Sausage hand

I realise it has been an age.
I just read back the former poems I wrote and they are shit. Self indulgent, uninteresting badly structured shit.
To find no one had said anything I'm not suprised, but this isn't a feel sorry for myself message.

This is a new leaf.

Since my last post I have actually been going to univeristy and not moping around men. I got married and live with the emotional mess now. How ever many problems we share with each other we have good times and love each other as well.

I'm finding I'm more of a short story writer. I love them, the raw meat of writing. Yet I still love reading poetry (John Agard and Jackie Kay are particular loves right now) I don't feel so inspired to write poetry until I'm feeling depressed.

Short stories on the other hand I'm constantly working on a couple at a time. Found the wonder of Alice Monroe, been catching up on Chekhov and always enjoy a bit of Zadie Smith. Now in the process of reading Saki and Maugham <- is that how it's spelt? No idea.

Here is one of the pieces I have been working on. AND remember it is still a work in progress, there are bits that need tweeking.

SAUSAGE HAND

Three plump sausage were placed on the table where his fingers should be. Reaching for a pen he drew with the other five fingered hand nails at the top of them. All he needed now was a needle and thread. His mother's sewing box was next to him.
Doctors were baffled when he was born with only a thumb and little finger on his left hand. They jibed his mum with questions, had she smoked during the pregnancy, taken drugs, drunk? And she answered coldly, no.
Everyday someone looked at his hands with a wide eyed fascination or a sick curdle in their attempted smiles. Even Mr Walton next door who had know his all his life would grimace at his hand.
His year six SAT's where starting that day. His only hope was that the bullying would die down. He wanted good results and he couldn't do that crying in the toilet.
He didn't mind the pain as the needle went through the top of his knuckle. He'd get used to it. When he got home he could take them out.
His mum said he was perfect the way he was. She had never been disappointed or upset with him. She said he was brave baring other peoples problems.
He hoped she wouldn't see what he was doing. She'd be disappointed then.
He pushed the needle through the first sausage, its tight skin popped. The point went back through his knuckle. He pulled tight on the thread. Blood snaked down his arm.