Emily Elizabeth Buckley

Writer and Creative

  • Oscar

    i. Our love dared not speak its name, flowing in hushed whispers like a river through the forest of our hearts; stolen glances over notebooks, newspapers, and sins. We danced around each other in this spinning world, hiding in the twenty-six s           p          a          c          e          s between my you and my first. We waited Continue reading

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  • Mittelschmerz

    ‘pain associated with ovulation’ Part of me died on the doctor’s table burnt away, scalpel cut, I can feel it in the metal dish. Flesh twitching beneath the surgeon’s knife, abnormal lesions destroyed. I wonder how she can do it, cut someone else’s body, but still blame their period, instead of seeing the chronic illness. Continue reading

  • Dysmenorrhea

    ‘painful, disabling cramps in the lower abdomen’ Few people feel where their ovaries are. I guess people know the rough placement, they could point and pick them out on a chart. They vaguely know how the misplacement of growing tissue, and of bleeding cysts make the ovaries flood with hormones and make stabbing pain and Continue reading

  • Driving on the M6 on a clear night with a dying phone

    There is a point on the M6 between junctions 33 and 32 where the 12-mile stretch opens into the ink-black night and you’re driving through constellations of LED headlights. The stars out of your window become the beacons that over-caffeinated drivers navigate by, like argonauts sailing by moonlight. Fleetwood Mac flows through the car as Continue reading

  • Miasma

    ‘an unpleasant or unhealthy smell or vapour’‘an oppressive or unpleasant atmosphere which surrounds or emanates fromsomething’ I wish I smoked cigarettes,I’d go outside daily,watch fag smoke float into the air,strum on my ukulele. Gentle music makes a backdropto the film’s projectiona new world of beautiful lightof fag smoke’s creation. Dragons fly through fire ashen smoke.When Continue reading

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  • She Stood on the Doorstep

    Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. She stands on the doorstep, her hand raised in a fist, poised to knock. There is a worrisome edge to her, lip caught between her teeth, her eyes glazed over; she is terrified. Gathering her short blonde hair into her other hand, she bobs up and down on the balls Continue reading

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  • Wilfred (1893 – 1918)

    This is the Anthem for Doomed Youth whose goodbyes still shine in b          l           a           n          k eyes, too young to have already died. This is the Anthem for Doomed men turning back to our dying, shells and mortar raining down, what is love doing here? This is the Anthem for those who were exposed, Continue reading