- Mar 19
- 13 min read
A note from The Flock . . .
Thank you all again for submitting such beautiful poetry and prose for this digital issue! As always we really love reading all your pieces and we are so glad to be able to publish them here. Moving out, whether it's for the first time or just one of many, evokes such a variation of emotions in us. These works explore all of those, from love and home-sickness to a sense of belonging and freedom. As readers, you are bound to find something that resonates with you.
We have many upcoming announcements we are very excited to share so make sure to keep up with our socials!
Last month, I started to work on a small community project, which I hope will keep growing over the next few months. My goal is to build a stronger community of creative writers within Cardiff, so I want to extend an open invite to these monthly gatherings at National Museum Cardiff to you all. I hope that this will create a space for creative writers to meet new friends with shared passions, and allow us to support each other. The next is scheduled for this Sunday, March 22nd! More information about these can be found @creative.cymru on Instagram. I hope to meet more of you soon!
Charlie Evans
Editor-in-Chief at The Flock
Contents
‘The Echo in These Walls’ by Robin Barber
‘Half-Orange’ by Brooke Levi Pothecary
‘Safe Space’ by T.J. Raine
‘Always the Selfsame Street’ by Naomi Millauer-Moore
‘Only When You're Halfway Out the Door’ by Sam Hendrian
‘Shell’ by Kate Lewington
‘Make a Game of It’ by Jack Rogers & Alexis Grace
Including Photography By. . .
Charlie Eirys ‘Concert Q’
Charlie is a writer from Wales who has a passion for contemporary and literary fiction. They are newly emerging in the writing scene and have aspirations to one day publish the novel they are working on: Retrograde. They can be found on various socials under the username @itseiryss where they post about their progress, novel / manga recommendations, and music.
Robin Barber ‘A Collage of Cats’
Robin Barber is a 23 year old student from South England, who moved to Wales to further their studies in English and Education. They often find inspiration in the mundane and everyday, looking for poetry in simplest of things. Robin’s work often explores the themes of homesickness, history, and language, with a dash of mythology and a pinch of slow burn romance. They are currently working on a historical piece focusing on queer love in the middle ages.
The Echo in These Walls
by Robin Barber
There is an echo here. In sound. In space. An echo of us.
Footsteps pounding on the floors, laughter ringing from the landing, cackles from the kitchen. The stairwell is marred with handprints and lines are carved into the bannister. Pawprints decorate the glass of the backdoor where the dog jumps up to be let back in and the books on the bottom shelf bear teeth marks with pride.
I trip going into my dad’s room where the carpet is torn, and brush off the stickiness from the tape holding the lino down. I jump when the wind blows my bedroom door open because the latch is too old and worn to hook itself properly. There is a red mark on the living room ceiling, maybe from spaghetti and definitely from my brother, and the wall is off-colour where we had to fill in the holes around the dartboard.
There are chicks, the fluffy little ones you get at easter, still hidden around tucked between photo frames and decanters, and a miniature baby Jesus from our nativity set somewhere down the back of the sofa.
The scars of our lives adorn the house, a collection of memories we pass by everyday, echoing back to us as we add a little more of ourselves to the bones of this home.
But now, I don’t see them. I am not here. Not there. I come home and turn right, expecting to enter the kitchen but end up whacking my foot on the stairs. I sit on the sofa, soft and cotton, and somehow miss the feeling of worn and cracking leather.
There is no dog at my feet, eyes wide and asking when I sit down for dinner. I forget that I can now leave drinks on the floor without it being spiked with fur and drool.
Instead of calling out to my mum that I’m leaving for school, I’m trying to softly shut the door so I don’t wake my housemate when I go to work. I can’t stain the walls with Blu-Tac for the sake of my posters. I can’t say the paint on the rug is a test of character.
The songs that were breathed into these foundations are not ones I can sing. Not ones I can learn.
I want to harmonise with the paintings and trophies on the shelves, to join the chorus of scuffed shoes and coat hooks, to revel in the lilting lullaby that we wrote note for note, knowing it will always sing back to us.
But I am far from home and these walls do not echo the same.
Robin Barber is a 23 year old student from South England, who moved to Wales to further their studies in English and Education. They often find inspiration in the mundane and everyday, looking for poetry in simplest of things. Robin’s work often explores the themes of homesickness, history, and language, with a dash of mythology and a pinch of slow burn romance. They are currently working on a historical piece focusing on queer love in the
middle ages.
Half-Orange
by Brooke Levi Pothecary
The sun beats down on the plastic white chairs
that sit beneath an orange tree with little to no care.
They live life simply, no splendour of design,
yellowing day by day with the passage of time.
An air of laughter surrounds them, caught on the salt breeze,
that drifts from the Med and shakes the leaves,
of this morning’s rambles when they were all sat,
outside of the house with the stray street cats,
breathing in the chill citrus air that comes with a kiss,
of heat from the golden hour that paints the day in bliss.
Laundry hanging on the line tied around the tree,
casting shadows on the wall that chips with history.
How many stories lie in the paint
that crumbles to the ground because of a breeze so faint,
from the lips of those that collectively meet
on the plastic white chairs to drink and eat?
She had asked once if they all wanted more,
to venture beyond a life where the poor become more poor.
But this morning she learnt, as her bags were packed
that their empty pockets do not mean they’re in lack.
Joyful despite the dark beneath their eyes,
merry despite the world causing shoulders full of sighs.
For in their world there is a place where they’ll always have a seat,
and people sitting, waiting until they next meet.
Remnants of them lingering that no-one can replace,
much like this scene that lives only as a trace;
and sits like the orange that falls to the ground,
splitting in half without hardly a sound,
where many a pair may be made from the abundance in the tree, not through lack that nothing fits so whole and perfectly.
Once eager for the future that seemed far away,
now she longs for just another day.
She closes her eyes and feels the sun raining down,
reminiscing the humid nights in the lamp lit streets of town.
Fresh citrus lingers on her lips like salt from the sea,
when she opens her eyes it seems her Mother has heard her plea.
Her nimble fingers work at peeling skin and pith,
feeding her until tomorrow seems little more than a myth.
But leave she must for the world is vast,
no use longing for the present that will soon be the past.
Although when she leaves a part of her will remain
with life’s simplicities that call out her name.
Brooke Pothecary is a Welsh romance writer who is passionate about exploring the complexities of love in her work. She has recently started experimenting with writing poetry after years of novel writing. When she’s not taking pen to paper, you’ll find her with her head in a book, cuddled up with her dog, Luna, or watching romcoms, fawning over every love interest.’
Her poetry can be found on Instagram @poetrybylevi or you can follow her day to day on @brooke_levi2511
Safe Space
by T.J. Raine
When asked, at 16, to envision my safe place
It was always the same:
Curled up in the corner of the sofa
In the living room of the family home
We had lived in for seven years.
A cup of tea,
Music playing,
My mother making food with fresh ingredients.
A dysfunctional family, I knew that.
But that space held me, and understood me.
That house is no longer ours,
Furniture has changed,
But much remains the same.
Tea, music, food.
It never was about the place.
That space no longer holds me
It has no want for me
Despite my yearning to be understood
A shift in priorities
Leaves me reaching for
The unreachable
What do you do
When your safe place loses it's safety
When it won't listen
When it won't change
When it becomes unsafe?
When asked, at 26, to envision my safe place
I don’t answer
T.J. Raine is a poetry hobbyist from Cardiff. His work centers around intense feelings such as grief, love, and trauma. T.J's education as a psychology graduate lends itself to explore these themes in a deep and realistic way while staying relatable.
You can find more of his work here: https://allpoetry.com/TJRaine
The day after I moved closer to university, into a student share house that was falling apart at the walls, I saw my favourite band perform in Cardiff. I queued early, so I was waiting for at least three hours before the doors even opened, but I didn’t regret it at all. The people next to me in the queue had Uno and chalk, so we spent those hours drawing on the pavement outside the venue like we were children again. We took turns running to the shop across the road for drinks and snacks and those tiny, battery powered fans that you are lucky to find in stock during the heat.
Growing up, I was always teased for having a bit of a strange music taste, so it was cathartic to stand amongst a crowd of people who all loved music as much as I did. I was a really lonely person at the time, so that sense of community was more important to me than anything.
I haven’t listened to that band for a while now. My music taste evolved and so did their own style, but I still hold a lot of love for the community it gave me when I most needed it.
Always the Selfsame Street
by Naomi Millauer-Moore
I remember the barrenness we needed—walls stripped of photography and certificates, left with tender stretch marks where we tore them off. I've learned that sellotape is not good for wallpaper.
I remember getting home from school and going to the new house but it wasn't ready yet. Is it ever? My brother and I sat in the car and ate blueberries and listened to music.
I remember I was the one who least wanted to leave—I didn't want the stress of upheaval, of giving up the lawn in the garden, of unpacking. I still have some boxes left unpacked from nearly five years ago, but I've studied too much to be able to get to them. That's a juggle I've always struggled to perform.
Only When You’re Halfway Out The Door
by Sam Hendrian
Didn't really say hello
Until we said goodbye,
Pretending our hug was the first
Because it was the last.
Only when you're halfway out the door
Do you think of the right things to say
And the right things not to say
To avoid unnecessary tension.
Don't want to stay per se
But leaving is extra hard
Now that you know what to do
In the presence of those who love you.
Although the truth is you’ll probably forget
Next time you come back,
Too accustomed to independence
To remember the balance of dependence.
Still hopefully the first hello
Is the same as the last goodbye,
Full of hindsight and foresight
Of all that you mean to each other.
Sam Hendrian is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker, poet, and playwright striving to foster empathy through art. From writing personalized poems for passersby outside of LA's oldest independent bookstore every Sunday, to making Chaplin-esque silent films about loneliness and human connection once a month, Sam lives to make other people feel seen and validated.
More work can be found on YouTube at @samhendrian8658.
When I moved away from home, one of the things I missed most was my dog. Living in halls and then student housing meant there was no chance of having a pet, which devastated me. My brother would send photos of our dog and get her to talk over the phone, but it never felt the same. The area I moved to has a lot of outdoor cats that love to make friends. I don't know their actual names, but me and my friends have given them each new nicknames. Bleach follows me down the road on the way to the shop and Callie sneaks into my bedroom if I leave my windows open for too long. Even if they’re not mine, there’s some joy in knowing that furry friends are never too far.
Pictured in order we have: Jefferson, Callie, Bleach and George.
Shell
by Kate Lewington
i am on the move too often
to be sentimental -
dim halls,
taped saucepan lids,
loose medicines cleared from the cabinet -
folded bedding -
put into boxes
placed onto palms
and into a moving van
i look back at what is now
an empty shell
and remember when -
the estate agent
took us up the garden path
and turned the key in the lock -
the lounge, then unfurnished, looked enormous
the bathroom with its broken shower unit
the bedroom merely a box
and the kitchen even smaller
where, if you were to open the oven and allow the baking rack to slide out
as you turned to get plates from the cupboard
it would burn you, bopping you on the thigh
all the trauma -
the memories -
the carpet kicked
the doors slammed
and the walls slapped -
reliving it all
it is bricks and mortar
for somebody else to make home from now.
From the South of England, Kate is a short story writer, poet and blogger. Their writing is largely based on the themes of belonging, loss, and wonder. They have recently been published by Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, World Insane, TrashLight Press and Wailing & Gnashing.
You can find more of their writing here: https://katelouisepoetry.wordpress.com/
Make a Game of It
by Jack Rogers & Alexis Grace
Rebecca crept into Adam’s room. It was dark, only lit up by the warm glow of the nightlight in the corner. The room was mostly bare, save for a small handful of toys piled up next to the bed and scattered paper decorated with various scribbles. Kneeling at the bed side, she slowly caressed her son’s cheek as he slept.
‘C’mon sweetie, time to get up,’ Rebecca whispered, gently nudging the boy awake.
He groaned as he rubbed his eyes. ‘Huh? Mum?’ He looked at her, noticing a bruise on her eye. ‘What’s wrong?
‘You need to get up, Adam,’ she said. She pulled his duvet off him.
Adam sat up, looking up at her. ‘Why? Is it time for school?’
Rebecca moved a hand through his hair. ‘No. We’re going… We're going on… a holiday. I need you to pick out your favourite toys so you don’t get bored.’
She helped Adam up off the bed, taking his hand. ‘What? Where are we going?’ Adam asked as Rebecca pulled his bright green suitcase from under his bed, setting it down on his bed.
‘Um… we’re going to Nana’s house for a while. Come on, Adam, grab some toys, okay?’ she paced from his drawers, taking out Adam’s clothes, and back to the suitcase and packed them away. ‘Just grab your backpack and pack some toys.’
Adam did as she said, grabbing his school backpack from behind his door and shoving some toys inside. ‘Is dad coming?’
Rebecca stopped in her tracks as she picked up his school uniform. ‘He’s… he’s not coming.’ She placed his uniform in his suitcase. ‘He’s busy with work. You know how he gets, honey.’
‘I don’t want him to come anyway. He shouts really loud.’
‘Yeah. It’s just gonna be me, you and Nana.’ Rebecca zipped his suitcase. ‘Have you got all the toys you want to bring?’ she asked and Adam nodded. ‘Come on then.’
She pulled his suitcase out into the landing, which was dark, lit only by a light in Rebecca’s bedroom and streetlight coming from the window. Adam saw her suitcase against the wall next to the stairs. ‘Go down carefully, okay?’ Rebecca said. He carefully went downstairs after her, holding onto the banister.
As they went downstairs, Adam peaked into the living room, where his dad was laying on the sofa asleep, a lamp on the side table had fallen over. He was snoring lightly. Rebecca knelt down to him and whispered, ‘Adam, Daddy’s asleep, we have to be really quiet, okay? I need you to be quiet, like when we play hide and seek, okay?’
Adam nodded and pretended to zip his lips and throw away the key. Rebecca smiled and kissed his head. She stood up and grabbed Adam’s coat. He turned round and she put it on him, moving his arms down the sleeves. He turned back to face her, and Rebecca slowly zipped his coat up.
‘Now, I need you to do me a big, big favour,’ Rebecca said as she softly stroked across his cheek.
‘What?’ Adam said, copying her whispered tone.
‘I need you to stay here and be really, really quiet while I go and grab my bag from upstairs. Can you do that for me?’ she asked and Adam nodded. ‘I’ll just be two seconds, okay? Stay right in this spot, don’t move. Like when we play musical statues.’
Adam nodded and Rebecca kissed his head as she stood up. Adam watched her carefully tread up the stairs. He looked around at the damp wallpaper, bits of it having been torn off the wall. That smell of home; the cheap and sour beer that his dad always drinks. His feet stood in the old red carpet, stained with mud and dirt. Rebecca came back down the stairs, still at her slow and gentle pace, with her suitcase. She set it down on the floor, grabbing her own coat.
‘You ready to go?’ she whispered, looking down at Adam.
‘Yeah. How long will we be gone for?’ he asked quietly.
Rebecca smiled down at him. ‘A while, honey.’
‘Good.’
Rebecca stroked the top of his head before she opened the front door. She held it open for Adam, and he went outside first. Rebecca glanced back into the living room, staring at the snoring monster, his face clouded in shadow. She looked back at Adam, yawning up at her. She took a step outside, and closed the door quietly after her.
Alexis Grace and Jack Rogers are Welsh co-writers. They are both passionate about creative writing and have been most of their lives, both taking a strong interest in writing fantasy and science fiction. Their writing styles combine well together, with Alexis focusing on the world, large plots, and the lore of their stories, while Jack focuses on the characters and their journeys. They have a shared love of animals, TTRPs, fantasy and sci-fi. The two met at university, where they both studied English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of South Wales.
With another massive thank you to our staff . . .
With the upcoming closure of our course looming over us, our staff have had to push through many challenges while working on this digital issue. Despite the current uncertainty of The Flock’s future, we promise we will always do our best to support upcoming writers through their creative journey for as long as we remain active in the community. We all truly love our art and wish to see our contributors thrive as they continue to create and share the work that matters to them.
Chloe Summer - Secretary & Editorial
Lewys Evans - Treasury, Socials and Events, & Communications
Vincent Foxgold - Head of Editorial
Jack Rogers - Head of Communications & Editorial
Chloe-Ann Poultney - Editorial & Socials and Events
