︎︎︎Institute of Continuing Education, University of Cambridge
︎︎︎ Member: Selwyn College
During my time going back and forth every few months between New York City and England in pursuit of my Masters of Studies, I have crafted a number of literary work(s). I have had the privilege of comparison and with this privilege I believe my craft and my voice have benefited. My perspective continues to expand like the ripple of pond, and I hope that it never stills. Below are a sample of works written within, throughout, and around this course*:
A DISPLEASURE WITH HER COMPANY
A Short Story - Excerpt (2024)
A Short Story - Excerpt (2024)
She whispers in her head sometimes, of fabrications she tells (no) others; of mysteries and violences she solves. If it wasn’t for these lies would she hold still, the gaze of strangers on the street prompting a sneer.
The same woman exists in another plane of existence, a dimension of which her mind remains partially tethered to. I hope one day we'll meet again, but I’m afraid the closest we’ll collide face to face is between both mirror and bullet-proof glass.
We met before, the summer prior. She stood in blue, with gray rubber socks behind thick glass. Her sister came to visit after they called. They told her they were worried for her safety, the well-being of her mind at a juncture of clinical understanding. She was not high, but her mind had splintered from reality. She told the resident psychiatrist, if only there was another word for that woman’s disqualifications, that nothing felt real. That all she wanted to do was laugh and swim in the river. That she’d do it if it weren’t for the small voice in her head telling her something was not right.
The same woman exists in another plane of existence, a dimension of which her mind remains partially tethered to. I hope one day we'll meet again, but I’m afraid the closest we’ll collide face to face is between both mirror and bullet-proof glass.
We met before, the summer prior. She stood in blue, with gray rubber socks behind thick glass. Her sister came to visit after they called. They told her they were worried for her safety, the well-being of her mind at a juncture of clinical understanding. She was not high, but her mind had splintered from reality. She told the resident psychiatrist, if only there was another word for that woman’s disqualifications, that nothing felt real. That all she wanted to do was laugh and swim in the river. That she’d do it if it weren’t for the small voice in her head telling her something was not right.
VI. A reflection of the dirt, is only but a gag- how could I breathe the same breath of the pale monster’s breast -a poison spewing bone-dry contempt. I know not of my sins, the masculine pronunciation of the ‘toppins’ for the bar born just after birth. Maybe She, maybe I, can attest to the poison if we’re still accepting poison may not be air.
Rumble, rumble
crunch of my teeth,
I stomp my shoulders high to my brow
and scream of pity at what he eats.
’Tis glass that cuts my tongue
when his is smooth and swallowed
the pride of no direction
rattles the graves of the shallow.
And I can not but fathom whether my Violence is misdirected, or born from the spired secrets that give birth to the world’s most dangerous. I do not tell small anecdotes to myself in fear I’ll lose control; a star falls just for me. My spears are forged in nebulas of still-born stars, whose glue remains the guiding light for Woman. Is Woman me, is Woman you? A fascinating instruction for the mind, as suggestive as a damsel’s lace.
Crack the Earth
mend her core
the beasts of the light and night
remain the realm’s dirtiest whore.
I conjure the image of Woman, steed and steady; she breaks her bread at redwood’s base, the yeast of roots that weave deeper into marrow.
‘Tis a time
‘Tis a time
tiny smile.
Rumble, rumble
crunch of my teeth,
I stomp my shoulders high to my brow
and scream of pity at what he eats.
’Tis glass that cuts my tongue
when his is smooth and swallowed
the pride of no direction
rattles the graves of the shallow.
And I can not but fathom whether my Violence is misdirected, or born from the spired secrets that give birth to the world’s most dangerous. I do not tell small anecdotes to myself in fear I’ll lose control; a star falls just for me. My spears are forged in nebulas of still-born stars, whose glue remains the guiding light for Woman. Is Woman me, is Woman you? A fascinating instruction for the mind, as suggestive as a damsel’s lace.
Crack the Earth
mend her core
the beasts of the light and night
remain the realm’s dirtiest whore.
I conjure the image of Woman, steed and steady; she breaks her bread at redwood’s base, the yeast of roots that weave deeper into marrow.
‘Tis a time
‘Tis a time
tiny smile.
IV.
The silver light of Heaven shines down on slopes that ascend through the towers of ants and stones of man, but one doth know of this ol’ realm,
torturous soils
without stones to tell,
marked with charm
marked with chastity
marked through the hearts of those desired-
she climbs with gravity
at the root
in search of sapphire, pink, and gold
for Heaven’s gates are the pale mens’ toll.
The silver light of Heaven shines down on slopes that ascend through the towers of ants and stones of man, but one doth know of this ol’ realm,
torturous soils
without stones to tell,
marked with charm
marked with chastity
marked through the hearts of those desired-
she climbs with gravity
at the root
in search of sapphire, pink, and gold
for Heaven’s gates are the pale mens’ toll.
i.
Crisp winds against cotton webs and tiny smiles
a bath as deep as a well worth child,
among the gravity
as thick as wet smoke,
pro-cessed to the butcher’s blade of truth.
Cut glass holds the fractured gaze
of women who weep in desperate joy
under pillars taught
lamb’s blood across the table,
Woman whispers for real sins.
The faith that mirrors envy’s veins may rip the man to shreds- for thou liver rots with wine, if wine held same weight as a spired man’s deeds
-Galore!
Crisp winds against cotton webs and tiny smiles
a bath as deep as a well worth child,
among the gravity
as thick as wet smoke,
pro-cessed to the butcher’s blade of truth.
Cut glass holds the fractured gaze
of women who weep in desperate joy
under pillars taught
lamb’s blood across the table,
Woman whispers for real sins.
The faith that mirrors envy’s veins may rip the man to shreds- for thou liver rots with wine, if wine held same weight as a spired man’s deeds
-Galore!
August 2024
Tis a man’s sacred wish that women rot inside four walls more rotten than his house.
To bed his mother and kill his neighbor’s sister
sigils answer prayers
and damned women nearing nooses
keep their knives aimed high through his heart
to free her none born chil’.
Tis a man’s sacred wish that women rot inside four walls more rotten than his house.
To bed his mother and kill his neighbor’s sister
sigils answer prayers
and damned women nearing nooses
keep their knives aimed high through his heart
to free her none born chil’.
*All written content featured on this website are original works created by Chandler Crump and are the exclusive intellectual property of Chandler Crump. These works are protected by copyright laws. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of any material on this site, including but not limited to copying, sharing, altering, or using for commercial purposes without explicit permission, is strictly prohibited.