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About Literature / Artist Senior Member Helen HarveyFemale/United Kingdom Groups :iconhammeredpoetry: HammeredPoetry
where poets are forged
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Literature
Davina
“Hey, are you all right?”
A head was bobbing in the water. Long, damp hair clung to its scalp, and fanned out where it met the sea. I rowed closer.
“Are you all right? Can I help you? You’re a long way out.”
The head bobbed round until it faced my dinghy. It had taken me ages to row out this far, and the beach was a thin line in the distance. I hoped the head was not a corpse.
“I’m fine,” it said.
Phew.
“You want me to row you back? There’s room.”
“No, thanks,” said the head, which was female and oddly familiar. It - she - started bobbing away.
“Do I know you?”
She looked at me. “Geoff Mmmmm-”
“Morris. I do know you!”
“Dorport High School,” she said. “Davina.” A dripping hand plunged out of the water to point at the bobbing head.
“Davina Drew, of course! How have you been?” Davina had been in maths and biology with me. We never really spo
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Messy Bedroom :iconcrumpetsharvey:CrumpetsHarvey 2 0
Literature
After The Storm
1.
Her parents said after the storm nothing would be different.
She had woken suddenly with white behind her eyes and a long, slow grumble of thunder cascading around her bedroom. But she hadn’t believed it at first.
Shaking, she sat up and told herself she was dreaming.
Then a flash. Her scattered clothes, the piled books on her desk, her mirror lit up blue. The thunder’s bellow followed quickly. The storm was on top of her.
Frozen, she endured the flash and roar, flash and roar, each time noticing new horrible blue details: the jagged spikes of a pen pot, the leering face of a picture she had painted at school. She thought about running to her parents, about curling up under the covers, about screaming. But she couldn’t make herself move. It was too big. It was everywhere.
Flash... one... two... three... Roar.
If only she had a black hole in her head to jump inside, just for a while, just until it was gone.
Flash... one... two... Roar.
She would fold t
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Literature
Green Body
I thought:
I’ll plant trees in my skin
along my arm ridges
down the backs of my legs
over my buttocks, my shoulders, my scalp.
I’ll be a forest.
I was thinking of ways
to make  you love me more.
Birds will steal my twigs, I thought,
squirrels hide nuts in my flesh,
bees gouge out my blossoms’ hearts,
rabbits warren my organs
and badgers beat my tracks in my valleys.
You will see me and wonder.
You’ll find the quiet glade of my stomach,
gaze at the light between my branches,
hide in my thickets,
photograph my fingers, my hair.
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Literature
Blue Check Flag
The natural location
to begin a revolution
is the breakfast table.
No one is happy
at breakfast
as it is far too early
but everyone is there,
lured by
bacon/marmalade.
(If there is no
bacon/marmalade, then
it is definitely time to revolt.)
Attention! the lady of the house
demands, tapping a butter knife
on her coffee cup.
Lace up your boots and let’s march.
Ben grabs the breadknife,
Heather the greasy saucepan. Dom
whips the tablecloth from under
plates of half-devoured toast
and waves the blue checks aloft.
Imogen chants
and Ellen clangs two spoons.
At desks chairs are empty,
gaps are unminded,
shirts unworn,
tick-boxes unticked,
computers snoozing.
Tablecloths fly over the
highway, and spoon bands sing.
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Literature
The Season!
When the season arrives
it is terribly unfashionable
to breathe, to blush, to beat.
The deadest dance
is a lame waltz,
all bloodless hands, cold feet.
Oh, everybody wants to be dead!
It’s terribly modish
to catch influenza and wilt,
to bubble with cancer
take a knife to the groin,
to cascade to the ground and rot.
It’s a craze! A romp!
A lark! They say,
you’ll see the cosmos’s frozen heart,
perceive the language of stones,
and laugh
at the living, alone and inept.

It’s the season:
even the living paint themselves corpses,
bruised and ragged and white.
All of us want
to be deader these days,
to admire ourselves finished, complete,
a painting, a novel,
a famous museum,
a “look what I made, what I did!”
So put on your shroud,
for this is the season:
it’s horribly chic to be dead.
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WARNING - Danny's Story :iconcrumpetsharvey:CrumpetsHarvey 1 0 Dog! :iconcrumpetsharvey:CrumpetsHarvey 3 10
Literature
How to Speak Service Station
The car in front wears a careful war mask:
red slash eyes / white slice nose /
big yellow incisor /
Two cruise over scissor snip lines.
PASSENGER 1: Coffee
DRIVER: A42, M6, M5, A40, A342
PASSENGER 2: Skinny capp and double chips
The basin of the food hall seating
area grinds northerners, southerners,
east by west, burr by lilt by whine.
WAITRESS: Chips and peas or chips and beans?
Chips and beans or chips and peas?
CUSTOMER: Peas.
WAITRESS: Peas?
CUSTOMER: Peas.
WAITRESS: Beans.
CUSTOMER: Peas.
WAITRESS: Peas?
We are experiencing technical difficulties.
Please be patient, your order will be rectified shortly.
Outlying moonlight flicks
off car tops gliding right.
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Literature
The Dalzell Knockout
The Banana Bar wasn’t Conner Dalzell’s sort of place. I was behind it slicing lemons, wincing at acid burns, when he walked in alone in a buff duffel coat. The guy was at least fifty, maybe older, his hair turning white.
Tonight was student night, all the cocktails were half price, and fresher girls were getting fresh with lecherous finalists in the faux-leather booths. Conner Dalzell stood in the doorway for half a minute and I thought he would leave. But he took off his coat and searched for a peg to hang it on. To his evident surprise, he didn't find one, so he flung it over his elbow and waddled to the bar.
“What would you recommend then?” he asked. My hands were sticky with lemon juice. I hastily wiped them on my apron.
“Our featured cocktail today is the Blue Lagoon Special: vodka, blue curacao, and white wine.”
“Sounds awful,” he said, slipping from the barstool he’d tried to mount. “What’s blue
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Literature
30th October 1999
Slice.
Fingers shock cold. I pull the knife
from the pumpkin and open my hand.
Bella mouths um like
I’m in serious trouble now.
Mum’s back is turned
at the kitchen counter.
“Mum?” I nudge her arm,
“I’m stupid,” and she sees the blood
and drags me to the car and
the pain starts.
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Literature
Across Oxford in Snow
Perambulating over ice-packed pavements
is a game I often lose. Today’s last square,
Economic Turmoil in the Eighteenth Century Novel. 
Through thin-soled boots I fumble
cobbles’ curves; on Magdalen Bridge
one gloved hand is gripped by the rough balustrade:
left, forward two inches,
right, forward three,
left, forward four inches and one inch back.
How many more frictionless inches to go?
Ice slips through my boot-seams.
In the lecture I will have cold feet.
Inside, the tin air sounds with wisdom:
South Sea Bubbles, Swift, Pope, Defoe.
I hear only complaints of thawing toes. 
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Literature
Cassette Tape
“Which room is the cassette player in now?” says Joe.
I picture the old stereo, a tower block of black plastic with a record deck on the roof and a double cassette player in the second storey. Then I paint the room around it. A brown cupboard, yellow walls, a twisting table lamp.
“The front room,” I announce. It’s hard to remember things like cassette players.
“Do we know where the tape is?” mum asks.
“I’ll find it.”
It ought to be in the cupboard drawer. I pull out The Phoenix and the Carpet, The Little Princess, Just William. None of these are right. I open the DVD cupboard, finger through the DVDs. No. On top of the digibox? Nope. The mantelpiece? Behind the stereo? No and no. Maybe in my bedroom. On the bookshelves? In my desk? Under my desk? Not here. The kitchen! By the radio? Ok, in the back room then? On top of the piano! Of course. Makes sense. 
Three quarters of an hour have passed and my mum an
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Literature
Late Night News
The moment that the old man realised
was a yellowish moment at the boundary of day.
He took off his shoes, clutched the despised
stick, and fell from the verge to the carriageway,
flung the hated object away.
Two lanes of sun-spilled tarmac
gathered a living rush of young cars
like ants; the man collected the facts
of tired days that darkness mars,
of old nights diseased by stars;
seated himself in the fast lane to await
a drunk yob, sans rede or reck, to chase
out his seconds aeons past, the late
night news from its usual place
in his holey brain, his crushed face.
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Literature
The Cafe: LIVE
I was disappointed to find that The Café was not the hotbed of social and political discourse I had desired. It was, after all, called The Café with a capital T and C, and had the kind of furniture which was designedly mismatched.
'Don't let it get you down,' said a stranger opposite, presumably a mind reader. He had a squashed face like a toad, or perhaps it was only the colour of the settee that made me think so. Anyway he was extraordinarily fat. 'I don't suppose it'll last much longer,' he continued, 'I saw them bickering over the blueberry muffin display on Sunday. Then, when they break up, you can be a comfort in her distress.'
The toad thought I was in love with the waitress. I suppose I had been staring at her waist length hair. Why doesn't she wear it loose? I'd wondered somewhat too romantically. Then, catching myself: isn't it a pain to keep untangled?
'I was in fact mourning the death of sophisticated topical debate,' I explained. The toad snorted. It was only in
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Literature
Faustino's Abacus
"I hear you've got enchantments on all the petroleum pipes out of Mexico these days, Doug?" said skinny Javier Galo, cutting the deck and pushing it to his left.
"Warlocks all along the northern border," Doug nodded. He sucked his Bolívar cigar and emitted a perfect smoke cube over the baize. "I'm moving into Texas. The spells there are straw houses, I'll puff 'em down before March."
The man in the hat coughed significantly.
"Don't underestimate those Texan charms, Dougie," The Big Red rumbled, his large face glowing. "They might glitter like show costumes, but they're thick as tanned bull hide, under it."
"Uh huh? Well I think I know what I'm doing," said Doug.
"S'your brother, ain't it?" Javier chimed. "Running the Texan pipes? Conrad Kenjie, right Doug?"
Doug drew on his cigar but said nothing.
"Just watch y'r step, s'all I'm saying," murmured The Big Red, as he laconically dealt the deck.
The lazy day had dwindled into heady dark, and at the bar a crowd gathered itself against
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It's been a week or so. I am still around. Go me.

one. life updates


(People's personal lives are my favourite thing about journals. Pls skip if that is not you.)

I am (a) no longer teaching (short answer: "I like teaching, I don't like being a teacher"), (b) not entirely true, I'm tutoring maths and English, and teaching creative writing to kids and teens some weekends, (c) I'm also doing temp bar work. Which would be fine if it weren't for people, (d) I'm also doing an MA in writing for young people starting September. Very much looking forward to meeting a load of weirdos like me and hanging out with them for a year. And writing, obvs. (e) Right now I'm using all my free time to develop games. My skill set is also very much in development. And as a writerly type I am focusing on Visual Novels...

two. online updates


Games!

Playing lots of indie games, visual novels, story rich games is proving great fun. Making them is even funnerer.

I recently started a blog, which could reasonably be described as a game blog for book people. It is on both wordpress and tumblr at the moment, (though I might give up on the wordpress side, if tumblr proves enough. Updating twice is a pain).

this action will have consequences on wordpresstumblr

three. dA things


I've written a response to FlashFictionLives' latest prompt. Tbh, don't love my entry, but you guys might do better...

June promptThanks to those who participated in May's prompt. A feature will be up soon.
Here are the details for June:
MUST INCLUDE:
dialogue
a colour
an aquatic animal/creature/being
a tool
No word count parameters or anything tricky this month. We will have enough of that with July (Flash Fiction Month) coming up!
Good luck and I hope to see your submissions in before the end of June!
  • Playing: hatoful boyfriend

deviantID

CrumpetsHarvey
Helen Harvey
Artist | Literature
United Kingdom
I like reading and writing the bizarre and the young-adulty, and my favourite authors are Diana Wynne Jones and Meg Rosoff. I've published a collection of children's poems, Dog at the End of the World and I'll by starting and MA in writing for young people next year (2016-17).

I blog about story games and game development at this action will have consequences: wordpress | tumblr
Interests

Comments


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:iconninefirestar:
NineFireStar Featured By Owner Sep 18, 2016   General Artist
I had a look at your books, they seem very creative and interesting. :) Do you have any samples available for browsing online?
Reply
:iconlexissketches:
LexisSketches Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2015
Just stopping by to say hello :hug: Have a wonderful day~!
Reply
:iconmetamage:
metamage Featured By Owner Jul 2, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
I'm a language hound. The minute I discovered a three letter word for lizard was EFT, I was hooked. However, I rarely have time for them now.
Reply
:iconhugqueen:
HugQueen Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2014   Writer
:cuddle: <3
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:iconladylincoln:
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday, honey. :heart:
Reply
:iconthe-golden-knight:
The-Golden-Knight Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013
Happy epic birthday! :dance:
Reply
:iconraspil:
raspil Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013   Writer
happy borthday to you!
Reply
:iconredbann117:
redbann117 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013  Hobbyist
Have a Magical Birthday
Reply
:iconvigilo:
Vigilo Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013  Student Writer
HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Have a lovely one. :glomp: :heart:
Reply
:iconeitvys200:
Eitvys200 Featured By Owner Aug 14, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy b-day :party:
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