mol’

I didn’t know her. I knew of her. But it was more impressive that way so I just went with it. So we never really talked in the first few weeks, for the first term at all really until history. We were sat together in history, at the point when we were learning about the suffragettes. I, being witty, hilarious and knowledgeable about queer culture as ever, made a joke about how the suffragettes were just a society of secret lesbians, who’s meetings were like safe spaces to just be gay.

She laughed. Like, a lot. I didn’t think she’d find it all that funny, nobody else really ever found me funny, let alone my annoyingly frequent and stereotypically out-of-Place references to queer culture. So, before I knew it we were friends.

Now, dear reader, knowing what we know about my complicated history with friendships and the lines between romantic and platonic relationships, what are we to expect for my relationship with the pretty girl who was way out of my league (me being the nerdy nerd and her being the more popular ‘tumblr’ nerd) ?

So we talked. A lot. I’m not sure we really discussed her sexuality for a while but I knew she was comfortable making jokes about it. Before I knew it she was planning our wedding. We’d have Vera Wang wedding dresses and get married in spring. And me, being the hopeless romantic I am, fell hopelessly in love with her.

I waited a few months in silence, trying to gauge what she felt but it got to a point where I couldn’t wait any longer.

So, by September 17th, 2015 I was in my first relationship. And it was with a girl.

So. I wasn’t really okay anymore. How could I get married in my Vera Wang wedding dress to another person wearing a Vera Wang wedding dress and still go to heaven? Did I care about heaven anymore? It was still probably just going to be a stupid tween romance. Just a girl crush. Probably just two super best friends who didn’t know any better.

We went on our first date sometime in October, where we saw the movie Suffragette. We held hands all the way through, and I really wanted to kiss her but I could feel the glare of the old couple in the back row. Plus, how do you even do that?! How do you kiss someone? Is it weird to kiss people in public? I’d seen plenty of straight couples do it at bus stops and in restaurants so why not do it at the cinema? But no, the gaze of probable homophobia scared me off and I waited a good two months before I made the first move.

I never kissed her in public when we were dating, we never really went further than holding hands in front of everyone else. We outwardly appeared to be super duper best friends.

It was during this time that I experienced my first and only real degree of homophobia from a stranger.

Molly and I were holding hands, just walking out of the park, when a woman with a baby in her push chair shouted rather loudly:

‘Dykes’.

I hated that word. I hated it so very much. I hated that she had had a child. That she, unlike me, had the chance to have a biological child with someone she presumably loved only to poison it with toxic, homophobic bullshit like this.

But we moved on.

It didn’t really change how we interacted in public, it just made me a lot more cautious and self conscious. At any sign of a glaring eye we both knew when to widen the space between us and un-entwine our hands. We both knew that we’d never be able to kiss at bus stops like the other girls could with their boyfriends, but it was okay.

We were still happy.

It was December 17th at my house when I finally made a move. It was the last time I was going to see Molly before the Christmas holidays. I’d drawn her some fanart and bought us matching necklaces, the epitome of romance.

My mum, being very very Mormon, had absolutely no idea about any of this. I was certain I could tell my dad, he wouldn’t mind, but I wasn’t certain that he wouldn’t accidentally let it slip to her and ruin everything.

So I waited until it was past midnight. We were in the middle of watching Phantom of the Opera when it started to buffer, and didn’t seem like it would work. I had been thinking about it for months. How would I do it? What was it like to kiss someone?

Now, my experience of lesbians getting -physical- came from 3 seasons of Orange Is The New Black. Everything I saw was scandalous. For a start, I was watching under the covers in incognito mode on my browser and clearing my Netflix watch history promptly afterwards, but also it was portrayed as something sexual. Something women did because they were confined to just a pool of other women, as a way to release pent up sexuality that would usually have been exhibited to a man at home.

So I did it. Expecting to feel like it was wrong, like it was scandalous or dirty. But I was so wrong. Nothing in the world felt more natural to me than pressing my lips against hers and telling her that I loved her in between breaths.

I’m sure I was an awful kisser. I bet we both were. Neither of us had any experience, but it was amazing. It was like I’d found the piece of the jigsaw puzzle that fit into place and made me feel like I was finally what I was meant to be. I was gay. I was in a relationship with another girl. I was in love.

Fuck.

So now I was convinced. There was no way out. No easy loophole to just say ‘oh yeah but I still want to be with a man’ because I didn’t. That didn’t stop me lying to everyone around me and trying to convince myself to be bisexual. I wanted to be with her, heaven wasn’t on the cards anymore.

We broke up a month later, the result of the absolute stupidity of my year 9 self, but we after a while we managed to still be friends.

Friends.

Lesbian relationships have always had such a distinct tie to friendship in my mind. Everything I saw on TV presented lesbian couples as either hyper-sexual beings, only doing it for men’s attention, or just what could easily be perceived as being super duper best friend gal pals.

Our relationship didn’t change much. Sure, I never got the chance to kiss her after that one night but we were still friends. We still got to laugh at each other’s jokes and give each other hugs.

I wasn’t friends with Alice and Seren anymore. Again, my stupid year 9 self managed to ruin all my relationships with everyone around me so I can’t blame them for hating me. They did hate me for a while, I’m sure but I never blamed them. About a week after we fell out they ended up dating. I had seen it ever since I met them, I knew there was something more than just friendship.

It was hard, being in an all-girls school. There were lots of friends that were more than friends but there were also lots of friends that were just super best friends. I thought, at first, that it was like Orange Is The New Black. That girls would just be with other girls because there were no boys around. I know now that I was very wrong but that’s how I thought at the time.

So Alice and Seren were dating and Molly and I were not. Even though I didn’t speak to them anymore I now finally had an example of what a lesbian relationship looked like. I know, I know, I’d already been in one, but I had no clue what I was doing. I really wished that I could just have some non-fictional frame of reference for the whole time we were dating. Now, though a little late, I finally saw an example of what lesbian love looked like. Like normal people, doing normal things, being normal and in love.

It was after around 6 months of not dating that things started to go back, even more, to the way they had been before. We held hands, we made jokes about getting married and we hugged. Tighter and longer than I ever did with anyone else. And after a couple more weird friend-crushes I told myself would help me get over her, I admitted to myself that I was still in love.

My friends all saw that there was still something there. Our stupid year 9 romance had meant so much to me, and it still rang through every echo of our ‘friendship’. We weren’t ‘just friends’ but we were just ‘friends’. There are wasn’t any real commitment or full expression of feelings, but we both knew that there was something there.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Warm

She smiles with sunshine in her eyes

Each glimmer like sweet honeycomb

The sunshine smells like lavender

And coconut and home

She radiates intricate patterns of light

She laughs and sun shines all around

At her touch, her gaze, her presence

Flowers blossom from the ground

There is a fire behind her eyes

Her mind, a thunderstorm

But her arms wrap round my waist

And all the world is warm

Sunbeams clasp my moonlit palms

My fingers through her satin hair

Moonbeams light her every inch

As I reflect her sunshine glare

She casts a shadow on each one

Of all my imperfections

I see my face and see myself

But also her reflection

She lingers on my lips and haunts

Each sentence that I form

I think of her till she holds me

Until all the world is warm

The tide turns as my moonlit heart

Skips another flustered beat

I lay beneath her glowing rays

Clouds part, I feel her heat

Though earth is cold to the eclipse

We still shall not conform

I still shall take her in my arms

And my world will be warm

She is summer, her kiss the breeze

I, moonlight, she the dawn

We intertwine and interweave

And all the world is warm

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Rebellion

As my mother works from 9-5

I dance to Dolly Parton

The things that make me feel alive

She doesn’t want me to take part in

Each time I hold my dearest’s hand

I walk right down the aisle

I say ‘fuck you!’ To Jesus’ face

Give Satan my best smile

I sit through church and listen

Gay thoughts running through my head

You want me to love Jesus but

I love my love instead

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Words

It’s hard to translate thoughts into words that can be understand by anyone other than myself

I hope I make some vague degree of sense

My writing is wild, unconstrained by the conventions of poetry - never regular or consistent

But still, I have spent years developing my meticulous narrative voice

Take this as the moment where the teacher tells you they’ve made a mistake

The wall I had tried so hard to build with my prose

Comes crashing down now

And my emotions are no longer shared

They’re mine now

All mine

Like plastic swept in by the tide

And consumed by an unsuspecting animal with no true knowledge of its nature

Each word I write is just a screenshot of the voice in my head

And I hope I echo yours

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Piano

You waltz along a melody drawn from the cavities of your brain

You manipulate and pluck the strings so violently that they don’t know it’s violence

Your octaves of thought ring and reverberate through the walls and through my mind

A natural -

You break the status quo of what has gone before

And each time you let go of the pedal you leave behind the old and welcome a new and ringing sound

But still the beauty is sustained

I hear the Einaudi in your mind

I hear the careful consideration each stroke of harmony has been through to be yours

In the silence of sounds of every key, we resonate

We’re on the same frequency;

Ebony and ivory

I stop you midway through the B section -

‘That should be minor’

You try it out

And you agree

And your thoughts become our thoughts

And we’re in the same key

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Practice Rooms in the Driffold Block

1

The cream coloured pipes run along the walls

Their potential as percussion sometimes more sonorous than the melodies churned out by the electric piano I can simply never remember to plug in

The desk is convenient for eating my lunch upon

When hiding from the dinner ladies, and people in the form room

2

My favourite

The musty smell and flickering lights bring you closer to my heart

The blinds, broken

Like the chords which I have butchered

Like my vocal cords have been so many times inside the warm comforting walls of the room that feels older than I am

Your perfectly placed window provides sanctity on which my phone can rely

And your slightly out of tune piano is much more fun to play than any of the others

3

I hate you, 3

Your wide windows make me uneasy

And your spit-soaked floors make me want to cry

But still I’ve rested on your stool

And sang my heart out to everyone in the adjacent rooms

4

Ah four

You watched my first love blossom into my first romance

You heard my hesitations

Heard my belting out frustrations

Heard the harmonies that made me fall deeper and deeper in love

Your window may be too big for my liking but still

I love your walls

5

Your volatile piano positioning only lasted a while but it made for a challenge each time we improvised symphonies that would never be heard again

You sheltered me from those who’d left me behind and watered the seeds of friendship with those whom I decided to love

You’ve led to lies and mischief

But still I owe you thanks

[oeuvrelydramatic]

On Friendship and Mistakes

‘I've made a mistake’

I laugh at you

On a train back home from London

The thought of your ripped fishnets,

A product of drunken regretful endeavours

‘Fairy lights and music’, you assure me

And I’m not convinced you weren’t convincing yourself

That the sluggish escapades of the night before were anything more than a mistake

Your yellow checked shirt and Bantu knots graced the screens of hundreds

But your disgrace graced only the minds of those who knew the things you did under the influence

I frowned at you,

You wasted an opportunity to have a meaningful memory

But I laugh

Because I know that in my mind, your mind has no room for meaning

Your mistakes warm my heart

But your turning to me when you’ve made them

Starts a blazing fire

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Lipstick

You are like a drawer

Full of lipstick where every colour seems the same

Dependable, reliable

I know each colour will shine upon your smiling lips

And leave residue on your teeth

Some shades are deeper, darker

Hiding things your mouth is too scared to set free

And some are iridescent

A shade so dark yet so radiant with all the various colours on the limited spectrum that you dare to wear

Occasionally there’s a blue

Blue as the water in the bottles that you use to bottle up all your emotions

Only to pour them out to a Nirvana vinyl

Yes

The spectrum may not be wide and vast but I have all the shades of purple that I need to accompany me through the plights of each day

The static through the phone and the silence between us

Is enough to let me know that you’re always going to be there

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Night

I look reluctantly out of my window onto the dull, stagnant street

A black sheet of icy night forces it’s way through each subatomic gap in the glass pane and though I lie in my warm bed awake, the chill lulls me into a cool half-slumber.

Each house I see is like the golden handle on the window-frame; shiny and clear to an unobservant eye, yet upon closer inspection it is truly tarnished.

Their doors shut out the night, but shut in a shouted word, a glare of disgust, a hatred, a smile.

I see the navy black midwinter midnight, broken by the ugly, faithful streetlights.

For a second I hope that I am seeing a star but alas, it flickers and I am reminded of the fact that the air is too polluted to see any form of beauty past the blues, reds and purples of the five o clock sky.

I’m consumed by doubt that the people that I love really love me and I force myself to replace it with the feel of ice cold glass on my cheek. It’s smoothness and smudges disgust me more than my own feelings and I am calm once again.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Love

Your love is like a white rose Pretty on paper but barely ever makes it past a bud Because we live in England and the weather isn’t consistent enough To properly grow the national flower of the country I begrudgingly call home Your love is like my poems Charged by hormones and pathetic inclinations Fleeting, unwritten, until something vaguely interesting happens Because it’s lovely to say pretty phrases to comfort a soul who’s light is softly flickering out But it’s easy to forget such feelings when you don’t want them Your love is like a Shakespeare play Rehearsed, pretended, to fanciful applause Detested and mistaken often but viewed by some dreamers as the most beautiful thing in the world But I am a realist who respects the debatable nature of it’s origin And more often regards it as a masterpiece of fraud and lies But still gives a standing ovation

I’m not hugely proud of this but I quite like the metaphors tbh.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Parody?

The grey fleece blanket overhead

A rip - a tear in the dark sky -

Snow. You smile.

The weeping willow stands alone

Beside us in our grief

And sheds a tear

I’m pretty sure I wrote this as a joke in the back of my book with Lauren Fisher. I tried to stick over it, and the remains of the attached attempt at covering my shame linger on the shameful page BUT you know what? I wrote it. It’s going on here,

Of course the snow bit was about Molly.

The second verse was almost definitely just me making a mockery of the poem Neutral Tones or Winter Swans or something

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Hello! Yellow!

Numb. A blinding abyss of everything. Ex Nihlo - ‘out of nothing’. A paradise of all and none. Glistening white surrounds me, a blanket of snow upon the black earth. Sunlight burns my frozen cheeks. Frostbitten hands, gleaming eyes.

I am alone. The snow is a mirror. Reflecting the glistening rays of the determined sunshine. Reflecting the ice, the isolation running through my mind. My lungs are filled with daggers as the frozen air pierces through me; I feel nothing.

With a sharp exhale; I create a mirage of company, a friendly face amongst a solitary sky. She asks how my day is. I can’t remember. Her smile dissipates into the frosty air.

I don't even know what this is, I found it in the back of my second GCSE English book. I’m not sure what the prompt was, I think it was like, isolation or something?

I wonder if I can actually write things now that I’m more happy. I think you could kinda tell in the piece I did for my exam that it’s less focused on the character and more on the people around them and the observations and stuff and I think that shows how much different I am now really.

I didn't have enough writing to do an effective title, so I’ve just named it after what i found on the page:

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Lanyon’s Diary

I am afraid that this may be my last entry into this wretched book. I never dreamed that I would go back to my old ways of explaining the most mundane details of my life but alas, it is a special occasion; my last testament! The last passage in my own narrative. It is ironic that this should be my ultimate entry. An entry of unsteady hand written by a changed man, overcome with the uneasy qualms of these, my last days. Yes, my last days in this Godless world, plagued by the greatest enlightenment; the absence of light. The darkness that fills my mind, my body, my corrupted spirit. My once faint skepticism has become an absence of belief.

I simply cannot make any sense of it - of Jekyll, my old friend, my hearty companion being transformed, devolved into a murderer, a beast with the devil in his eye at the hands of such a Satanic concoction. The potion, transformed from blood red to a faint mellow green, as Hyde into Jekyll, bubbling, boiling and effervescing to turn to turn monster into man.

I could not have possibly dreamt that I would ever experience such unscientific sacrilege, yet I am amazed, awestruck by Jekyll’s discoveries. Never could I have dreamt that on that biting, harsh winter’s night of January I would receive the envelope that has sealed my fate, as much as the postman could never have dreamt that his delivery would end in my demise. But alas, my fate is sealed, as was the letter, with the blood red seal of doctor Henry Jekyll. The deed is done. His deed. My callous murder, the grim reaper’s icy grip ever tightening around my throat, awaiting fulfilment. But who is to blame? Is it my doing? A suicide? Or is it the careful plot of a monstrous serpent, the plan of my quietus?

It is in these, my final moments that I begin to face my conclusion. I have witnesses the face of death; the twisted grimace of the devil in the eye of the beast: Hyde. I fear the ever-closer judgement, for I have witnessed such blasphemies even the Lord could not forgive.

I am amazed, aghast at the discovery of the mortifying alchemy which has sentenced me to this end. I have left behind all that I know, all that I have learnt; I have abandoned the natural law, as if I have been forced to forget how to breathe. I fear - no, I am sure that the two eventualities have a shared outcome.

I see death reach into his pocket, trifling with his key, the door creaking in the wind. I await my entry.

So we had to write a diary entry as Lanyon describing how Jekyll’s transformation affected him. I can’t say I love it, but honestly, not that bad! I think it’s the second highest score I’ve had on any of my pieces.

I’ve realised that I’m writing this stuff up on here so that my future kids can see it and god, I hate myself.

But kids, if you’re reading this, I hope you find this vaguely interesting.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

White

Everything is white. A pure, monotone paradise of nothingness. The fiery chill pierces under my skin and shakes me to the very core. I am in the midst of the battle between succumbing to the chill of the winds and staying firm to enjoy the wintery nothing; I am calm.

The snow crunches beneath my feet - each snowflake an artist, playing in the orchestra of never-ending winter. I can see the bleak white sun through the clouds, persisting in attempt to melt away the chill, yet my symphony remains. It gives a weak smile; sun rays piercing through the air, an acknowledgement of defeat, yet it hopelessly continues.

An icy lick of wind touches my face and seeps right through into my skin, sinking in. And it sinks in. Is this my galaxy? Will I ever return to earth? Would anyone hear me scream? I prise open my lips, and before I can utter a syllable, I am once again confronted by an icy wind, all the while taunted by the snow, like the screech of violins, like nails on a chalkboard, like a child’s scream.

Tranquility. I am once again shocked into my reasonable world, where snow doesn’t scream. But it taunts. The ever-present cackle at my ever-present misfortune. I miss home. I miss the sounds of the pavement, and sirens, and people. I miss the greyish sludge of England, where sherbet snow is a silver-screen fantasy and the huskies are collared, walked in public parks

Their grey-black fur is a relief to my eyes, struck with the icy blindness of this beautiful wasteland. I can’t see where I’m going, but I’m not convinced I’m really moving. Yes! A treadmill. I walk and I walk, I brace the chill, I try my best to stay upright but I make no advance; no closer or further away from the starting point.

I take my hand out of my fur-lined glove in a desperate attempt to feel something other than cold. I brush my brittle fingers across the blanket of white and instantly regret it. My glove feels warmer than before, like a gauntlet in my suit of armour, protecting me from enemy advances.

I stop. The air is still. The only sound I can hear is the panting of the dogs and I silently apologise for all the work they have to do. I am numb. No longer cold, no longer desperate. This moment in time is every moment of all time. I am blind to what lies beyond this sheet, this blindfold, this picture perfect image of a heaven, this blank page. My thoughts all turn to colours, and every one of them is white. Everything. White.

This is the thing I’ve written that’s had the best marks and I think it’s my second fave. I was one mark off full marks and I kind of got annoyed about it then I stepped back and was like - why?

To be honest, it was a stupid reason to lose a mark (she said I needed an ‘and’ instead of a comma between collared and walked).

I’m still proud though.

All my writing contains an extistential crisis, and if that doesn’t say something about me I don’t know what does.

[oeuvrelydramatic]

To Drown

I am wearing my yellow sundress. It’s cold. I’m freezing. The red flush has escaped my cheeks and I’m white as the sheet upon which I leave you these words. My dress is damp, but it’s what you’d want. You always said it brought out the blue in my eyes. You said my eyes were like the sea. The sea, my greatest enemy in the war upon my life. You will never see me in my sundress again, but I can hear your words; ‘beautiful, my love’. The words, like a hymn of peace unto my freezing mind ring through me. I shall die beautiful.

Father said that I should leave first. He insisted. ‘I can’t let you go’, he said. ‘I can’t let you die’. But their aren’t enough boats. Funny, that. The largest ocean liner of our day and there’s not enough space for the right amount of boats.

My lipstick has smudged with the brush of the waves. You liked my lipstick. You always have, but I’m afraid I cannot reapply it, for my hands are too numb. My body has grown accustomed to the cold now. It shall forever be suspended by the grip of the icy waves and the salty swish of the sea.

I am alone, rocking along with the sway of the ship, but I cannot let this deter me. I must die with a smile, putting on a show, for this is how I will be set in stone, immortalised. A smile, shrouded by the veil of death.

Voices pour through the cracks in my door. I listen intently, waiting to hear you tell me it will be okay; but I don’t hear you. I hear the endless chorus of babies crying and children screaming and mothers screeching. The chorus of death. It pierces through me as I envisage you crying over an empty grave. The sounds become nothingness. I am surrounded by silence.

The distant hum of a child’s cry makes me wish that we could have had one of our own, but alas we have not even married. I face a new wedding now. The groom awaits me, it’s icy peaks tormenting me as I draw closer to it. I am to be baptised by the waters, making an eternal covenant of permanent silence.

I walk down the aisle in my yellow sundress, adorned with a smile and my smudged lipstick to a fate I cannot undo; a fate without you.

This was meant to be a piece based on the Titanic and it’s sooooo bad it was painful to type up. It was the second piece I wrote in year 10 and it’s okay really but I’m not a fan.

It’s really overdramatic and I’m not very happy with it really but I wrote it and so I gotta put it on here

[oeuvrelydramatic]

Scarlet Wedding

White. A white, flowing dress - anticipation woven into every fibre; a tapestry of excitement, tears, doubt - fear.

A white rose, carefully chosen from a selection of flowers to remain as a symbol in each picture and memory of the day. A white shirt - immaculate, careful, muted. Jealousy ringing through each button on his jacket for he knows that this moment is meant to be hers, but he can’t help but covet the glory of the hour.

The gold of her necklace, the gold of his tie pin, the gold of their promise - devotion, it’s tarnished. A poison infecting their bond, the band around her finger appears to be perfect.

But upon inspection, one could see the imperfection. The crack in the looking glass reflecting their love, reflecting their fear.

The smell of the aftershave conceals the whiskey that he promised was just for his nerves. It was the same whiskey that told him each time she’d come home late that she didn’t really love him, yet her hands trembled with excitement to return. Until the whiskey told him more than she did, and her hands now trembled with fear.

Fear lingered in the room, its icy grip tightening around her lungs, speeding her breathing to a pace that her maid of honour said was only natural for a bride. She was happy - and scared. Each sense felt new; the taste of being his wife stuck in her throat, the sound of the bells declaring their promise, the smoothness of his lips.

He loved her - he promised. His twisted grin was a grin either way and it was all just nerves, just love.

White. Her white face drained of every emotion, every flush of redness lost to love. The white note, written smoothly, calmly, planned meticulously, though each perfect cursive letter pleaded for forgiveness. His motive, his passion, the whiskey, a puzzle - yet to be solved by a team of forensic investigators, detectives, policemen - the good men.

The blood stained dress was no longer waiting to waltz down the aisle and declare love. The blood stained rose held no loving memories, but stood as a witness to the things he had done. The blood stained shirt screamed with horror and delight. Each scarlet splatter was a declaration, a declaration that now, and only now, the moment was his.

She waits in anticipation for the veil to be lifted. She waits to see his ring displaced in shame. She waits to see a single tear fall from his stone cold, warm brown eyes. He grins - excitement, tears, doubt - fear.

I wrote this in a lesson and the prompt was like to write about something that’s not what it seems. I thought it was super super cringey however after rereading it I don’t think it’s that bad.