Red Bricks



Out of place

The orange flecks

Lost forever


In the air

Nothing there

Just a gap

In my condition



Rusting together

The friction

The fire

Cut it down

To the wire

And leave me


  • By Clarrie-Rose Plommer



I used to look up at the sky

And ask the stars questions

Each one had a different answer

No resolve found


I used to dip my foot in the water

And swirl it around

The ripples ran away

They all disappeared


I used to watch the rain fall

And catch the droplets in my hand

They slipped through my fingers

And fell to the ground


I used to dream of a day

Where I’d be free and untied

But childish dreams never prosper

They slip away in the night


I used to find solace in my room

But now there’s just baggage

I wade through the mountains

But I can never grasp what I was looking for


My knuckles whiten as I hold on tighter

The time slipping through the gaps between my fingers

It seeps out and disperses in the air

The air that presses and prods

Leaving me still


  • Clarrie-Rose Plommer






Certain Romance: Growing up through Music

Certain Romance: Growing up through Music

(This is a little snippet from a piece of memoir I began writing during my time at University. It is a look at how music has effected me throughout my life & also its place in society.)


“It’s only rock ‘n’ roll but I like it.” – The Rolling Stones

I was 10 when I first picked up a guitar, a dull brown three quarter acoustic that probably cost about a tenner, but to me it was the coolest thing on this Earth (It would take me another 4 years to actually ever play the bugger, but we’ll forget about that). I don’t really know where my obsession with music came from it’s just always been there like a birthmark, or that ugly dog statue on your Nan’s mantelpiece, always looming.

I realised I wanted to be a musician when I was about 16 years old. When I thought about my future I couldn’t see anything else than me planted on a stage somewhere in front of a hopefully adoring crowd, guitar in hand. That’s how I knew I at least had to give it a go.

Thinking about it now most of my earliest memories revolve around music. Bobbing along to the funky sound of Rockin’ Robin by The Jackson Five, dancing around my bedroom to Daphne & Celeste (a phase I wish I could forget) or my mum playing the moody sounds of David Gray’s ‘Sail Away’ on a warm Mancunian summer evening. One of my earliest and fondest memories is my Dad singing Oasis’ ‘Half the world away’ to me as I drifted off to sleep in my childhood bunk bed, which was obviously pimped out with the finest Harry Potter bedspread.

The more I think about it, the more I’ve come to realise songs have been important markers through my 20 years of life. At every stage, good or bad, I have songs that correspond to how I felt at that time, artists that perfectly summed up my teenage angst or childish confusion. One of the best examples of this from my own life is the song, ‘Not nineteen forever’ by The Courteeners. I loved this track when I was 18; it was a definite hit at every house party I went to that year. But when you find yourself alone in your room listening to that track on the eve of your 20th birthday it really takes on a new significance, a bitter one at that.

This isn’t rare either. When you look back through history, you can see this pattern between music and youth culture. From the swinging 60’s based on ‘free love’ and psychedelic trips, to the Britpop 90’s which as all about being ‘mad fer it’ and those rock ‘n’ roll ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitudes. It all seems to come full circle, music influences society and vice versa.

What I’m trying to say is music is important to me, and most probably to you. I believe it shapes and moulds us, it triggers memories that could have long been buried at the back of your mind, but as soon as you hear that one tune it all comes whizzing back to the forefront of your memory. No matter what importance you personally place on music, there’s no denying songs can affect us mere mortals in a multitude of ways.

  • Clarrie-Rose Plommer



He flitted through the shadows, a vision floating on the periphery. He stalked and swaggered, a lion tracking his prey.

He liked the feel of their porcelain skin, the way their lips contracted in pain, their wide knowing eyes. It was all part of the game.

Soon she’d be another memory, like the many girls before. That’s when the need would kick in, that’s when he knew it was time for another.


  • Clarrie-Rose Plommer

2-Shot Carry

2-Shot Carry

A green table and an unstoppable

Red streak –

The white whizzes past but touches


Wet rings making marks on the

Dark oak

A blue chalky mist hovers


Famous faces plastered on the walls

Everyone’s late

Always late

The stillness of the silence

Then a pinball HITS

Old ballads start to chime and           carry

Seem to go on f o r e v e r

A ceiling fan hanging by a thread

A cool breeze piercing the autumn chill


It’s better down the pub


  • Clarrie-Rose Plommer

The Incident – Part 1

The Incident – Part 1

It was quiet that night, quieter than usual it seemed. The street was dark and not a sound could be heard. John’s stomach twisted and turned, making his body shudder and his jaw clench. He sunk down into his seat, the windscreen fogging over as his breaths became deeper and longer. It would be happening soon. He couldn’t back out now. Just this one time and that would be it. John’s phone flashed on the dashboard, the light pierced the stillness and hurt John’s eyes. He fumbled to pick it up, his palms sweaty with anticipation. “Is the mouse in the trap?” the text read. John pawed at the screen, clumsily typing out one simple word, “Yes.” He threw the phone down onto the passenger seat and looked back towards the house. His eyes were drawn to the bedroom window, he held his breath as he caught a glimpse of a small figure peeping out from between the curtains.  A little girl, no more than 7 or 8. Her chestnut brown hair was tucked behind her ears, she rubbed her eyes as she gave out the biggest yawn John had ever seen. He waved and the small spying shadow smiled back and dove playfully behind the curtain. A smirk crept across John’s face. He forced himself to settle his composure and remember what he was there to do. He had to keep a clear head.

It was late now. 12:45 his wristwatch told him. Picking up his lukewarm coffee he lifted it towards his mouth. Colombian blend. The smell hit him in the face like a heavy weight boxer. It stuck up his nose and made him feel dizzy. John took a sip. He found it hard to swallow, his mouth was as dry as a desert and the coffee did nothing to quench his thirst. The minutes passed slowly, each second seeming to last an hour. Something must’ve happened, thought John. He’s late, three minutes late. Nothing had stirred in the house since that pretty little girl had peered out through the darkness. Keep calm, he’s not the most punctual man. It was 12:58 now. John cranked the window down and a cool breeze came rushing in. He could really do with getting a new car, who had roll down windows now-a-days? The wind started to pick up. John quickly rolled the window back up, as he did he heard the distant sound of slamming window shutters and toppling garden furniture. The gale seemed to grow faster and more powerful. It bent the trees and brushed the fallen leaves across the ground, whipping them up into a frenzy. The calm was no more.

“I’m in” – The text didn’t find John until he opened his eyes. The two words flashing on his display. He must’ve nodded off. The heat in the car had built and the air felt thick and clammy. John slipped in and out of consciousness, his eyes heavy, he struggled to keep them open. He rubbed his sodden face, the sweat covering his hands and dripping from his hair. John looked in the rear-view mirror. He could do with a shave, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a moment to get a shower, the last time he’d slept even. Those precious few seconds in the car were the first moments of rest he’d had in weeks. He turned off the heat, it was too hot. He used his jacket sleeve to clear the condensation from the windows and looked back out toward the house. Nothing. Not a sound. 1:05 – ten minutes late.

Then it happened. Two bangs pierced the stillness in quick succession -silence – and a final shot. John slumped down in his chair and his head fell to his hands. The wind outside had come to a stand-still. John lifted his face and checked his mirrors, no one had come out to check the disturbance. No nosey neighbours. His heart began to beat faster in his chest, his breathing quick and short, his stomach knotted and his throat tightened. John was having a panic attack. He certainly knew how to pick his moments. John rolled the window back down, letting the cool wind blow through his black tousled hair. He breathed slowly through his mouth, counting to 8 and making sure to expel all the air. He closed his eyes and breathed back in, counting back to 8 whilst he took in all the fresh air he could. And Relax. The therapist was right. John’s heart rate returned to normal and for a few seconds his mind escaped the muddled state it had been in for the longest time. He felt the breeze move through the car, spiralling around him and blanketing him in an icy chill. He smelt the dregs of coffee in the bottom of his cardboard cup, and the leftover burger he’d had for lunch. He hadn’t eaten anything since. He knew he must be hungry, but he just couldn’t bear to think about that now.

John waited there in that car for something he knew might never arrive. Something that may just leave him there to deal with the mess. That thought grated on him. It made him feel more helpless than he’d ever felt before. As John sat there, he realised how quiet it was. He thought it strange that no one had come to check what was happening, but that was how people were nowadays – self-interested. John’s legs felt stiff, he should get up and move soon, it’d been hours since he’d shifted from that seat. John switched his gaze back to the house. Frankly he was getting sick of the sight of it. Looking at it from the outside it seemed like nothing had changed, when in fact everything had changed, it just wasn’t apparent yet. He traced the familiar outline with his eyes. Looking at the same square windows, the same white door that’d been there many hours ago. The red climbing frame in the back garden, barely visible from where John was stationed. It was all rather nice, rather benign, there was nothing spectacular about this house, nothing to set it aside from any other house on the street. It was who was inside that made it extraordinary.


By Clarrie-Rose Plommer