Week Twenty-Eight

Again continuing on from previous weeks…

The murderer pressed the ‘STOP’ bell on Malta Avenue, only 6 stops before hers. He stood up slowly, as if he didn’t want to look too eager to get to the front of the bus. She watched him closely. He didn’t seem like a murderer, from her limited knowledge of murderers. He seemed too ordinary. No tattoos, no creepy glasses or facial hair. She remembered that being what struck her when she saw him on the news.

Suddenly, everyone on the bus turned to the left, eyes glued to a Police crime scene at number 40.  The blue flashing lights bounced off the surrounding windows and flickered across the faces of the passengers, and stringy yellow crime tape crowned the ordinary-looking garden. This was probably the most exciting thing everyone would see today, and she could imagine them all going home to their wives and husbands and parents saying ‘Have you heard anything about what’s happened on Malta Avenue? Hundreds of police cars there there was!’.

As soon as the bus turned the corner onto Grape Crescent, the atmosphere on the bus settled a little, and she noticed that the murderer had sat back down again. When the bus fizzed to a halt, he didn’t get off and she could see that the driver looked confused in his rear-view mirror, waiting for a passenger to get off, but no one did. He drove on.


Week Twenty-Seven

Continuing on from last week…

After work, she got stuck behind some old man in the queue for the bus who was counting his fare out in pennies. The bus driver was visibly frustrated, his face fixed in an agitated frown as one-by-one the coins clinked into the money dish. She ran her index finger along the edge of the bus card until it made a dent, and then she made several more on her other fingers. The old man was almost there with the change, and was searching for just 20p more. A hand and an expensive watch from behind dipped round her, and tapped the old man on the shoulder.

The old man looked round nervously, as if he was used to being shouted at. The hand opened and presented a shiny 20p coin, and a low voice said: ‘there you go mate’. The man took it gratefully, and she looked around at the voice. It was him. There was a murderer at her back in a bus queue. Again, she wondered what the protocol for such an event was, but instead of making a fuss she swiped her bus card and sat down.

The murderer sat in front of her and she stared at the back of his head. His hair was dark and thick and styled, and in fact, she thought, he was quite handsome.

Week Twenty-Six

The man looked quite ordinary to her. Nothing like the hollowed-out, gap-toothed, empty shell of a man that everyone had seen on the television. But still, she was sure. This man was a murderer, and she was serving him coffee.

Apart from fattening up a bit, he seemed to have gained quite a bit more money since escaping prison. His wristwatch and shoes looked expensive, and his wallet looked healthily plump. She almost wanted to laugh at the fact that she was serving a mocha to a man who had once been the most wanted man in Britain. It seemed so ridiculous.

Her next thoughts were about what she should do next. Did she suddenly shout, announce it to the coffee shop? Or wait for him to sit down, then subtly call the police in the back?

What she actually did was stupid. She handed him his coffee, said ‘thank you, have a nice day’, and watched him walk straight out of the shop and down the high street.

Week Twenty-Four/Twenty-Five

I thought I should do two weeks in one as I will be away from a laptop next week.

The Fall

The ground flies upwards,

A flame of copper spice.

Puddled stones and leaves

meet my falling knees.


The grate of a graze wets my eyes.

Empty trees are masked with fog.

The colours of the swing swirl

like the Catherine wheel you showed me.


Your vast hand grasps mine,

My frozen fingers pierce you.

The air is so sharp and my knee screams,

but this hand is safe and warm.

Week Twenty-Two

Here is the second installment of the Goldilocks poetry sequence.


Letter to Goldilocks

Dear Girl,

We hope this reaches you.

We wanted to make clear

the damage you have done,

our anger and our fear.

On Thursday we were out

when you broke into our home.

You smashed our bathroom window

using next door’s garden gnome.


You left footprints, leaves and dirt,

filth you’d brought in from the street,

and ravaged all our cupboards,

to find something to eat.

Once finished with your porridge,

you destroyed a priceless chair,

a treasured family heirloom

which was beautiful and rare.


We were later shocked to find

that you used our baby’s bed.

You left hairs upon his pillow

and your grime clings to his spread.

You even had some time

to dye your hair blonde too,

leaving evidence in the sink

of a rather ghastly hue.


So, girl, we’d like to know

what your motivations were,

Mrs Bear can hardly sleep

for the fear of your return.

The Bears


Letter to the Bears


I broke into your house the other day.

I wanted to explain myself.

I don’t have a house of my own,

and yours looked so warm and light.

My home is the porch of the Chinese takeaway

where I sometimes get free dumplings,

but of course a girl can’t live on dumplings,

that’s why I ate your porridge.

I remembered the homely sludge,

and the steam curling in the air,

and I couldn’t resist, I’m sorry.

As for the chair, my legs ached with cold,

and I ignored the ‘fragile – DO NOT SIT’ post-it.

One day I will pay you back.

I hope I didn’t get the bed too dirty.

I tried my best to wash myself before I slept

but my skin is foul and I stink

like rotting fruit and old plaster casts.

I had a job interview today,

that was why I used your sink to dye my hair.

I didn’t get the job.

I was going to clean my mess, I promise I was,

but then you came back and I got scared.

So, if you want to find me,

I’ll be by the Chinese takeaway, blonde now.

Maybe I’ll go to prison,

and get a roof over my head.


Sorry again,


Week Twenty-One

This is the first part of a sequence of poems taking a different angle on the story of ‘Goldilocks and the Three Bears’.

Burglary on Forest Road leaves the Bear family ‘confused and devastated’

POLICE were called to Forest Road

earlier this week following reports of a burglary.

The suspected break-in occurred on Thursday

between the hours of 10am and 11am.

The burglar did not take anything of great value,

however the suspect caused substantial criminal damage

to a chair and a bed. According to witnesses,

the suspect was a young woman of slim build,

around 5’6”, with golden hair,

and dressed in ragged, dirty clothing.

The occupants of the house, the Bear family,

who were out for a walk at the time of the incident,

released a statement: ‘We are devastated that

this could happen in our neighbourhood,

which is filled with families.

The burglar only took some porridge,

however they caused irreparable damage to a chair

and broke a window to get in and out.

They left our home in a complete mess

which thoroughly upset our three-year-old child.

We are confused about her motivations

and want her to be caught

so we can find out why this happened to us.’

If you have any information in connection to the incident or believe you saw the suspect in the area around the time of the incident on Thursday please contact the police on 101.


Hair Dye Packet, evidence from the scene

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try our new ‘Golden Locks’ hair dye!

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using the latest enzyme-replacement technology,

counteracts damage as you dye

for that pearly gleam and colour pop!


Mrs Fox, Eyewitness

She was blonde or brunette,

– I’m colourblind, you see –

but she was a plain girl.

Dressed in rags, she was,

they were hanging off her

like the wings of a crow.

Filthy face, she had,

blotched with dirt from the streets

like she’d washed in newspaper.

She looked thin.

As slight as a dandelion seed,

like the wind could whip her away.

It’s sad isn’t it?

The homeless problem around here.

She was probably starving.

She was running from their house,

– what a lovely couple they are, eh? –

glass glittering in a stream behind her.