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Last year, I submitted a story I’d written when I was 18 (lots of years ago, don’t be nosey) to the Brighton prize short story competition. I didn’t win (ahhhhhhh), but I was shortlisted (hooraaaay). The following is an excerpt:

I wonder if I stare at these cracks long enough, will they open up and cough out
plasterboard and pipework over me. Then I wouldn’t need an excuse for this graceless,
crumpled position. For the metallic drip trickling down my throat or the colours already
appearing on my arms. I bruise so easily.

A simple squeeze.

A quick pinch.

I should be stronger, more durable than this. I trace my own outline on the ceiling like
chalk around a body, longing for my pastels so I can transfer all of this somewhere else. My
paper skin thins with every stroke, each one soaking through to the bone. One of these angry
mornings, I’ll just crumble away. Not ancient and fragile. Just weary and overly used.

The full short story is part of the Rattle Tales anthology