shelley writes stuff.

Originally written for TWLOHA . Lives here and here too. Foreword: This piece was written for strangers who needed a kind word. It was written for the loved ones in my life who have struggled. And it was written for myself too. These are probably the words that I'm most proud of. ----------------------------------- There are so many reasons to close yourself off to the world. You don’t want people to worry. You want your space and privacy. You have an image to maintain. You don’t want to drag people down. So you cover your heart with armor to keep everyone out. You protect yourself. You’re the fun girl. The laid-back girl. The girl with no story. You float by on “I’m good, thanks” and smiles and always being a good time, dissolving into self-doubt and self-loathing as soon as you’re alone. But eventually that armor can’t protect you any more. It rusts thanks to the poison in your thoughts and the worries and fears coming from your head. You do anything to shut

—————— They started the new version of this country all full of hope. But as with anything, things fuck up. Some billionaire got interested in the place and for a good, undisclosed price, bought it over. Things started changing. The guy was into hippy dippy new world shit, and had managed to sell a lot of it. He got so caught up in his own sales pitch he decided to run a whole country that way. He wanted the economy to be rated on something called the general happiness rating (GHR). From the outside that looked great; putting the citizens happiness first.  Being grey is the opposite of being happy. So I was poor from the beginning. The rich had the advantage from the start. They had enough money to invest in their happiness. All the best psychiatrists got bought by the government and kept for the wealthy... for the people who actually had the money to access them. And any protests about the new system of care were just laughed off and patronisingly rebranded as “commun

The sun was setting in Los Angeles. Orange and pink hues streaked the skyline. White and grey fluffy clouds stretched across the horizon.  Sam was skateboarding along the Venice Beach boardwalk. She zoomed past the makeshift stalls, big palm trees and little cafes. The freshness of the ocean salt air mixed with the aromas of each place she passed by… the sweetness of donuts and churros, the bitter sharpness of coffee, the mouthwatering smell of pizza… pizza. She almost stopped. She shook her head. Later. She needed out her head for a while. Diving in and out and inbetween tourists and lovers out for romantic walks by the ocean.  The wind flowing through her air. Foot meeting concrete to make herself go faster. Leaning her body into the board. It all felt as simple and as natural as breathing.  Leigh was still in the Hammer Museum. Her friend had an exhibition there and she wanted to be supportive. The air felt stifling. She spent the evening having meaningless conversation tha

She was a week into the job when the new shifts were announced. “As you know, we’ve increased our portfolio to include international clients. This means we need to operate on a more global-friendly basis.” The unease in the room still lingered. When Andrew came into the break room to announce things – “I use the break room because it’s friendly, more approachable… I’m not the man in the big shiny separate office, I’m in the trenches with the troops, ya know? It’s all about sharing the space they do. It’s just good management” he once boasted to a client – it wasn’t usually good news. The break room was where budget cuts were announced, where the downsizing happened, where the cheap crappy coffee lived. “This is also an opportunity for you to seize! Today I’m announcing that we will be restructuring the shift patterns of this place. The world isn’t 9-5 anymore. We need a different approach.” The vending machine hums. Nobody makes eye contact with him.  “Those who have childc

“I don’t give a damn about my reputation” Joan Jett sung loud into her headphones. Ugh. Movie trope cliché. She rolled her eyes and changed the track. She was right. That was a lazy choice. This narrator apologises. We all good down there? Whatever. I’ll take it. Roxie Rixton. 21. Raven black hair. Tattooed. Roller-derby player. Total badass.  And yes, before you ask she is wearing docs. Black. Worn out round the edges because anything that looks looked after and well-kept is just too try hard.   She marches into the record shop, music blaring from her SkullCandy headphones. She is very aware that these used to be cool, and that’s why she wears them. They  used  to be cool. Okay, that’s not the whole story but that’s what she pretends it is… Shut up will you? You don’t want me to tell them why? NO! …fine. There’s another reason why but ‘little miss Roxie’ won’t even let her goddamn narrator tell anyone.   Dude. Shut up. Fine. I’m so gonna let that story hau