Biography

Sophie writes short stories and lots of music journalism. She's also got a number of unfinished novels both in her brain and in a number of notepads and computer files.

She also occasionally dabbles in poetry and lyric-writing: the former most recently indulged in some Green T productions in Manchester and the latter for her band, Air Cav.

Samples

Sara

For a room to fall silent in our school, it was a miracle.
But it always did
when she sashayed in.
The teacher
- male or female –
looked on admiringly at her power
(as well as her hips, lips and
cottoned tits)
And she was always late
with not a book in sight
and paper fluttering after.
It wasn’t commented on,
but we daren’t complain
at this
unfair treatment,
this behaviour swept straightforwardly under
classroom cracked lino.
And we shrank in our seats
As she sauntered past,
her hips maybe bouncing off our chairs,
or her foreign perfume catching in our throats
or her yellowed nails crackling along the ink stained tables.

Today she stopped at my table.
And looked at me.
I didn’t know whether to look in to those eyes
- or away in blissful oblivion,
weighing up the consequences as I would do years later
with drunks on buses.
Tiffany felt miles away,
her comforting elbow shifted across and in her own world.
Mine was now one of terror.
I chose to look away.
“You’re sitting in my fucking seat.”
I imagined great globules of spit
bungeeing against her sticky lipstick.
I murmured and shifted a buttock.
There was silence.
The teacher cleared her throat
but there was no way she was going to make any other gesture of authority:
It was every kid for themselves
and today it was me.
A slap of chewing gum signified she had opened her mouth again.
I smelled a quick, smoky exhale.
“Oh whoops, sorry Soph, no it’s not.”
I looked up in surprise and she smiled benevolently,
outstretched her hand and pulled an empty chair under her.
Right next to me.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.