Riding To New York. flash fiction attempt.

"Sorry. There's nothing more we can do. You have three months to live. Is there anyone you'd like to call? You can use the phone in the waiting room for free.
Have you arranged someone to pick you up?"
I left. I didnt want to listen to his 'polite' jibber jabber. No theres no one to pick me up. My family moved. New York, New York.  Its not like I can just fly over. It costs thousands. Just grab a bike and go... Yes. Of course. I'll grab my bike and go. New York.

reading?

My favourite book is the perks of being a wallflower. I highly recommend this to anyone who hasn't read it. Its a coming of age story about a boy with anxiety and depression.
Just going to put it out there that my favourite poet is Simon Armitage and highly recommend any of his work. Wilfred Owen is also pretty great.

I need to read some short stories so if anyone can suggest anything that'd be great.

One small step for girl.

One small step for girl, one giant leap for
Toddler. Lunch is fine for some
But I must climb these stairs.
Its destiny.

These cheese and pickle sandwiches are poor.
There's art upstairs, you must come
See. I want to know whats there
We need to see.

Who cares about lunch? I'd rather explore.
For who knows what I'll become,
Staying here on this chair
Will not help me.

Its not far now
I hear it call.
It does not care
I may be small.
I know not how
Or why or what,
Just climb these stairs
It'll be forgot.
For I must see
And I must go
To near the sky
Not down below.
Its time to leave
Its time to see
I will be peeved
I need to flee.

Lilly is Pretty.

What can I say to her? Can I tell her

She’s cute, she’s pretty, beautiful? Lilly.

Would that be appreciated? Is that

Too forward? Will she friend-zone me? Does she

Like me? Does she just think I am a freak?

Does she want me to phone? She knows I can’t.

Does she even want me to text? You don’t

Give your number if you don’t want to text.

Do I say ‘hey’ or ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ or…?

Brain Tumour.

It baffles me. It baffles me that people still see death as a bad thing. Why? Why is it bad? We are born into this world, and one day it will stop. Everything will stop.

I tell people my Nan has a brain tumour. They react like they’re unaware of death and its inevitability. Expect me to burst into tears? No. I refuse to cry about something so natural. When I found out that her life was going to end in such a horrific way, yes, I was sad. I cried when I realised I would never see her again.

It’s not death that makes me cry. Death is natural. Death is a gift.

Knowing that I want to die. It has been 6 years. I do not know what has to be solved, what has to be fixed. All I know is that I’m great. Great at pretending, distracting myself from those thoughts. ‘depression is liveable’ I’ve convinced myself and told others.

All I know, we are tiny, insignificant bits of carbon, it does not matter what I say or what I do. My whole life will be long, and ‘happy’ and… long. There is nothing I can do that will last. I will live my years with anxiety and depression; with my constant pretence and distractions. I will revel in the knowledge that one day I am allowed to kiss that sweet kiss of death. The worms will eat me up, maggots will feast.

College

Library.
He has a distinguished walk; confidence. He doesn't push the library door, he touches it and it swoons. He walks straight past the shelves of books. Shakespeare? psh, please, he has no interest. Not today. He glazes over the sight of used computers. No emotion is shown. Everyone here has a different look. But not everyone is so happy to look in the mirror. We all, as girls who like boys, have a kind of strange attraction to this one. Confidence; the key.

cafe max.
The social hub. Table after table. Friendship, friendship. Don't let them crash. There are three places to buy food and drink. Each basically a replica of the other. Any irony? In a place where looking 'normal' is more unusual than having dyed hair and a pierced face. So original.

To be a writer?

When did you decide to write? The question for which authors so often have a funny anecdote, or a poignant memory, an uncle that sat down and gave an inspirational speech, a book that changed their whole world. My life has never been in order of epiphany. I have no memory of deciding I ever wanted to commit to anything, and actually follow through with it.

In primary school the teachers thought I was dyslexic. I was dragged out of my favourite lesson at the time, maths, to go and spell things they knew I couldn't spell. I had two English tutors outside of school while I was growing up. So supportive. I have a clear memory of when my mum told me to read more advanced books. I liked Mr Men far longer than any child should. I have always found it impossible to express myself vocally. My first love of language sprang from acting. I joined a drama class at the age of six and was there for eight years. I have always been passionate about music and fascinated by the power of great lyrics – since the age of about three. Since my early teens I've been interested in stand-up comedy and film. Also, because I've always found it difficult to interact with other people, I've been interested in psychology for as long as I remember.

I think of writing as something that just happens. It’s something I want to do. To be a writer you have to write. To be a musician you have to play music. To be an actor you have to act.

I have always recognised myself as a musician because of my love for music, but that is something I gave up because I no longer had the opportunity to play.

I have never recognised myself as a writer because I've always had a complicated relationship with writing. I do actively write a lot. I find that in life I am constantly bombarded with information and peoples’ opinions and my brain running round in circles thinking about everything. When I’m upset or struggling to say something, for me the only way to express myself is by writing. There’s times when I've had a long day, surrounded by people who won’t shut up my head filled with stress and worry. I will actively go and sit somewhere quiet. Somewhere away from everything. Somewhere nothing matters. My head is like a barrel completely filled with water which keeps pouring in. I never get to release any of this, the barrel is always full. There are very few people that I am comfortable in saying anything around. Writing is the only release I have found which works.

I am always thinking about the future and worrying about how I will actually pay for things and participate in life. I know that in an ideal world I would become an author. I also know that’s very unlikely, but one of that maters when I’m writing. There’s two different types. There’s, like this, when it’s difficult, it’s challenging and it’ll come across as forced. But, when I’m really writing my brain bubbles, and it all pours out of my pen. I’m no longer with any of this world. I no longer have any worries. I am watching another world, far away.