Biography
I am a terrible poet, so instead of poetry you'll usually find me writing short stories. Although you can read a poem of mine by going to this website: http://dogmatika.com/dm/writing_more.php?id=3103_0_7_20_M
I love reading the writing of: Thomas Hardy, Tove Jansson, Lorrie Moore, Carson McCullers, Anne Tyler and Flannery O'Connor. And my favourite books are: Far From the Madding Crowd, Dracula, The End of the Affair, The Member of the Wedding, The Summer Book and Victoria.
Samples
Some of my short stories can be found on my blog, it's a load of old nonsense, but thought out nonsense all the same. It'd be nice if you read some.
Here, have a sample:
Thank You for Paris
He has all these ideas. “We’ll go to Paris” he says. He’s picturing us walking along the Seine. His arm extends across my back and I feel his fingers run across the bumps of my spine. He is documenting each step we take. He is thinking about a photo album he saw in M&S, tan suede; its touch made his fingers feel delicate. We are in this album now. He has drawn hearts around our faces.
I have known him for about half an hour. We met in the queue at the cinema. I felt his breath on my neck, and it hung there like a tie. We have just shared our first kiss.
He is still romancing me in Paris. He is thinking about getting down on one knee when we reach the Eiffel Tower. There is a bulge in the top pocket of his jacket. I am trying to get as far away from him as possible, but he is designing my future and he has no plans for me to leave.
I am thinking about my ex-boyfriend. I am thinking about our first kiss. I am thinking about how in love we were. I am thinking about the last time we made love. I want to call him.
I am at the cinema. I go here to forget about my ex. I go here to be like someone else for a while. I sit in the dark on the back row. I’m on the seat farthest away from the aisle. I want to be alone.
He sits next to me. He jangles as he tries to get comfortable. He sounds like a charity tin as he does this. I want to shake him. I am looking at all the empty seats in the cinema. I am looking at him next to me.
I am not forgetting about my ex. I am resting my head against his chest and listening to him breathe. I feel alive when I am doing this; I feel like I belong to the real world.
The film is about to begin. He races through his popcorn as though there is some treasure at the bottom of the carton. There is nothing at the bottom of the carton. He pushes the arm rest back, the arm rest that is keeping me from him, the arm rest that is defining us as two separate people. I am feeling like that empty carton of popcorn. I am pinching myself. I am still in the cinema.
Thoughts of my ex fill my head. There is a couple sat in the same seats we once had. I imagine their names, I imagine how they met, I imagine it’s me and you.
I am screaming. His hand mutes any sound I make. He is happy. He loves the movies. He loves Dolby Surround Sound. He loves his dick in my mouth.
He talks to me about Paris. We are walking along the Seine. I am throwing myself in that cold, hospitable blue. We are at the Eiffel tower. He is down on one knee. He makes me watch him as he comes. His proposal fills my mouth. I accept it and fall back into my chair.
He bends over and kisses me. He takes out a bundle of notes from his top jacket pocket. “Thank you for Paris” he says. And he makes his way towards the fluorescent Exit sign.
I watch the couple sat in front. They are watching the film. They are happy. They are in love.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Last blog entry
Posted on Sunday 23rd November 2008 11:13 pm
I thought it was strange, that we’d made plans for me to come and see
you that weekend, it was Thursday and tomorrow I was to get the train
to London after work. You’d said it’d be fine, that you’d meet me at
Euston Station, near to the escalator that would bring us down to the
tube stop. We were to take the blue line. I’d picked out what clothes I
was taking with me. I’d washed and ironed a halter neck black dress
that you’d never seen me in. We’d discussed what we’d spend the weekend
doing, and it was Friday night that sounded best to me; an evening
watching movies, a promise of at least one Hitchcock, (I hoped it would
be Saboteur). The plans were all confirmed, but that was a week ago.
I’ve tried calling you, every day since then. I’ve called you four
times today and left two voice messages. I’ve sent you two text
messages. I sound very worried in the messages I’ve left you, I try to
rectify it with anger and humour at the end. I refer to you by your
full name and tsk through the gap in my front teeth. I think you’re
dead. We don’t have any mutual friends and we live in different cities.
My boyfriend knows who you are, he has heard me on the phone to you,
but he doesn’t know you any more than that. You are a voice inside a
telephone. The hopeless villain of an ex-boyfriend. I’m really sad and
scared for you. I couldn’t sleep and I cried; that is how tonight has
been so far. It is Thursday and our plans together should start
tomorrow. I’ve had to lie to my boyfriend about where I am going, but
now I’m not lying anymore. I am going to London to see the sights and
to learn something new. People who I’ve known are dying and I won’t
always know about it. I’ve thought that maybe I’ve missed your funeral.
I call you again so I can hear your voice on your answer phone message,
you sound younger than you are. I wonder if I should still go to London
tomorrow, but then I remember that you’ve moved since I last saw you.
All I know is that you live somewhere near to Brick Lane and that your
best friend Tom works somewhere to do with computer software. I’ll
check the newspaper obituaries for young tragic deaths. If I could ask:
‘How are you?’ it would become a much more meaningful question than it
has ever been before. I want to really hear your answers in a crystal
clear way. I remember that you were an excellent listener, I try to be,
but I know that I ride the tails of peoples sentences, talking through
the quiet of the low notes. Somewhere along the line I am missing out
the real point of conversation. Death is silence like dead air on the
radio, and when you die there are no links to me and you anymore; only
unanswered phone calls and emails I have already read. The train
tomorrow departs at 16:30, a paid for return ticket to investigate your
state of breathing.
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Rob Sherman
Fri 28th Nov 2008 03:18
I had forgotten how good you are. Finally got around to reading sex pest. Bloody hell you're good. The imagery works so fantastically well; it makes me uncomfortable and thrilled. Well done.