#120 Fun Run

I’d like to go back to when I was 10. I used to run. I used to run everywhere. I used to run like there was nothing else in the world. I used to run because that’s what I liked to do. Now, I still want to run, but it isn’t the same. I want to run from pressure or expectation. I want to run from myself. That kind of running doesn’t come as easy. It doesn’t end with red cheeks and a smile on my face. I can’t run anymore. Now is the time to stand up, to look ahead, to face what I don’t want to face.

And then, when I’ve done all that, maybe I can just run because it’s fun again.

Oops – plus I’ve written something else. 

I very nearly forgot to post a story tonight. Strictly speaking I missed a day, but as it was only just after midnight and I haven’t been to bed I don’t think that counts!

I’ve also written something different. Recently I was asked to write a review of an academic book called The Cambridge Companion to Literature and the Posthuman. It was a great experience and I’d like to thank Gavin Budge, one of my lecturers, for giving me the opportunity. I’m hoping to do a bit more of this in the future, but for now, here is the link to the review at the British Society for Literature and Science:

Review: The Cambridge Companion to Literature and the Posthuman

#118 Just Friends

It started with a few conversations, just chatting, just friends. Then it was something more, conversations – yes, friends – yes, but still more. We talked about the things that we wouldn’t, or couldn’t, say to anyone else. You knew me like no one else did, I knew you too.

Someone said to us, “You’re so in sync.” We were. We knew what the other one needed, we knew what they wanted, we knew when they were wrong. We could tell each other no. I think that’s the most important part.

We weren’t just friends for long, but we’ve never stopped being them. We’re still in sync, you still know me, I still know you. You’ll tell me no and I’ll tell you. We’re more than friends but I’m so pleased we are that too.

#116 My Box

It was such a little box, there, in the palm of my hand. If I wrapped my fingers round it, it was completely concealed within my fist, impossible to detect.

But then it grew.

I could no longer hold it in one hand so I held it in two, tight against my chest. I had to wrap it in words to stop anyone looking too close. Soon, even that wasn’t enough. I had to let it drop to the floor, unable to support it any longer. I put it behind my back, in part to hide it, but also to turn from it, to deny its existence or connection with me.

That’s when it consumed me.

And now I’m trapped inside this box that was once so small. I made it, I know. I helped it grow, shaped it, let it swallow me up. This is my box.