Dear Rose
February 29, 2012

by Elexa Rose
My mother asked for a glass of water.
My father asked for a glass of water.
My sister asked for a glass of water.
So I collected three of the same
tall, colourless glasses, and I
filled them with cold water.
Balanced between my awkward clasp
I manoeuvred past the door, which
I should have left open, and
I knocked my little toe on
my way through,
jolting me slightly, I lurch
forward a little to try to counteract
the rock of the water, to
save a little splash.
Just as I arrive, I see your eyes
and I know, perhaps you do not,
that you have it all in your eyes
to smash, and to crack, and to break
the glass and the water it wraps around.
I try to put the drinks down,
on to the side table.

January 3, 2012

by Elexa Rose
Just to be devoted
desensitized, a severe lack of
the lonely syndrome.
Just to hear you drone and
moan on. Gloat, boast
and pretend you’re better than that.
I love who you want to be, who
you really are and exactly how
you do it.
Absolutely, the whirring
and the turning in a rut.
Forever pontificating for,
remembering for, leaning towards

Ten People In My Wonderful Life
December 24, 2011

Writing Excersise:

Pick ten people you know and write a one-sentence description for each of them.

  1. Never quite looking me in the eye, I could her that constant irritating flick on the pen in his right hand that paced out an off-beat rhythm, which he seemed to unconsiously speak in time to.
  2. From the scuffed black and white converse trainers and low-sitting drain-pipe jeans he gave off an over-confident air, but when he spoke with the most inoccent grin I’d ever seen I couldn’t help but feel as if I’d known him for years, and the bounce of the curls on his head when he laughed just made him seem even more harmless, but there was something about his slightly dusty blue eyes that made me stop and think, and I’m not sure what about.
  3. I’d never seen dull, sleepy eyes sparkle as much as his when he read the words that I never knew I’d longed to hear.
  4. She squeezed her volumptuous sides in the tight skirt, that I guess you could say accentuated her feminine curves, but the way she sucked in tightly on a thin cigarette and pouted into the reflection on her phone fixing a curl or two that fell out of place from her head told us that she was here for one thing only.
  5. The bitter taste was clear on her face though she tried to hide it; she exhaled slowly and controlled and handed it back to me, her long dark hair dancing like a black fire down her back and around her slightly too-wide shoulders, as if mocking the smoke she shunted from her chest.
  6. His eyes locked onto mine, his cheeky smile quickly flashed up as he made some midly amusing quip and passed another drink into my hands, being careful for our fingers not to touch.
  7. Slightly stooped, with soft eyes, he gave the appearance of offering his full attention yet it always seemed as if his mind was elsewhere, somewhere I wasn’t allowed to go.
  8. Large, plump, no make up, no care; her loose, oversized clothes hung like dead animals from her sloth-like limbs that moved as if she had already given up.
  9. Her terrifyingly tall legs strutted under a tight dress that teased with the idea of revealing the tip of her buttox.
  10. Always poised with an expression of discontent and armed with an attempt of sarcastic wit that came out more bitchy, he was the kind of guy that had to be your best friend for you not to hate him.

November 23, 2011

Flash fiction, because people don’t accept it as a concept.

When my Father died he left me his helmet. It sits on the top shelf in my wardrobe, snug in between a box of newspaper clippings and some shoes that I only wear on special occasions, over the slightly diagonal pole that my clothes hung from, sliding slightly to the left. To be honest, I’d forgotten about it for a good few years until today. It was only because my friend – boyfriend – had asked me about it today.

“I wouldn’t have you put down as a motorcycle kind of girl,” he said curiously. I’m not a motorcycle kind of girl. Mostly, I ignored his comment. We were in a rush anyway, and I couldn’t find my new fur coat, I got it half price.

We left once the taxi arrived, tonight he was taking me to see Phantom of the Opera; he’d surprised me with the theatre tickets about a month ago, though I’d been dropping hints for a while. Still, it was a nice gesture, comparably. On our way he continued to question me of the apparently strange contents of my wardrobe.

“What were all those bits of newspaper for?” He asked in a more interrogatory manner. I lied and said that they were food articles, fancy deserts, decorations ideas for cupcakes, strangest ice cream flavours from around the world. I knew this would start him off on another speech about how good food is like ‘great sex’ and the way it can really ‘change the world’, how great cooking can make you a ‘better person’. He was too zealous to realise that I was interesting in the blurred lights of the traffic.

Once we arrived I lit up a cigarette, he sighed,

“We’ll miss the beginning.” His voice had gone stern now. I took a long drag. He knew we weren’t going to miss anything. It was just one of those things that he said. Like when I order rump steak at a restaurant instead of the chicken salad, he’ll always say something along the lines of,

“You won’t regret it if you order the healthier option.” Though we both knew that the piles of crisp cut vegetables was not going to make me ‘feel as good inside’ (as he would put it) as the medium rare slab of meat would.

As we stood in the cold air outside the theatre entrance, I watch the road. A few black cabs rolled up that dropped off more attractive couples than us. The men with more expensive, fitted suits and carefully groomed stubble. The women more curvaceous, doing a marvellous balancing act on glamorous stilettos. Though, just before we went inside, to take our seats, a roaring motorcycle parked up front. A slightly larger, middle aged man unmounted the bike, and pulled off a helmet that was identical to the one in my wardrobe. As he walked past I said to him,

“I like your helmet.” He smiled and nodded in acknowledgement before disappearing through misted glasses doors.

Ever since then, that helmet has been in all of my thoughts, and I can’t put my finger onto why.

Day 7. Something I Hope I Never Have To Do.
October 31, 2011

~Thirty Days of Truth Challenge (

I got day 6 and 7 the wrong way round, haha, and also I am a couple days late as I have been busy :) Anyway, on with the post…

Something I hope I never have to do. Well obviously there are the normal things, kill someone, chose between two lovers (aha), general bad dilemas that people base films around etc. But something more personal, I never ever want to be a house wife. Now I have nothing against people that are house wifes, or people that want to be house wifes, I don’t think there is anything wrong with it in the slightest, however, to me, it is my nightmare. I hate cooking, I hate cleaning, and I hate spending vast amounts of time at home. Plus, the idea of having a man go out and earning the income and for me to have his dinner ready waiting for him when he comes through the door makes my skin crawl. I know this is a very stereotypical view on housewifery, but still. I would hate to not earn my own wage, earn my own money to buy things that I have worked for. It is more rewarding like that, I think anyway. Plus, most of what I want to do is career orientated. On the flip side, I hope I never have a 9 to 5. I think I just hate monotomoy. Well who doesn’t? I’d rather have a 9 to 5 than be a house wife though. But then I guess you kind of have to stay at home, at least for a little bit with young children. Jeez why am I thinking about this now? Think I’ve just had my feminist head on these past few days really. I hope I don’t have to think about this any time soon haha, marriage… kids… mortgages… careers… fuck that. I’m an unemployed, broke, mostly-drunk student and I hope it stays that way (minus the unemployed and broke part) for a good few years, minimum. Stress-free. Considering.