Story Archive

by Christopher Worrall – an autobiographical piece I had a dream last night.  I was in a tower so tall that the ground below was invisible. Inside the tower was an equivalent of everything and everyone I knew in the world outside.  There were crowds, and sometimes I walked through them,... continue reading »

by Sandra Wilson – an autobiographical piece I arrived at the tall glass building and entered via the side doors.  It was a dark chilly wintery morning.  I switched on the lights as I walked the corridor towards the office that led to the reception desk.  I hung my thick navy... continue reading »

by Elif Soyler – an autobiographical piece Right before lockdown, I heard an old song for the first time. It was Carole King’s Bitter with the Sweet from Rhymes and Reasons, released in 1972. Those last few days were tentatively spent wandering around the emptying streets of Norwich. I admired the... continue reading »

by Ersi Zevgoli, an autobiographical piece “See you in two weeks!” I remember my flatmate telling me as she gave me a big hug and a bright smile, certain that this was only a passing thing. My smile was a little more tense. “You won’t,” I wanted to reply, but nobody... continue reading »

for Max (Ferdinand) Maxwell, by Zoe Mitchell One The bat is heavy in his hands. Max thumbs his way around it, searching for grip on that well-worn wood. It’s older than his skin, this bat – it’s been softened by other hands, other games played long before he was born. But,... continue reading »

for Sarah Bancroft, by Suzanne Wilson “I shouted at Dominic Cummings. He was in a cafe and I noticed him, so I shouted, ‘Ohh you horrible man, you!’ And he sort of…” Sarah mimics some grumbling-man noises, “…and off he went.” Imagining Sarah’s expressive voice shouting over the hissing of barista... continue reading »

for Steve Brooks, by Sophie Brown As you get older you notice the minor changes. Things around you are so familiar, the streets are like the back of your hand, so when a new freckle appears you notice. Steve was sat watching TV when he spotted the change: media outlets playing... continue reading »

for Miry Mayer, by Sam Dodd “So many times, assumptions are made. ‘We know better because we design the rules.’ But no, that is not how it works. People are not voiceless, faceless numbers. Listen to their voices, ask them what they need.” ~ Just before lockdown in March 2020, I... continue reading »

for Denise Arbiso, by Sam Dodd “I’ve been joyriding down the Roman on my mobility scooter. Gets me about alright, that thing does! Went to Toynbee Hall today – wasn’t able to go there all through lockdown. They’re so lovely there. You know, I’ve got a terrible memory. You may not... continue reading »

for Joan Barham, by Rowena Price ‘There’s nothing you can do ‘bout this, it’s just gotta take its course.’ ‘That’s a good way to look at it.’ ‘Well, there’s no other way to look at it.’ *** Resilience, for those of the generation who can remember the Second World War, is... continue reading »

for Claire Chatelet, by Nic Peard When Claire and I have our first call, she is in a hotel in Folkestone, two hundred and seventy-two miles away from me in York. I can hear the gulls keening nearby as she tells me she’s just getting settled after walking like mad to... continue reading »

for Peggy Metaxas, by Nacima Khan “Hello?” The phone clicked quietly as Peggy’s clear voice echoed through the line. “Hello?” It was never a formal nor distanced hello, but one which always opened up a door into Peggy’s home, one which invited you in for a cup of tea, one which... continue reading »

for Robyn Wells, by Marta Guerreiro It was being a mother that brought her the ability to adapt and adjust, Robyn told me. She does not remember always having this talent to accept whatever life brings, remembering that being a mother meant learning that not everything will always be perfect, that... continue reading »

for Annette Morreau, by Jordan Aramitz During Covid-19, Annette kept sane through music. For millions across the world its power as a source of pure, unfiltered joy, might be regarded as a dependency. But so what? In this rapidly changing era of the 2020s, it is vital to have a dependable... continue reading »

for Alov Odoglu, by Jack Pascoe “It’s always hopeless to talk about painting – one never does anything but talk around it.” ~ Francis Bacon Alov is looking at his laptop on the little dark brown wooden school desk he found on the street. Drops of many colour shades are spattered... continue reading »

for Peter Shrimpton, by Imogen Ince Peter warns me, just minutes into our first conversation, that he’s a little old fashioned, a self-proclaimed old fogey and proud. Initially, I laughed this off as an amusing, somewhat throwaway comment, yet seeing how the world can change so drastically and so quickly, I’ve... continue reading »

for George Freeman, by Ersi Zevgoli Sitting at home watching the telly is not a state of being that comes naturally to George Freeman: “The television bores me stiff,” he tells me. No wonder, then, that when I ask him how lockdown’s been for him on our first call, he tells... continue reading »

for Johnny Besagni, by Erica Masserano (Dedicated to the memory of Clerkenwell historian Olive Besagni) Johnny walks round the back of Holborn. He’s been doing this two or three times a week the whole winter. He comes to Central to see some hustle and bustle; he likes that. Though he was... continue reading »

for Miles Davis, by Erica Masserano The part of himself that looked at the world like a child, because when you are a child, you do not see the world as you do now When you’re little you’re just like a sponge The fence that separates Harry Roberts nursery from Ben... continue reading »

for Charlie Burke, by Elif Soyler The first time Charlie speaks to me we are about one hundred miles apart, but we share a grey, shadowy sky. Out of his window, in his flat in Stratford, the East London skyscrapers of Canary Wharf are smothered in a low-hanging fog. The neighbourhoods... continue reading »

for The Lowes, by Denise Monroe Irenee and George met properly at the Black Lion public house in 1967. They were both Canning Town born and bred, post war babies who had grown up only a few streets apart from each other. Irenee was a couple of years older than George... continue reading »

for Eileen Wade, by Catriona West Eileen’s initial response to the coronavirus was that it was something happening in a far-away place, on the other side of the world, that would never be a problem here. In general, Eileen is not a worrier, and indeed she refused to worry about the... continue reading »

by Zoe Mitchell – an autobiographical piece On the first day of lockdown, I played four games of Mario Kart back to back. And then I cried for an hour. It’s weird, trying to understand yourself. When you decouple your actions from the context, step back into an objective side seat,... continue reading »

by Suzanne Wilson – an autobiographical piece “Do you hear that?” “Yeah, what…?” I squinted with both my ears and eyes, “Hold on. What time is it?” “Eight o’clock.” My partner then understood, “God, they’re doing that clapping thing, aren’t they?” It was Thursday evening, and we had been watching something... continue reading »

by Sophie Brown – an autobiographical piece It started as a rumour on the walkway, which turned into an email and finally a student’s nightmare. All face-to-face teaching just suspended, like a misplaced apostrophe, hanging in mid-air. Life cut off mid-sentence. No chance to cross the t’s and dot the i’s;... continue reading »

by Sam Dodd – an autobiographical piece “Guess why I’m walking round in circles?” I look at him reluctantly. “Cos I’ve got all my spare change just in one pocket! Geddit? So I’m weighed down on one side. So the coins pull me to one side, and I keep going rou…”... continue reading »

by Rowena Price – an autobiographical piece MARCH (GLOUCESTERSHIRE) The garden of my family home is graced with new growth: pale green shoots of daffodils and anemones. Last night the government told us that we can enjoy these green outdoor things on our own or with one other person, but only... continue reading »

by Nic Peard – an autobiographical piece The Department looks out over an artificial lake and acres of marshland. The marshland remains untouched for the most part. On some foggy, cold mornings, it seems like the marshland is only permitting the campus to come so far – or slowly stealing back.... continue reading »

by Marta Guerreiro – an autobiographical piece With loose hands and bare feet, my home is my altar. I have always been like this, I want candles and incense, I want blankets and time to clean the house, if I am being honest, a lot more often than necessary. I like... continue reading »

by Lydia Morris – an autobiographical piece Light blusters in at such ferocity when she opens her eyes that she’ll later wonder – once her brain too awakens – how she ever slept through it in the first place. Though perhaps – she’ll reason – it’s simply commonplace now that she’s... continue reading »

by Jordan Aramitz – an autobiographical piece Lachesism is the desire to be struck by disaster: to plunge into a burning house, to rise from the wreckage of an earthquake, to drive towards a tornado in the storm-chasing frenzy of a bored life, salivating at the idea of adventure – even... continue reading »

by Jack Pascoe – an autobiographical piece Getting better all the time but never really reaching my prime. Something I needed was back where I left it never changed or even affected. April 24th 2020 Three in the morning! I hack out a chesty cough and try to bring my head... continue reading »

by Imogen Ince – an autobiographical piece My sister and I used to play a game, if you could call it that; we’d count the number of planes that would slice up our little piece of sky and, if we stayed up late enough, spot a satellite in the dark. I’d... continue reading »

by Denise Monroe – an autobiographical piece My husband came home from Italy in February 2020. He had been staying with his sister and her husband, a retired Italian doctor who had worked in Sierra Leone during the Ebola outbreak of 2014. He knew a thing or two about epidemics and... continue reading »

by Catriona West – an autobiographical piece …room to the living room to the kitchen to her room to the garden to her room. Every day is the same. Every day is the same. Every day is the same. Wash your hands. Social distance. Stay 2 metres apart. Use hand sanitiser.... continue reading »

I am early productive mornings, but I am also the longest, laziest lie in. I am two pairs of socks in all seasons except summer – I do not trust the cold. I am a black tea, no sugar; however I am not a sugarless coffee just yet. I am the... continue reading »

My family moved house when I was seven years old and so did the devil. He blended into the darkest corners during the day and into the darkness at night.   We moved into the four-bedroom terraced house late one evening. Exhausted from the drive and from unloading the hired van, we... continue reading »

Walking I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands. – Linda Hogan   There was a line somewhere. It was faint, like cutting through a patch of mist, and... continue reading »

I sat upon the green softness My tired legs welcomed the relief of rest You were nestled inside Sleeping and still Here we took a moment Here in the garden We connected And here, I hope we will meet again.   Three weeks earlier. November 2018, London Three years after becoming... continue reading »

I I didn’t go to kindergarten until I was four. I was an innocent child, growing up in my nanny’s arms. She had dry skin, proving that she was old enough to tell me about life, but not perfect enough to believe in heaven. Discipline was what her eyes were always... continue reading »

It’s my first week in London and the learning curve is steep. I am staying at Susi and Fra’s place near Turnpike Lane, in the draughty front room of a Victorian terrace, where I sleep on a fake leather sofa and an Ikea catalogue. I’m only the last in a long... continue reading »

“I can’t find peace here. This city is as tight as my skinny jeans.” Still, for someone who didn’t even want to come live here, nearly eight years is a long time. This thought catches me nearly every day, when I see the first ray of light coming through the blinds... continue reading »

Loneliness Aidan and Mitchell were always around. There were times of anger and frustration. They didn’t like me that much; they were always making fun of me. Mom was busy with them and not me. I felt lonely. I would wander around my yard, to the pond, the woods, or to... continue reading »

From the life of Pearline Donaldson By Marta Guerreiro — Not all stories have a thread. Often, our life becomes easier to tell if we remember just some moments, pieces: a puzzle of loves and battles, which we preserve within us, in places that can be poetic – a treasure chest... continue reading »

From the life of Lynford Cornelius Thompson By Erica Masserano — When Lynford moves from Westmoreland, he is 20. Westmoreland was green, green, green, but his family lived in a house built out of wooden boards; concrete was for richer people, and stone for the slavehouses like the one his grandfather... continue reading »

From the life of Alba By Daniela Bragato — They say I’ve got a nice smile, but I don’t smile often these days. “What’s the matter Alba, c’mon, where’s that smile? Where’s that smile?” they say. “Oh, I’ve lost it.” I lost it the day my husband left me and my... continue reading »

From the life of Edwin Rolle By Sandra Wilson — The hot sun blazed down on the inhabitants of the small island of Dominica. The sea breeze blew very gently every so often to cool them as they went about their daily business. The sky was a bright blue and the... continue reading »

From the life of Ferdinand Maxwell By Erica Masserano — 1, 2: Barbados What Barbados is like? Summer throughout the year, sunshine every day. I was born there in 1941. Growing up there is a lot better than what I see the kids doing who grow up here. My dad was... continue reading »

From the life of Ernest Forde By Claire Dougher — I am from the West Indies, Barbados, St. Phillips on the West Coast. I lived there with my granny from when I was about three months old and then moved here when I was nine. Back in the day, your parents... continue reading »

From the life of Claire Chatelet By Naida Redgrave — ‘I’m warning you, I jump from subject to subject. I’ve got a form of dyslexia. I’ll take you somewhere, then I’ll loop back and forth. The problem is, I find it very difficult to find salient points. I view everything as... continue reading »

From the life of Rosie Joyce By Nacima Khan — We met on a boat, Rosie and I. Affectionately named the ‘River Princess’, the boat was charming yet weather-beaten and floated in the waters of Cody Dock, a less frequented and quiet part of East London. The boat smelled damp; the... continue reading »

From the life of Sarah Bancroft By Erica Masserano — Sarah says she’s late because she saw a seal in the Thames. “It was like an arrow in the water”, she mimes, swimming around the room in broad strokes; it’s Kate Bush interpretive dance meets your local fisherman measuring a fictional... continue reading »

From the life of George Freeman By Sam Dodd — When I was first born, in 1948, we lived in North London: a two-bed flat in Wenlock Barn, Hoxton. Then the rest of my siblings came along and a bigger flat came up in Bethnal Green. That’s where I consider my... continue reading »

From the life of Joy Berry By Sandra Wilson — Barking had been the area that Maisie had dreamt about living in for years. Posh, idyllic, with tree lined houses. She had married Peter and those dreams had come true. She had often spent her time thinking about it as she... continue reading »

From the life of Steve Brooks By Zach Ekpe — 1880 My family were Sephardi Jews from Portugal. That would be my grandfather, his father and his grandfather, they were in a pogrom – a pogrom is where the state turns against part of its inhabitants and expels them. They took... continue reading »

From the life of Ken Hay By Fran Brown — “Herewith, as promised, my story – but don’t expect anything heroic. I am no hero, nor was I ever.” Sure, Ken had never slain a dragon, defeated a troll or rescued a damsel in distress, but he had the courage to... continue reading »

I remember the day vividly, and of course I would, as my whole life shifted trajectory. I collapsed into freefall, and all I could do was wait until I found the bottom again. I woke up at six forty-five to leave by seven – any later and I would have been... continue reading »

London, November 2016. Allow me to show you the kind of situation that I felt really mattered in my life when I was a young adult. Looking back I now realise how insignificant that and many similar situations were. They were mere inconveniences and in the grand scheme of things –... continue reading »

From the life of Chris Coffey By Stevie Kilgour — Name – Chris Coffey Age – 76 Born – Cork, Republic of Ireland Lives – Hackney, London. Occupation – Retired Stonemason. A dull November night in Hackney, East London and Chris walks slowly and aided by an old walking stick to... continue reading »

Congratulations to Rebecca for this wonderful, eloquent piece on London. The CityLife team and UEL are absolutely thrilled that she is the winner of this years inaugural CityLife Prize for Fiction by Young Writers. There had been an accident on Fenchurch Street. A cyclist lay on her side on the tarmac,... continue reading »

From the life of Pam Moore By Suzanne Wilson — A pretty young girl of eighteen stepped out of the front door of her family home in Bedford, clutching a small suitcase, and jumped into a taxi. Pam was escaping, ready to answer her calling to become a nurse. The taxi... continue reading »

From the life of John Roden By Samuel Hardy — Hope: a feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen. : John’s granddaughter’s name. *** The East End. The sixties. A small boy can walk around his street in Shoreditch and be assured that his neighbors will watch... continue reading »

From the life of Gowhar Shaikh By Jack Pascoe — Sam and I reached Richard House Hospice at around ten o’clock in the morning. I hadn’t slept particularly well due to noisy neighbours. Also the noise of the planes taking off from London city airport that morning didn’t help matters. We signed... continue reading »

When I was four years old, we listened to Ska and danced in the living room. Our house, in the middle of our street… We wanted a fixer upper. Why don’t you have a job? Because I spend all day doing up the house for your mother. Mind your feet. Don’t... continue reading »

  A Dreaded Time October, 2015. Trepidation gripped me once more. Worse than the making of the appointment; telling them your name and asking for a time and day is child’s play. I can do this.                                                                                                          I can’t do this. I got there. I stood outside the daunting black gates that... continue reading »

The one thing about change is that you rarely see it coming.   —   Most of the time, it’s already here.   First Beat – Sixteen Years Old When I found the first patch – just behind my right ear, concealed by the hair that would be there for a... continue reading »

Meat City I didn’t think I’d ever been stared at more in my life. As I boarded the flight from Dubai to Beijing, the whole plane, consisting mainly of Chinese people, turned to me like I was a tourist attraction. I don’t mind it when somebody looks at me, but rows... continue reading »

From the life of Jane Boyle By Emerald Wild — Jane Boyle was born in East London, and has always felt a strong tie to the place. Her parents already had a son, and would go on to have three more daughters after her. By the age of nine, Jane was... continue reading »

From the life of Irene Pasquini By Megan Slade — Irene enters the Age UK courtyard, a large patio garden with tables and chairs, on her new mobilised wheelchair in a bright yellow summer dress and leopard-print coat. She greets various friends, support workers, and nurses in the facility. “Check out... continue reading »

From the life of Joan Barham By Suzie Champion — It has been said that when our environment changes, when the familiar buildings and the outline disappear, and people move or are moved away, our memories, those unique histories, gradually diminish along with those reminders and nowhere is that eradication truer... continue reading »

From the life of Crispin Janolo By Naomi Duffree — I had the honour of meeting Crispin, a Filipino East London resident who is recovering from a stroke that has brought on aphasia – a communication disorder that limits a person’s ability to express themselves when speaking, understand speech, and causes... continue reading »

From the life of Adrian By Martin Clarke — Saturday morning, a little after eleven. Late October. Warnings of sub-zero temperatures and snow, as other parts of the country have already seen. Adrian, a man in his early fifties, lies naked in bed inside his Bethnal Green house, one hand holding... continue reading »

From the life of Ellen Shrimpton By Sam Dodd — I met with Ellen with the intention of talking to her about her grandmother, Vesta Fay. I’d heard tales about the old-time East End wartime music hall performer, a woman who dressed as a man and smoked on stage, entertained the... continue reading »

From the life of Eileen Wade By Naomi Duffree — There is a strong resilient spirit running through the East End. Where does it originate from and in this era when the phrase, “They don’t make ’em like that any more” is often heard, do we have a need to worry... continue reading »

From the life of Nessa By Nacima Khan — Her eyes flickered over my bump and she asked me how many months I was. Eight. She nodded.  My first? Yes. ‘She’ was Nessa, a sixty-year-old Bangladeshi woman who I had met sitting behind me one day at the local mosque. She,... continue reading »

From the life of Angur Miah By Michael Pudney — The New Life and Wilson’s Equal Opportunities Everybody should have an equal chance – but they shouldn’t have a flying start. – Harold Wilson, British Prime Minister 1964–1970, 1974–1976   In the small town of Syllet, around 200 miles north of Dhaka,... continue reading »

From the life of John Besagni By Erica Masserano (Special thanks to Clerkenwell community historian Olive Besagni) — His first memory is the wail of the sirens; his second of everyone running for cover down to what he didn’t know, couldn’t have known, was Chancery Lane. Sometimes the bombs never came;... continue reading »

From the life of Irenee Lowe By Jo Berouche — Back before glass and steel, stood brick and mortar. Thin terraces, chimneys pluming, the midday clouds long and white. Lean, bright and beautiful. Tiny feet in little shoes. Fidgeting on the kitchen floor. Polish. Clock-ticking. The smell of the carpet at... continue reading »

From the life of Betty By Sandra Wilson — I remember, I was six years old and we got driven to the train station. I don’t recall which one it was. Me and me sister had little brown parcels. Mum had packed them a few weeks before going to the station and... continue reading »

From the life of Kevin Flannagan By Lydia Morris — “…and you’re not expecting it, some people you only meet once and it has that instant effect on you, you know?” – Flan. Hand on the steering wheel, he takes a left turn. The sleeve of his coat is still wet... continue reading »

From the life of Charlie Burke By Jo Lazar — “What’s the matter, Charlie?” “I need help, my head’s bursting.” In Barking, in 1946, Charlie’s head was the youngest in his family and it would always be. He got away with everything. To add to his numerous siblings, the community was... continue reading »

From the life of John Wiggett By Sam Dodd — I had the pleasure of talking to John, a lifelong East Londoner, and a mine of information on what this amazing community used to look and feel like. He paints a vivid picture of life in the last half of the... continue reading »

From the life of George Lowe, as told by Irenee Lowe By Craig Britton — Born in East London in 1914, George Lowe was a shipwright almost all his life. He lived in Plaistow with his wife and son, also named George, and worked primarily for ship-building giant Harland and Wolff,... continue reading »

Skin Basal cells form in the prickle cell layer between the dermis and epidermis. They contain fibrils within the cellular cytoplasm that helps strengthen the skin. These cells actively divide and ascend through the granular layer replacing those at the cornified layer. When damaged, the regeneration process breaks down at the... continue reading »

Sheffield, 12 February 2015 The sheet has left the duvet and seemingly spent most of the afternoon trying to see how many things it can swallow without the two of them noticing. “Babe, where are the scissors?” Her eyes, as wide as her smile, glance up from the bed. Pricking her... continue reading »

Yesterday “I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses.” ―Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra I woke up to a beautiful spring afternoon. Birds chirped in the distance and the house felt... continue reading »

#1 Dear Scarlet, My mother is incredible. I can only hope to be as phenomenal a mother, and if I am halfway there I will count it a personal victory. She is the oldest of four, and since her parents worked full time for most of her young life, she also... continue reading »

There is an ash cloud in the sky, says the paper. The man hands it to me in Stratford Station. It informs me in letters taking up the best part of the front page: VOLCANIC ASH FROM ICELAND SHUTS ALL AIRPORTS LEAVING ONE MILLION AFFECTED. Beside it is a picture of... continue reading »

2012 The police arrived within two hours of me making the phone call. “When did you discover you had been broken into?” the young officer asked as his two colleagues stood outside the house, dusting our bay window for fingerprints and footprints. “I went downstairs at 7am this morning and the... continue reading »

“Home sweet home, hey sis?” My brother had, for the first time in twenty-four hours, regained his usual cockiness and beamed at me whilst flicking his overgrown hair, nearly walking backwards into a petite woman pushing a pram with one hand and dragging a child with the other. I pulled him... continue reading »

1. “Seventh floor.” How did I get here? You can see the Thames, the London Eye, The Houses of Parliament. I’m sitting in meetings. They’re talking about million dollar deals. I’m getting paid to read Tolstoy; I’m getting paid to judge submitted work. I don’t deserve this, not at all, I’m... continue reading »

Tick by tock, by tick-tock, with me she wanders still. Born inside each other, past and future lives colliding, I am she who is me myself and I, the sum total of all the things I did and did not do. The echo of a small young voice asks me: What... continue reading »

They took to the bed, bred, three weeks: never bled. It doesn’t look good on you the stepfathers said. They wanted me dead. After the birth the medical notes read:         Promote good mothering                 Promote good mothering      ... continue reading »

1989. I wasn’t even a plan then. I was all the ovules a woman aged thirty-four had bled along with her uterus lining month after month. I was a shadow of a thought of an idea of an impossibility. I was my father’s greatest wish and hardest achievement. He-Who-Was-Executed-On-Christmas-Day, Nicolae Ceausescu,... continue reading »

I had black feet, and blacker eyes, when I was six years old. I shuffled towards my friend Moisree one day in the searing heat of summer and spotted my foothold in her trunk; the shape of my toes slowly becoming worn into her rough bark smoothly, from the countless times... continue reading »

One Daniel “You know, I read today that it’s common for children to have imaginary friends,” were the words my mother echoed to my father when I introduced them to my best friend Daniel; the red dragon from the Ready Brek adverts, which, now that I think of it, was peculiar,... continue reading »

My mother is eighty-eight.  Daytime television and a weekly trip to the hairdresser sums up her week. Confused phone calls. She is not the same person I knew twenty years ago; nor the same person who helped me through my first loss of her dear friend, Bobby, my godmother. And I’m... continue reading »

I thought it’d just be one of those Sundays where I’d go round Joe’s house, kick a ball around, play some computer games and eat some junk food. Standard. However, little did I know that this particular Sunday would teach me more than my class teacher or parents ever would. We... continue reading »

Question One: This is a test. Complete the below examples using all that you have learned this module, demonstrating your understanding of the above. I am fragments. The foil breaks, blisters crumple. The lips open and press on mine. A hand comes out and folds over my shoulder. I am written... continue reading »