Daydream Girl – A Haibun

Yesterday is but today’s memory, and tomorrow is today’s dream.

Kahlil Gibra

They called her Daydream Girl.

Eyes, tucked away in the letters of books, spine crackled and binding frayed. She was music, tripping up over loose pavement stone in the hopes of digging out stories long ago buried in the sands of time.

Her hands were skeleton keys pushed into every lock on sunken chests pulled up from abandoned rib-cages. Took care not to hurt the crustaceans as she pulled them away mail-link by mail-link until only the under armour remained.

She poured laughter down my throat and burnt out my lungs with song. Left me bellowing misty dragons into the night. Ran my hands across the tempo of her chest and told me to dance with the beat.




They will not tell me where to find her again.

These words are brittle,

there is nothing of you here

and I am tired.


I wrote this piece and realised that it has a lot of similarities to last night/this morning’s piece Dreamer. It’s sort of interesting how the prompt lined up with that.


I’ve seen you pluck time

like plums

heavy and warm

from branches

out of our reach.

For you

past, present, future

all blend into one

and each moment lingers,

spreads across your face

like light creeping in

on lazy Sunday mornings.

I have followed you

through doorways unseen

down staircases dreamed

and across rivers summoned

in single breaths.

There is creation in your lips,

like those plumbs

you sow stones

that turn to seeds

grow into trees


taller than us both.

I have seen this universe

remade in your eyes.

 Jacek Yerka, 2011

 Jacek Yerka, 2011

A rather random little poem for Magpie Tales’ weekly writing prompt. I was going to write an Alice in Wonderland based story but decided to go with this instead. Let me know what you think.

If We Were Having Coffee

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that I’m on a Neil Gaiman binge again. I’ve got Smoke and Mirrors out and on the desk because the short stories rattling around in my head keep ping-ponging past the exits and I’m not entirely sure what they’re trying to say. There’s two deadlines now instead of one and I think, I might, just send off Little Red because I’ve been told that you just have to keep submitting until you find the right judge.

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that I’m submitted for the Nantwich Words & Music Festival but I’m not sure how I’ll do and every time I think about those poems whizzing off to someone else this coil of dread pools in my gut and really, I don’t want to think about it at all.

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that Darkened Daughter is sat untouched and that Headquarters was the plan for today but I didn’t quite get round to it and Before, I Was Dead is nothing like it was because I suddenly realised that all my recent short stories are conversations in a cafe somewhere without any real sense of time or place and honestly! That’s just no that interesting.

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that I’m meant to be writing a Guest Post but I don’t know what on. I keep checking the same email, hoping for more detail and doing these other bits and bobs and watching YouTube videos and staring at unfinished stories as if they might finish themselves by sheer force or will alone.

If we were having coffee I’d tell you that for the first time in my life I’m starting to feel like a real writer. Like I might actually be able to do this with some sense of style. Despite the fact that things seem a little all over the place at this specific moment in time.

Boundaries In The English Countryside

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Boundaries.”

After growing up in the countryside I found that my perception of boundaries wasn’t the same as everyone else when I went to university.

I had two close neighbours when living with my parents. The bungalow on the other side of the hedge and the farmhouse a quarter of a mile down the road. The rest of our neighbours were the people on the farms who’s fields bordered our own.

At university my flatmates didn’t agree to this definition of a neighbour. If someone was more than a mile away then they couldn’t possibly be your next door neighbour.

I got tired of trying to explain that in the country-side it just sort of worked that way.

Farming is an isolated occupations and you often find that rural commuIMG_0782nities are the ones where everyone knows everyone and if they don’t know you then they know your aunt, or you mum or you granddad.

The boundaries shift in the countryside and seem to become more blurred.

Where I live now they seem much more rigid and guarded.

Anyway. I was mooching around Twemlows this morning after staying the night with my parents and the theme for the Weekly Photo Prompt popped into my head. It was my parent’s garden fence that actually did it.

This poor bit of fencing has been tumbling down for years, but it started me thinking about how growing up in that house had shaped my ideas about boundaries.

There’s a paddock on the other side of the house and I can remember there being a stile that you had to clamber over in order to get into the field.

581478_644062698937517_1244216414_nThe normal occupants of this field were sheep, but eventually my mother decided that she wanted to divide the field in two and plant an orchard and a vegetable patch instead. The vegetable patch faded after a few years when interest and time waned, and instead the paddock became an overgrown wilderness for my sister and I to enjoy.

After marching through the wilds of the Ol’ Veg Patch, we braved the unknown of the Overgrown Garden and dug for treasure to smuggle back to the house.

There was a surprising amount of broken crockery in the garden and many a sunny day was spent trying to piece the fragments back together . I’ve sort of covered this before in Farm Archaeology, but hey ho. Wow, I’ve just checked and that post was over a year ago. I can’t believe it’s been that long.

Back onto the topic of boundaries. The only real one that my sister a1536599_10202916867827317_202151837_n.jpgnd I really had was the brook half way down the drive. This little stream of water marked the boundary between Ash and Higher Heath, but also the end of our free run. Granted that free run went for a quarter of a mile down the lane so it wasn’t as if we were short of space.

In summer we could go paddling but we could go no further without an adult.

For me it marked the end of safety and the start of real danger. The woods beyond were dark and shadowy and you didn’t know who you’d find in them. Even as an adult they still daunt me a little bit.

I suppose that while my sister and I had these physical boundaries, we never really had any creative ones. Our childhoods were ones of mud pies, digging for treasure and made up games that went on for days.

We were as free as you can get.