Kerflop by Cramlington Young Writers

Kerflop.

A collection of work from the Cramlington Young Writers

This anthology was created in May 2019 by the Cramlington Young Writers Group.

The Cramlington Young Writers Group is part of New Writing North’s network of writing groups for young people aged 12–19.

Copyright with the authors, 2019.

Introduction by Group Leader Danielle I wanted to celebrate the wild and wonderful work created over the past year by the Cramlington Young Writers. Each week they go above and beyond to create stimulating and imaginative pieces of writing, and it feels they have so much work that it is often hard to share everything. So hopefully this anthology can be a keepsake and a reminder of our past year together, as well as a celebration of some of their best pieces of work.

An Ode to Love Songs Love songs are not good at expressing what love is. They just romanticise impossible things, making me cry. If I were to write a love song...it definitely wouldn't exist. Music is very very clichĂŠd and depressing.

An Ode to 'Ow' Love is not a perfect dream. It is annoying. Love can hurt forever. Ow. This is my favourite dream, pretending it isn't irritating, but love can destroy.

Ow. Not perfect to us sitting down. Ow.

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The Lock And Key Method

By Lilly Hope My mother's a locksmith – she built a key that fits perfectly and unlocks my potential to be me. She will always have a key.

I gave my sister the spare when I was small, but her key opens a different lock. Hers opens the wide smiles, heavy-set minds and all the rainy days spent watching Disney. We will always share a key.

I gave him a key far too soon, falling into comfort too quick to comprehend, spending the weeks away from home. But he became clumsy and I had to change my locks for someone else.

However I have been told I still have his key.

The year I changed my locks I found that I use a different key to most. My lock isn't opened by Adidas-clad lads playing footy on the weekends.

It’s opened by hushed giggles and holding hands in public as a small revolt against the norm.

She has a key but keeps it far from home. We swapped keys quite early on but I'm sure she'll have it for a while. My lock patiently waits for the Saturdays spent huddled in watching Netflix, laughing about nothing funny. I hold onto her key tightly.

I lost my key but I'm still looking for it. I keep finding parts of it in random places slowly building it back up. But I don’t mind, for now I'll borrow someone else's.

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Landon’s Letters

By Rachael Moralee Hey Spidey-Girl, So…how’ve you been?

I’m hoping you read this, I had one heck of a job fitting it through your door so it may be a little crumpled.

I should’ve probably texted you this but I’m going back to Illinois this weekend, catch up with Mom, all that stuff. So I won’t see you when you’re back from Northumberland (think I spelt that right). “Geordie Town”. Whatever you call it.

I’m rambling.

Anyway…there was something I wanted to tell you, to your face, but you’re…not here…

So I’m writing to you. Because you’re classy. And I like that.

Anyway…letter. To tell you something. And I’m gonna tell you what that something is. It’s not that I’m leaving for the weekend ‘cos I already said that.

Ashaad said this was a good idea, I hate him. Have I told you that, Spidey?

I’ve missed calling you that. I’ve missed you. Well, I still do. I miss you.

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Geordie Town sounds so far away when you talk about it. Your eyes light up when you do, have I told you that? That weird hill that looks like a naked girl, that Newcastle place that you compared with New York but it’s nothing like New York. All the stories about going out with your friends, your family trips to Edinburgh (which is really pretty, I googled it) and that dog show that I wanna take you to. Your eyes glow when you tell me these stories, and I’m like a five year old at story-time asking “What’s next?”

But yeah, I miss you. I miss waking up to you making Nutella waffles and dancing to Westlife like nobody’s watching. I miss how embarrassed you get when I catch you singing along to I’m In Love With My Car in the shower, even though you know I hate that song.

I miss your laugh. My god, your laugh. You’re the only person who laughs at my dad jokes, you know?

Unless you’re only laughing cos’ they’re bad? Don’t tell me the real reason, I like the attention.

I’m kinda glad we’ve had this little space apart, it’s given me thinking time. You said that’s good and you’re right, as always. It’s made me realise: you’re the best roommate ever, bestest friend I’ve had and the best Geordie person (only Geordie person) I’ve met. I’m glad I met you.

But what am I saying? This is important. This thing I have to tell you is important. And I couldn’t say this to your face cos’...I’m a coward.

There, I said it, I’m a coward. I can’t say the stuff that I want to because I’m a cowardly, awkward freak.

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Now, I know you’ll disagree with that, but hear me out.

I’ve been a horrible person. I shut you out. I’ve lied to you. I’ve hurt you. I did it all. And I’m so sorry.

Truth is, I’m terrible when it comes to admitting things, like when I had to admit to Jymm that his shirt looked awful that day. Or when I had to admit that I was a bit hard on everyone in show week. But I was stressed! Directors are always stressed in show week! But that’s no excuse, and that’s part of my problem. Excuses; if there are any, I’m using them.

I've come up with countless excuses for not being able to talk to you. I made them at the start of this damn letter.

I’m rambling, I know.

Look. I saw you the other day. With him… I don’t know if you’re still talking, but…

Okay I’m gonna say it. I don’t like him. There.

He’s horrible, and you go running back to him regardless, even though you know the things he’s done are wrong. Did you forget what he called you in November? I don’t. But you’re oblivious to that and you don’t care about that, do you? Hell, if he slept with someone else you’ll go back, because you’re so gullible! Like me, yeah, just like me.

I’ve had a bad day. You were right, again. My girlfriend is a horrible person. Was. Well, she still is a horrible person, but she was my girlfriend. I should’ve just said ex.

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Okay, I’m running out of space now. So here it is, right here right now. I’ll tell you what I’ve been hiding...

I care about you.

I love you.

I’ve loved you for almost a year.

I can’t do this...

I’m rambling.

Well, whatever, you get my drift.

Can’t wait to see you when I’m back from Illinois. I’ll give Jekyll and Hyde extra ear scratches from you.

Catch ya on the flip side, Landon

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The Florist

By Aimee Parker The little notes I write for clients make my job bearable, at least during the quiet hours when noone comes in. Lately, those quiet hours are turning into quiet days; maybe moving to online ordering wasn’t the best idea for my social interaction. I miss the familiar sound of the bell tinkling as someone tries to force the old wooden door open, just to find that it sticks halfway, causing them to kind of shimmy inside, their feet shuffling sideways as they huff and puff begrudgingly.

So now, I spend the time that I’m not out on deliveries carefully constructing client cards, leaving well wishes and the likes to make their days a little bit brighter. Although I never see the cards being read, I like to imagine the small smiles that creep up the client’s lips as their eyes flit over my words.

Perhaps they need the message and the kindness; maybe the flowers are for a funeral of a loved one, or even for an anniversary, giving them comfort and confidence in tough or joyful times. It’s kind of like being a superhero – knowing your work will make a difference to the lives of the public, but having to face the fact that you’ll never receive acknowledgement for your acts of kindness. That’s how I like to think about it, anyway.

Well, I used to think like that, until one day I received a card myself, the red paper delicately painted with the cursive ink of a silver pen. It must have been slipped in with the post that morning, I hadn’t noticed it between the white envelopes with ‘FINAL NOTICE’ printed on the front. The lack of customers

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in the shop coincidentally came with a lack of money too, and my pockets were definitely screaming at me, and I guess now the banks were too. I don’t think I found it until lunch time, when I took a break from the empty store front, to eat in the even emptier stock room; the smell of preservative and pesticides still burning the inside of my nose, despite the fact that I’ve worked here for about two years now.

Sitting down to take a bite from my sandwich, which had unfortunately been squashed by the box of lilies on the backseat of my car, I began to sort through the stack of letters and bills from that morning.

The first few envelopes were tossed to the side with a guilty sense of fear and the knowing that I would eventually have to open them or face the bailiffs at my shop door. Hell, I would take anyone in the shop at this point, just give me someone to talk to! There was a letter from my sister too; she was almost ten years older than me, married with two kids and a full-time professor at the local university, but she always made time for little old me. The paper smelled like a well-worn house and the swirling looping letters reminded me of when I was younger, copying rows and rows of Mel’s handwriting in an attempt to produce anything close to the practical perfection of her words. She wished me well, as she always did, and promised that she would get around to visiting me soon, although she had said the same thing in the last four letters. I smiled, reading the way she had signed the letter, writing her husband and children’s names alongside her own, as well as drawing a small pawprint next to the name of their dog, Jellybean.

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It wasn’t until I eventually tucked her letter into my bag that I noticed the red corner of card poking out from underneath the next unopened envelope.

It was thin and neatly-cut, with jagged italic letters like cat-scratches running on the paper as though a silver stream was flooding the red ground beneath it.

At first, I fumbled over the words, not really reading them, just looking at the small sheet of paper in my hands in disbelief. Someone had taken the time to write a card back to me. Someone was my superhero.

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Hidden Love

By Lilly Hope "Being with me will only bring you trouble."

She spoke in a dangerous, low tone.

"I'm willing to get caught."

Her fingers intertwined with mine as we lay in the basement. My head rested on her chest, our calm breath syncopated. Nights with her felt like a lifetime but always far too quick. I felt myself drifting, her other hand softly twirled within my hair, slowly pulling me till our next lifetime.

I awoke with a start, the abbey bells ringing throughout the grounds, her arms still wrapped around me. Drops of morning sunlight spilled through the window, casting sheets of colour over her pale skin. The contrast was drastic, her beauty timeless. A grand clock towered in the corner of the room. I internally cursed myself, I didn't want to disturb her but I had no choice. A small kiss upon her temple, letting her stir before shaking her slightly.

"It’s time to get up my love, we have to get to vigils!"

Her eyes fluttered open before widening, realising the situation. Her grace soon turned to flapping around the room hurriedly looking for her clothes.

I couldn't help but blush as I watched her, she was gorgeous. The way she effortlessly pushed her ebony hair into a messy bun as she smiled over to me, her slender fingers wrapped so perfectly around my waist, pulling me out of bed into a gentle embrace, breath lingering for a second before pulling away.

She left with quick whisperings of infatuation, leaving me to put myself together. The room fell quiet. The heavy ticks of the clock were all to be heard as I slipped on my dress, leaving the room without a trace, making sure to lock it behind me.

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Haikus

By Lily Rintoul Most girls are pretty Most are compared to flowers Perfect but fleeting All love is fleeting Nothing ever lasts for long Everything ends

The Order

By Aimee Parker Rolling the sleeves of my shirt up to look at my watch, I swore under my breath; fifteen minutes late and still not there. I hurried from the driver’s seat of the van, hurling the heavy back doors open and rifling through the deliveries to find the small bunch of roses tucked carefully in the corner. I don’t usually do such small deliveries, and with good reason too, but for some reason the occasionally nice part of my brain decided to make my life harder by being kind. The man on the phone had seemed nervous and stuttery, apologising for ringing just to order a bunch of roses, but all the shops were closed for the holidays, except me of course. Perhaps I felt sorry for him, or just entertained by his continued use of the word ‘sorry’ four times a sentence, but whatever it was made me pay extra attention to the arrangement of the roses in the bunch and add little doodles of flowers onto the client card, wishing the receiver of the flowers a life of love and endless happiness.

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An Ode to Gay Penguins The trees looked greener, the sky looked more blue than everything that is the most blue. It seemed perfect, but nobody was feeling happy. They were mesmerised by gay penguins! We liked the gay penguins, they satisfied us greatly!

An Ode to Hair I hate you, but I love you. You are a complete idiot.

I hate that you are hairy and small. I am also hairy, but tall...so I can’t have a big hairless child with hair.

Unfortunately we're doomed to love each other always and forever, amen.

An Ode to Dancing The lights of the city shone bright as we danced on the boardwalk towards the end of the night. We were forever dancing, silently, no music, no talking.

Perfect. My eyes were locked, mesmerised by theirs.

Rain started pouring, soaking us together. That was perfect.

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The Treatment

By Megan MacInnes Ominous shadows danced over the smouldering ruins of the academy. I had always thought the old football academy was pointless but to blow it up? That's a part of our history. Gone. The protesters will have a field day with this. When the government do something, they do it big. The academy looks like a comet has hit it. Smashed glass is all over the ground from the huge windows which were at least triple my size in height. The bricks have been crushed to a dusty powder and fat crows are flapping around hunting for scraps of food, screeching loudly.

I often wonder if humans would be happier if The Treatment hadn't been created because there's literally no point to life anymore. If you are granted permission, you aren't going to die so you have plenty of time to mess up again and again. Do loads of dangerous s**t but never learn of the consequences.

Where will the human race be in 100 years? Not here I hope. Also, in 100 years I very much doubt that anyone will remember me. In fact I don't want them to.

People always try to dig into my past as a way to understand me. If you wanna learn about me, talk to me right now about who I am right now. Not that anyone would be brave enough. Don't try and make excuses for me or try to think how I think so that it will get you money and power. It's not worth it. I'm so messed up but I try to hide it when I'm all dressed up at parties. I'm sorry. And that's one of the only notfake things I've ever said. I feel like the whole world is laughing as I cry and they are watching me fail. Over and over again.

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Alfie

By Oliver Price Once she had approached the crime scene, Alex quickly made her way over to Alfie, who was hunched over the corpse, hands in his pockets and cigarette hanging out of his mouth, threaded between his teeth. “Your letter wasn’t very clear, Alfie.” Alfie shot up and quickly turned around to face his boss.

Alfie’s appearance was remarkably unremarkable.

Short black hair, square glasses, and an unkempt moustache with a dark line of stubble curved around his jaw. His work attire consisted of a rotation of dress shirts, a single grey overcoat and black slip-on shoes. Despite the clothes he wore, little care had been taken to look professional, and he still didn’t know how to iron his shirts.

“What do you mean?” He questioned sternly, taking offence at the statement.

“Well for a start you missed the small detail that the person who’d been stabbed was a horse.”

“But you said to keep letters ‘clear and succinct’, in your own words! Only keep in the key details!”

“Would you not consider the species of the victim to be a clear detail, Alfie?” Alfie paused, not because he was putting together a retort, but because he knew he had nothing to say. He turned back and buried his hands deeper in his pockets.

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‘As they spoke slowly and clearly…’

By Oliver Price As they spoke slowly and clearly, their words became a blur to me. There was something different about them that I hadn’t noticed before. I had memorised the melody and was able to follow along if I wanted to. I didn’t want to today, but the way those dulcet tones masked the chilling silence was always welcome, and the glow that enveloped the room, or at least tried to, provided a warmth that helped settle my nerves, purely because of the familiarity and sense of homeliness it brought. Every time there was a lull in her soliloquy the piercing static would rattle around my eardrums; it was the backing track to the overgrowing cacophony that began to take over. I lost the melody and followed the static. Just the static and only the static, and then everything else fell away. I turned off the television.

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The Basement

By Megan Douglas "Don't worry, there are no monsters. Daddy keeps them all in the basement!"

I froze at Emily's words. Her chubby fingers tapped at my arm as soon as she realised I'd stopped smoothing her blanket out. "Maya? Don't worry, they aren't that scary. Just do what my daddy says and don't go in the basement."

I let out a nervous laugh as I returned to tucking her in.

"Will do. Night, Em." My voice betrayed the calm act I'd been trying to keep up. When she didn't reply, I slipped out of the room as quietly as I could.

The floorboards creaked under my feet as I raced down the stairs as quickly as I could, feeling like I had stepped out of Emily's bedroom and straight into a cheap horror movie set. Hell, I was sure I could even feel someone watching me – even though Emily and I were the only ones in the house.

"Daddy keeps them all in the basement?" I muttered in an attempt to distract myself, taking a brief glance down the hallway to make sure I was alone. My gaze landed on the staircase that I had been told led to that very room.

And I found myself unable to tear my eyes away.

I tried to imagine what was behind the door, my mind flooding with the sort of gruesome beasts I used to make up when I was Emily's age.

I shook my head, almost laughing at my foolishness.

I'd spent too much time with Em, her crazy imagination had just started to rub off on me.

That had to be it, there were no monsters in the basement. Monsters weren't real. I was old enough to know that.

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Stuffed Animals

By Amy Langdown She lies flat on her bed, the tension not letting her aching body relax enough to sink in. Thoughts that she knows make no sense cascade down her cheeks in the form of tears that she doesn’t notice. She has her earphones in. They play slow and supposedly calming music that doesn’t seem to be able to do its job on half volume. She would turn it up all the way, but she’s scared that she’ll miss a call from downstairs if she does. Even her alone time is undercurrented with hyper-awareness of what goes on around her.

She tries to fall into the music, into the rising and falling melodies, into the swaying strings and rocking piano, but then something in the tune likens to a shout, so she takes out an earphone to check; this breaks her momentary calm and she realises that she has been holding her breath. She does the exercise she has been taught: four seconds inhaling, four seconds exhaling – to no end. She feels her chest tighten and her every muscle contract and hold tension from her toes to her scalp. She knows the feeling all too well. She knows it will go eventually but in the moment it seems to last an eternity. Her heart beats so fast and vigorous in her chest that it is all she can focus on. Her mouth is dry. She doesn’t know how long this lasts, but when she can finally breathe again, she sees the red crescent shapes carved into the top of her left hand - the ones that never really get the chance to heal because every time they do, they are disrupted. She reaches for one of her stuffed animals and holds it close to her chest.

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She never needed stuffed animals as a child. To her they were cute and cuddly, but not necessary. One day, when she was around eight, she simply decided that she didn’t need them at all and they were too childish; they went onto the top of her wardrobe and stayed there, gathering dust. When she was fifteen, the stuffed animals came back down from the wardrobe and became permanent tenets of her bed. There was never a time when she had needed comforting more. She would clutch onto them at night, when the thoughts she knew made no sense reared their heads – thriving in the dark hours.

She thought it was ironic really; when she was a child she was gifted many stuffed toys, but she didn’t need them then. She needed them most much later, when it became ‘weird’ for her to have them. She needed the comfort most when she was expected to be able to comfort herself. Now they sit on her bed as she dehydrates herself with salty, grief-filled tears. She grieves now, not for her grandma or her friend, but for the little girl that didn’t need stuffed animals or their comfort. She grieves for herself.

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