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Scottish Charity Register No. SC043760

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Getting creative

October 01 2023

Creative writing and poetry taking in a range of themes and settings, from Chris Bird, Tracey Charrier and David Wishart

She is gone
by David Wishart

Describe me a pictureIn a bending circling line
That tells me what I already knew
But would not could not say
Before Christmas
That I was thine
And you were mine
Together in glass of wine warmed pain
Decanter of blue
Sweet red sweet blue
Sweet red sweet blue
Yet could not would not say

The Shining Golden Star
by Tracey Charrier

I went for a walk in the street one night and looked up at the dark blue sky,
It was ever so bright, the power it had felt very warm and not loose, or tight.

I looked up at it and it made me feel so special because the way it was so alight it looked like a golden star inside of me. It was like a lovely golden star.

When I went home it stayed in me that feeling all I had to do, was go out and look up at the sky and see that gold star, then I knew that I started healing. To stop me crying.

Step by step
by Chris Bird

The crowd surged.
Splitting into two banks of figures the mass of people swept along the pavements.
Reflections of the huge drift of faces carried to the windows of shops and cafes.
Every cafe was full, each seat occupied.
Frenetic movements rushed headlong from doorway to doorway.
Motorbikes and cars screeched and groaned from congested roads.
Buses stalled packed full of stern faces.
Lines of figures emerged from alleys and backstreets funnelling into central plazas and squares.
Balconies on the tall blocks were full of people looking across the skyline.
Many apartment rooftops were also full of people crouching beside ramshackle tents and cardboard boxes.
The parks were no different.
From the branches of trees crows watched with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
Banks of commuters, beggars, students, housewives and workers moved along grey paths.
Street cats elected to leap onto low branches to escape the trudge of feet on stone pavements.
At the same time radio voices seeped into the walls and floors of the houses and apartments of the city.
Words swirled upward from mechanical tones and expressions.
“Amnesty Saviour Machine,” hissed a fading voice beside me.
I waited uncertainly.
“Religious relapse rat gang,” whispered a distant voice.
As soon as this wavering voice blurred into silence another took its place.
“Viciously inbred united,” hissed a voice.
I let the voice roll out pointlessly.
It fragmented.
Waking up in the park my sleeping bag was creased and vaguely damp.
I looked over at the small, bedraggled tent beside me where my 'friends' slept.
They were silent.
I checked my cigarette packet but of course it was empty.
In the distance crows screeched at one another with obvious irritation.
“They sound like junkies…” l thought to myself.