Herring House: Stories and Other Writing

  I was waking by the side of the Thames when I saw a man collecting mud in buckets. I asked what he was doing. And he said he was doing art with it – and asked me if I would help him back to his workshop as the buckets were heavy.   I said yes, and as we were walking back, I asked him when he started making art out of mud. ‘About 20 years ago,’ he said he’d done hundreds of pieces using mud. After about twenty minutes we reached his studio which was a rundown building in the back streets of London. I walked through the broken door into a room with white boards covering the brick walls and sheets covered the floor with dried mud. When we put the buckets down, he asked me if I wanted to try it. He passed me some overalls, gloves and a mask and I started out on a small board, drawing with the mud.   It was really relaxing which surprised me because I am not the best at drawing, but when I’d finished, he came over and asked me to take a step back and look at what I h...

  The table  that the blank white pieces of paper rest on that I can feel as my hand slides over the cold surface. The flowing lines of the tree that lived and reproduced on the surface is cold and reflects the light streaming  through the window. People walking past in silence the traffic drownuing them out. Do they notice me?  No I think not. But life isn't all about me. It is all about life on this little planet we live on  in the universe. Heather

Chloe was 19 years old and studying at Juilliard Ballet Dance School in New York City. She’s danced since she was four years old, her mother Alice, was a primary school teacher and Ted, her father was a piano teacher. Chloe was an only child, her family were quite well off, loving and encouraging. They cherished Chloe and supported her dreams. As a small child Chloe loved to dance around in fairy costumes and pretend to be a ballet dancer. She was never shy, but a lively, outgoing child. They lived on the edge of a big city on a quiet street where many families had settled to raise their children away from the hustle of the city. Chloe had a best friend from the age of six. Her name was Holly and she had a little pony, Jess, a happy go lucky Arab cross. The two girls had a happy childhood, one loving ponies and the other loving dancing and the ballet. It was a cold Friday morning in February and started off like any other day in Chloe’s life when she received an urgent call a...

  Gripping the bricks with all my strength, my joints within my body ache with a burning desire. A few more struggling moments until I reach the top of the watchtower knowing I am within reach of this small but achievable moment of today.  The struggle of pushing my body to its limit, the overwhelming desire flowing within my veins is achieved. I stand up panting, slowly lift my head , blinking and regathering my thoughts before looking out across the ocean. The cold breeze gently caressing my skin and I take one look at the sun rising above it and close my eyes and say - 'It was worth it.' Leia ***   Looking out of the window, being above the people, traffic, houses and trees, I could see for miles. Breathing in deeply the smell of the room, the dust, the mildew in the corner, the age of the tower.  The watchtower had been in the town for generations, in my family. My Grandpa would tell stories of how he would watch for planes in the war. But today, I just get ...

Last week I had a long day. The night had been cold and wet.  I mean it is the UK what else did I expect/  But it was time to move on. I picked ip my stuff and the tent. Looked back at the graveyard, took a quick photo. It was hard to see cause of my tremors. But I walked away, thinking... I will never come back. H  

  I'm in a boat to Amsterdam. I'm running away again. Somewhere familiar, somewhere I feel safe but far enough away that I'm not worried about being found.  I've been here before time and time again but this time it feels different. This time, I'm not excited, as such I'm really taking in my surroundings.  The cold, barren ocean, it's never bloody sunny on these trips. It feels like the price of solitude.  The old hot tubs still there, it's always a lone guy, they're bloody bonkers.  I always miss England until I get to Holland. I never miss England on a plane, why's that? I guess I have more time to think on here.  I've just remembered the chaos I caused the last time I was on board this thing. I wonder if they remember? Better be on my best behaviour, the cost of being anywhere familiar. At least I'm not trapped on a bloody plane. At least I can smoke, at least I can walk. Who gives a fuck! What are they going to do? Throw me off the bo...