THE WRITING OF

      JILL OWEN

I have come to writing at a later age than most, but I have a lifetime of stories inside my head. Check out these tasters from my work.

Spitting Out

An unexpected encounter on the Underground 


He saw the girl glancing at him. Fancy a cherry? He said suddenly, surprising himself, and felt a hot blush creeping up the back of his neck. They look lovely, she was saying back to him, laughing, and he was trying to identify her vague accent, perhaps Northern Irish. He had a sudden, vivid flashback to a childhood holiday in Donegal, running wild with his cousins, barefoot on the windswept beach.

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Mayfly Dancing

A boy struggles to understand his relationship with his mother

Sometimes, Tyler's mother would be in the kitchen when he came home. Drinking a cup of green tea in her dressing gown, and chatting with Grandma. But generally she would be in bed, talking to her friends on the phone. Or was it just one friend? wondered Tyler. She always spoke so much, there was hardly a gap left for the other person to say Really? It would have to be someone who didn't mind not joining in the conversation very often. Tyler needs to contribute more in class, Mrs Troughton said to Tyler's dad at the last parents' evening. He knew what that meant; putting up your hand and answering questions. Perhaps his mum's invisible friend had been like Tyler at school; afraid to say anything because it might be wrong.

Hidden Serpent

A growing up story

That night though, running down the road to the corner where my friends were waiting, I felt the true beginnings of being free. I was wearing a white flared jumpsuit in homage to Abba. I was just sixteen, and I felt beautiful that night for the first time. I wouldn't sit down on the bus when it came rumbling to a stop; I didn't want to risk getting a mark on the jumpsuit from the grubby flock upholstery. Instead I grabbed hold of the pole and whirled round and round, with my hair bouncing in a cloud of curls and the bangles on my arm jangling and everyone staring at me. Or so I imagined.

So Pretty

The line between love and hate becomes blurred

Had he taken a beer from the fridge and sat on his sofa watching the football and drinking his drink, and then put his coat on and the empty bottle in his pocket and walked out to meet her? Or had he gone to the supermarket on the way, walked up and down the aisles, picking the bottles up and feeling the weight in his  hands and thinking, is this heavy enough? 

Dylan Thomas

"Once it was the colour of saying"

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