Issue #3: Childhood Home

A note from The Flock . . .

As September began, the publishing society was handed over to the current third years on the USW English Literature and Creative Writing Course. It has been an amazing opportunity working with a new team and we are all excited to see how our little magazine will continue to grow following the publication of our last anthology: Seasons. We are so happy to continue publishing such talented writers in our first issue of the 2025-26 academic year, and to hopefully see many more to follow!

Throughout this issue you will be hit with a comforting and sentimental sense of nostalgia as you read about the familial love that spreads across the hallways and up the staircases of the childhood homes depicted by our writers; as well as witnessing the strength it takes for a child to take hold of a match in the dark. This issue's selection of prose and poetry includes such evocative imagery that painted these beautiful works so vividly in our imaginations. We hope that as readers, you will also appreciate all the love and hard work that has been put into these pieces!

After reading the amazing poetry we have selected, it would mean the world to us if you were able to take the time to support Betsi Doyle, a PhD student from Cardiff University, by aiding their research on nation identity in Britain. The project is titled ‘Young Adults and New Citizens: The Social Construction of National Identity and State Affiliation in Contemporary Britain.’ 

To do this, our readers have been invited to partake in a short, interview-like survey. You can find this, as well as all relevant participant information, consent form and contact and socials information through the follow link: https://linktr.ee/belongingstoriesproject

Charlie Evans 

Editor-in-Chief at The Flock

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Contents

‘Stairs’ by Elle Grace

‘Hiraeth’ by Brooke Levi Pothecary

‘I Grew Up in a Place of Love’ by Marion Johnson

‘Holding the Flame’ by Tegan O’Shaughnessy

‘Yesterday’s Seer’ by Anais Brimble

‘Southern Black Grandmothers Feed The Hungry’ by Traci Neal

‘Found My Way Home’ by Chloe Summers

‘Warmth’ by Casey Walker

‘Caravan’ by Emma Jeynes

Including Photography By . . .

Dragon Roberts ‘Displaced’ 

‘My name is Dragon Roberts, though I also go by Adrien Roberts, depending on the day. I usually sign things with both Adrien and Dragon. I enjoy all forms of art, from getting my hands dirty with paint and clay, to writing poetry and fiction. I believe art is all about finding ways to express the way you view the world, as that is entirely unique to everyone.’

You can find more work from Dragon on Instagram @TangyVanilla

Marie Mordecai ‘Olim (Once)’

Marie Mordecai is an aspiring photographer, who desires to dedicate more time to pursuing her interest in photography. Hoping to step outside of her comfort-zone by sharing some of her perspective, through surrealism and deliberately constructed scenes. After a lot of uncertainty and a nonlinear approach to self-discovery, she wants to learn to enjoy choosing to do something for herself: photography.

In the close future, she hopes to upload more actively on her account @oat.s__

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Stairs

by Elle Grace

In the back Den of my parents house

there is a spiral stair case

fitted in steel and mahogany

loud creaks echo from each step

the slightest movement, a metallic groan

you familiarize yourself with the sounds

my mother, dawdling but steady

my father, quicker and bouncy

the soft padding of cat paws

the hesitant scrape of a dog who knows

they aren’t allowed upstairs

familiar sounds echo

through morning and dusk

of childhood memory

clear in my mind

as if I never left

and yet

after a long day

I am sat in the dark

The soft pad of unknown feet

On regular, carpeted, un-spiralled stairs

a muffled unfamiliar male voice drift through me

a brief, hopeful moment

I think my dad is coming to say goodnight

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Hiraeth

by Brooke Levi Pothecary

They lived in a burrow under a tree,

where roots were staircases, and blankets were leaves.

They had photo frames too, that hung on the walls,

of sepia drenched memories of tiny hands and toes.

Toys were scattered across the living room floor,

acorns, twigs, fireflies, and more;

leaves from wilting branches fuelled the crackling hearth,

while a mother read stories filled with mirth.

But just as she uttered, “Flynyddoedd Maith yn ôl”

dirt rained from above, dousing out the light,

though not weakening their souls.

Out jumped the mice from their little straw beds,

gripping their mother’s sew skirt in fear and dread.

As footsteps from above made their little hearts race,

out scurried the mice; fleeing the place.

Their mother ushered them onward towards the light,

and cried into the evening, “God is a blight.”

Hidden in a bush, out of sight,

they watched their home taken in the dead of night.

The only remnants were scattered clothes,

tall black hats and little red shawls.

A shadow hung in the air of a past that couldn’t be found,

in the mix matched pieces of clothes littering the ground.

Try as they might to recreate home,

it was but a mirage of what was once known.

Walls that once echoed of the stories their mother would tell

are hollow now, speaking only of how they fell.

The porous house longed to be filled,

so there came the lies that laced the moth-torn past

ridding of the cavities destruction had built.

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

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‘Olim (Once)’ By Marie Mordecai

'The first photo is based off of the concept that the memories of childhood homes are often blurred, softened and remembered somewhat fondly, even if they weren't always so. It also aims to capture that everyone experiences fleeting memories of childhood homes; each home telling a different story.

The second photo is taken through my family's stain glass window which looks out from my childhood homes front door. A lot of the furniture in my childhood house has changed over the years, but my dad refuses to change the old door (which he always tells me is -really- old). It makes the hallway look yellow, and I used to stare at it a lot when I was small. I wanted to capture the distortion, blur, haze and warmness of the theme. You can vaguely make out the street, gate, and front garden from the window, which is similarly represents my interpretation of childhood homes.'

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I Grew Up in a Place of Love

by Marion Johnson

I grew up in a place of love,

A place full of hope and encouragement,

I never had to want,

I never had to starve.

I grew up in a place of encouragement,

Where the stars were mere miles away,

Anything could be possible,

The future oxford girl.

I grew up in a place of worry,

Where you would speak on the phone in hushed tones,

Hiding all the hospital appointments,

All of the test results.

I grew up in a place of grief,

A place that taught me how to say goodbye,

How to put on a show and pretend i was okay,

Trying to numb myself,

Forced to grow up too soon.

I grew up in a place,

And I would do anything to go back,

Back to a time,

When you were still in my life.

I just hope you know,

How proud I am of you .

Marion Johnson is a 23-year-old residing in South-West England with her partner and two daughters. Relatively new to creative writing, she finds the process deeply fulfilling and often describes it as a form of personal therapy. Her work commonly explores themes of love and hope, drawing on her own lived experience. 

You can find more of her work on Instagram @marionjohnsonwrites.

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Holding the Flame

  by Tegan O’Shaughnessy

I was about nine, yeah? Mam used to call me her “little helper.” And I loved that. Proper loved it. It made me feel special, like I was doing something grown up. She’d smile when I washed the dishes, or when I kept Callum quiet so she could have a rest.

Then she started saying, “You’re so mature for your age.” And I thought that was a compliment. At the time. It didn't take long to realise what it really meant. You’re the adult now.

         Callum never really clocked how fast I had to grow up. He’d leave his plates out, clothes all over the floor, and there I’d be, tidying up behind him. Not because I wanted to. Just because Mam would sigh, and that sigh… it’d get to me. Mam was sick a lot. Constant pain. So of course I wanted to help. Dad was always working, and when he did come home, he’d say, “Good girl, helping your Mam like that.”

         One night, the power went out. Everything dark. Mam’s shouting, trying to find the candles. Callum’s crying in the corner, and Dad’s nowhere, obviously. I find one of Dad’s matches, hands shaking, I light it. This tiny flame, just me and it, flickering in the dark. Mam takes it, lights the candle. A few seconds later, lights come back on. And that’s when I see myself in the mirror. Crying. Didn’t even realise I was. Mam says, “You did a good job, love.” 

And I say, “It’s fine.” But it wasn’t fine. It was never fine. But saying that out loud would’ve made it heavier, and I was already carrying too much.

Years later, not much has changed. Callum’s grown but still needs everything done for him. Dad’s still distant. Mam still calls every day. I need help with something. Emails, phone calls, you name it. And she still says, “You’ve always been so strong. So mature.” I want to tell her; it wasn’t something I chose.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I think about that matchstick. The way it flickered, the way it burned the ends of my fingers. And I think that's what it’s like being the eldest daughter. Holding the flame for everyone else, until it burns you out.

‘I’m Tegan from Ely Cardiff; I am currently a first-year student studying English and creative writing. Being the oldest daughter has always felt like living between two worlds, the one where I’m growing and the one where I’m expected to already figure out the way. In my writing I tried to give voice to the strength, unspoken expectations and responsibilities I didn’t know I was creating. Writing allows me to express my suppressed emotions and turn them into something honest and soft that hopefully others can relate to and appreciate. It is my way of honouring the girl I was, and the strength I continue to grow.’

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Yesterday’s Seer

by Anais Brimble

The Seer of Yesterday pitches her tent,

Holding reverse crystal ball,

Advice of lament.

Horologist playing to serpentine tick—

Flute in hand, time heeds and stiffs.

In shuffled palms, Arcana lives on,

Through Major and Minors discordant song.

Fanning hours like cards she cannot cheat,

Ante laid, the Present fold unseen,

“A bad beat,”— fortune incomplete.

Cards repeat XVI—another trick up her sleeve,

Nostalgia etched where shame used to breathe.

“Past focuser,” they scoff, yet none divine

How the Tower too mourns its climb,

With each ruin rebuilt on Memory’s spine.

So let them jest— the candyfloss-brained crowd,

Paying in sneers, pockets emptied out.

She trades in truths, no Future deceits,

For Tomorrow learns through Memory’s grief,

And Yesterday’s Seer sows what she reaps.

‘Hi, I’m Anais, a 20-year-old aspiring writer and poet from South Wales, currently in my second year of studying English Literature with the Open University. I draw inspiration from introspective writers like Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf, whose works delve into deep, personal meanings and the complexities of the human experience. I’m especially captivated by nature, and thoroughly enjoy finding profound symbolism in the natural world with its ability to reflect the human emotion that I often explore and express through my writing.’

You can read more of Anais’ work on her Instagram @anais_brimble_writing

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'Displaced' a collage by Dragon Roberts

'Not that long ago, my childhood home was deemed as too dangerous to live in, as it subsided. Over the summer, the earth underneath the house fell away, leaving the house to crumble and crack apart. We were forced to move out, but our insurance could never find us a place to live for longer than a month.

So for 9 months, I moved over and over again. I'm quite sentimental, and I can never leave a place I've lived in without taking a photo to remember it by. Here are all of those photos side by side.

For those wondering, the house was not fixed, after 9 months they reassessed it, and told us to move back in. Soon after that, I moved away to university.

Maybe to others, these pictures are just empty bedrooms, but to me, each one is a specific bittersweet memory and makes me feel a very certain way when I see them all together. Places I will never return again, but hold such a large space in my mind.

The top left photo is my childhood home, the center photo is the last place I lived, being the longest I've lived anywhere in 2 years.'

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Southern Black Grandmothers Feed the Hungry

By Traci Neal

Country cooking accompanies

the Southern black grandmothers.

Sunday tables tape their services.

They grab the attention of the

young and old, spreading sense

thicker than giblet gravy. Words

glisten grit off of teeth. They

teach survival skills. Skipping

out on the scoldings is an act

against these seniors. Their shacks

were shared with cotton stalks.

Mansions wore the makeup of these

maids. Black liberty comes from

the negro grandmothers. They lent

their legs. Woodwork was loaded

onto wagons, waiting for the hooks.

Transportations were rides for

food portals. We enjoy the portions.

The morsels are mops in mouths.

greens| sweet potato pie|

rice| cornbread| chicken

A few common core

items. Pass around these

pleasures chair by chair

to our tongues.

Colored grandmothers have

mandates that matter. They

want us to sow sober seeds.

They grow strong foundations

in their gardens to settle spirits.

We chew their nuggets. The

nags might feel like nails

when we are knee-high.

As adults, we appreciate

their virtues, an extra spice

to our lives. Black grandmothers

gratify hunger. They feed

humans with their wisdom.

Traci Neal is a poet from Columbia, USA. She has been featured in many literary magazines, discussing themes of race, religion and disability; and is inspired by Christianity, which has comforted her through her personal experiences. She says she ‘lives to inspire others by lighting a fire within their hearts!’ 

You can find out more from Traci on her website: tracinealspeakerpoet.com 

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Found My Way Home

by Chloe Summers

Home is where my heart rests, no matter where I stray,

Even in December’s chill, your warmth still lights my way.

Home is more than any place—it’s love, it;s comfort true;

And now this brand-new journey is one I share with you.

We met not long ago, yet something in the air

Felt like fate had gently placed a moment for us there.

I saw you through my camera lens—how could I forget?

Your glow stirred something deep in me, soft as a violet sunset.

Every memory we’ve made, I cherish and hold tight;

Each moment spent beside you turns the day to light.

Your presence brings me joy that lifts me mile after mile—

My heart runs toward yours, breathless, grateful, and in awe of your smile.

I hope the years we’ve shared will stay vivid in our minds,

For love like ours is rare, the once-in-a-lifetime kind.

And know this truth forever, in every storm or weather:

My heart is yours completely—always, now, and ever.

‘Chloe Summers is a 26-year-old English and Creative Writing student from Blackwood, South Wales, hoping to have her work published. Chloe writes stories, is an amateur photographer, and enjoys reading all types of books, regardless of genre. Chloe began writing at a young age as a way to escape into a world she imagined and created.'

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Warmth

by Casey Walker

A warmth.

A roaring, crackling mass of fire

Scaring away the shadows,

Keeping me safe.

The simmering snaps and pops of the wood burning like sudden laughter, the constant noise keeping me company in my room. 

However could such a big mansion fit into a little girl's bedroom?

One small room, in a cold empty house. 

But I would always be greeted with warmth five times over when I’d wander back home.

Poetry is an old flame of Casey Walker, as she used to study English Literature but she is currently an aspiring researcher in psychology. That fondness still lives on though as she loves reading poetry as well as literature in general but she’s started writing in the last few months. She adores it as a creative form and it’s such a brilliant medium for complex feelings and expression. The theme of childhood home was the perfect entry into writing poetry and she is very excited to be published.

You can find more about her on her Instagram @heart.4.brains_

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Caravan

by Emma Jeynes

My place of absolute solace,

Winter, summer, spring or autumn,

The little village of Amroth,

Where everyone is always welcome through its door.

A childhood spent with others,

Teaching me how to play,

Freedom and progression,

My friends along its way.

My best friend Leanna,

Was the best there could have been,

Swimming and playing,

Around in the fields.

The sea always calling,

The beach; a place that always spoke to me,

Summers spent upon it,

With family I can and cannot still physically see.

The memories created,

My childhood blessed,

The ones who shaped and moulded me,

Still, I hold a love for and hope for the best.

…and although times drift us apart,

I always come back to,

The place that has always supported me,

And helped me grow, to which I know that to be true.

So, my memories will always hold,

A reminder of what is bright,

Freedom. Love. And care,

Where we all became a family,

Watching each other grow from day to night.

…and through the years,

Each of us have changed.

New ambitions and goals we have set,

But we always come back to each other,

To the place that we met.

Friendships that we never allowed to become blind,

That have always held respect,

And so, my childhood at the caravan,

Still holds so many truths,

…and without any forms of regret.

Emma Jeynes is a spoken word poet based in the South Wales Valleys. 

She has performed at multiple events throughout Wales, with her personal highlight being the 'Eisteddfod Cenedleuthol' in her native tongue in 2024.

She has had the opportunity to be part of multiple anthologies and touches on important topics that revolve around social expectations and her journey through self-acceptance.

You can find Emma's work and keep up to date with any publications and events on her Instagram @jointheabyss

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With a massive thank you to our new staff . . .

The new academic year has led to The Flock’s new team! We are hoping to live up to our alumni, as they brought back the publishing society for the first time since the pandemic. They truly did an amazing job and we aspire to follow in their footsteps despite the smaller team. Thank you everyone for your hard work in creating our third issue, well done and happy holidays!

Chloe Summer - Secretary & Editorial

Lewys Evans - Treasury, Socials and Events, & Communications

Vincent Foxgold - Head of Editorial

Jack Rodgers - Head of Communications & Editorial

Chloe-Ann Poultney - Editorial & Socials and Events 

Jacob Stenner - Editorial 

Maizie Sayle-Croston - Communications

Athina Tarchanidou - Socials & Events