#naomiblackman

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Epistolary Fiction, by Naomi Blackman

Dear Lynn,

How are you? How have you been? I’ve texted and called you but you never seem to be replying. Is everything okay? I hope your'e alright. I really hope that you get this, I need to get a response, I really want one. This is literally my last resort. I miss you so much, I don’t think you understand. I’m just thinking the worst, or at least I hope that’s all i’m thinking; that’s what i keep telling myself; but its kinda hard not to think in the worst particular  way when you get so used to texting, calling, face timing , just communicating to someone pretty much everyday without fail to make sure everything was alright. So i mean this length of time with not even one  single ‘hello’ is starting to concern me. It went from just a week of no talking to two, to a couple more , and has just gradually lengthened. Please could you let me know that your okay, safe, happy, healthy, just everything you know I hope you are. I wanted to just write this, just to get a response, but if this isn’t enough and if it (oh no) please (no) doesn’t get to you, Ill know that I did my best to get in touch with you. I  miss you, and  when i say 'miss’, I mean I’ve never ever felt this kind of longing for someone to come back before, I just want you to come back and give me a hug, a squeeze to reassure me through everything. I feel so sick not knowing how you are, I’ve never had  the feeling of nausea so bad and to be completely honest i’m absolutely terrified for the response…  Cause i’m saddened to say that i feel as though i know the answer to my letter, even though i’m really a trying hard not too think like that. My heart breaks at every little thought i have of you, evermore each day it feels as though its shattering under my skin. if only you were around to realize how much people really do care about you, how much you mean to everyone; its not until you get to times like this, i wish id told you how I’ve felt and that I am so grateful for everything. How i genuinely couldn’t live without a friend like you. I really do hope everything’s alright and that  i’m just  thinking the worst, that this is all just in my head, but please Lynn or if not you, please whoever gets this letter can i have a reply. come back.! please Lynn…  

Yours sincerely  

Fran xxx

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The Secret, by Naomi Blackman

I touch you to feel an unbearable prick,

sharp and icy, like dagger stick.

From one lip to the next

you spread as a disease 

intoxicated by the tongue, 

continuously flowing through my bloodstream.

A whisper, an echo,

it travels to me

beholding your past i don’t want to see.

For now i am owner, ruler of all, locked in a cage

where no one can go.

Behold in my locket, safe round my neck

is all that you cherished,

with the key out of reach.

I surround this with a blanket, a mask, a disguise.

so no one can see the true that shall be.

Unless i tell…

For your a wind and a bluster 

a screech in my ear.

silent as I am,

I hold plenty of fear.

Flowing as you are

no time to release,

but during the night, i do not ever ease.

For i do not feel the safety you feel.

As if i tell, a traitor would be thee.

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The mug, by Naomi Blackman

I’d sip and sip wherever I’d go

drinking in places where no one would know

holding it firmly between both hands 

making me sweat in the glands 

for with it’s loyalty, 

and generous use.

The cup that i cherished,

has decayed,

chipped, cracked, become crooked.

Just like everything else I’ve owned,

but,

it has lasted beyond my wildest dreams.

14 years and counting.

Since the day I was given it as a present of sorts 

you’ve stayed in my reach, 

and longed in my thoughts 

For, the warmth you provide,

the smooth, silky touch.

How could i get rid of it,

as i carry it with pride

with every single life stride.

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How and why I write, by Naomi Blackman

I write because I can, I can grab a pen and a piece of paper and continuously release my thoughts. I can ease and soothe my mind from all the things that I constantly contemplate on a day to day basis.Writing allows me to feel a joy of being free, everything that I cram into my head is able to be spilled out and piled onto something else, it never has to be logical or entirely true, so long it puts my head at rest. I find that writing is an easier way of having something to communicate with, although it cannot talk and express anything back to what it has received, it can absorb it and make my head feel clear of everything that is trying to be stored away. Its being able to just have something to share the burden onto. I find that the more I think without writing, the more I begin to stress out. I write because I like to visually picture how I feel as well as internally knowing how i’m feeling. I’ve always got so many different ideas in my mind I never know how to express them. This was up until recently, recently I found out that I was able to let my mind flow further and I was able to spread it onto other things. I feel like this, as sometimes there are just somethings that cannot be directly said to a specific person however, instead can only be shared in a more over viewed manor. I share a lot of thoughts with my parents and other relatives and friends, this enables me to build up a knowledge of certain things,ad expand on what i’m thinking although, in some cases sharing how i feel juts isn’t the way my mind is able to cease. I need to do more.. and so alternatively this is to write. What I write about can completely vary, some being more heartfelt than others, but what I do eventually choose completely depends as to what i’m  being surrounded with.

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I come from, by Naomi Blackman

I come from a place,

both near and far 

where weather has two ends of the spectrum

one consisting of sun rays beaming through the year.

the other having changing weather according to the season.

I come from a home

where everything is clean

supreme and pristine,

it’s a bit of a dream.

My mother she loves the crisp cotton smells,

and as for the rest of us, we all collect shells.

I come from a road

round the corner to my Nan

and every Saturday I’d stay to watch Peter pan.

Now that I’m older I still stay for sure

watching more musicals than ever before;

weather they’d be classic, modern or old

I’m sure I’d have watched them during the cold.

I come from a faith

where Sunday church is key

and so this is the life of young little me.

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Eyes, by Naomi Blackman

I sit, i stare

I stare a bit more

I wait, i watch till you open your pupil door

for what i see behind the dot so dark,

colour. swirls. patterns.

A circle of light like treasure to me .

I gaze forever

hoping to see more,

with eyes of infinitive depth.

The flashbacks of your life flicker. 

No longer in youth, but your eyes…

still holding the same shape and shedding the same tears as I’d always remembered.

Rarely you’d cry 

but for when you did 

I  immediately knew it was you.

To wipe off your tears,

be as gentle as i can

as i knew from a young age you were a fragile man.

You’ve experienced a lot

and through your eyes i could see

they were no longer as pure as they’d used to be.

If I am saddened, upset, alone 

I would always come and see you in my second home.

For I’d sit on your lap 

and look into your eyes 

being confused about the miraculous changes of colour within.

For your eyes were not as simple as said to be,

but hold a crystal clear transparency 

as they reveal a lot more beneath the skin.

And even still 

without you here

the presence of your eye will always appear.

I do not fear, nor squeal, not tame 

for what I remember is also your name 

Grandfather…

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Yasmin, by Naomi

Yasmin went to Trinity school

before attending Tallis.

 She has chosen to do Art, English literature, French and Creative writing.

During her free time she likes to meditate and write;

her love to write allows her to express herself in ways ways other things cannot

Other than writing 

her favourite subject is art, as this similarly allows her to express her inner thoughts and feelings.

After being told her favourite colour was yellow

it was evident with her warm and uplifting personality.

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A biography of Naomi, by Yasmin Arnavout

All music soothes her ears, Though horror moves her heart. It pumps the blood right through her soul, Those films to her are art.

The books she reads are Fiction. To her they’re almost real. Where she can be The World and she can live whoever feels.

Her favourite place is the place she calls Home, For home in itself is Endless. Though, home to a writer is All in The World, Except for when they’re pen-less.

Her birthday and Christmas- both celebrations, Of Winter and The Circle. The Circle of life, death, and beauty, Leaves living green, red and purple.