This is the story of Papatya Rousseau, an intelligent and talented young writer who is trying to veer her life back onto the right path after a brief stay in a mental institute. Unfortunately, there are powerful elements working against her when she leaves
London for in search of solace. There is her mother; Belkös, an eccentric Turkish artist who hates weakness, especially her own daughter's, an unhinged friend who runs away from her job at the National Geographic and unleashes havoc and a crazy poet on the loose trying to retrace his lost rhythm. This is Papatya’s last chance to take her life into her own hands, and to write again. Sussex
( Currently seeking representation to publish )
Our feet walked in a shadow land. Not lost, not invisible but carved out and rolling our puppet eyes in wooden heads. Our arms like spindly sinews brush against cacti and dust in this empty land and still we scuttle because this shadow land is all we know.
The room was tight and suffocating with an underlying stench of damp- it made my throat sore and nose tingle. I could feel the weight of the walls press down hard on my chest and push down on the top of my skull. The white walls and floors were blinding and if such whiteness had a smell, it would be the smell of this small room; sour and intoxicating- a choking hazard. It was like chewing on shards of glass, it was hot and empty in all of its vapid glory.
The sun spilled through the room which would have exalted calm had it not been for the bars which created sharp line prints which cascaded along the floor and the table where we sat. Avoiding their eye contact I attempted to focus on the train horn blare away in the distance, the familiar sound which created a sense of safety throughout my residency. Now it sounded too loud and too fast.
I watched two of the doctors as they talked between themselves, the third ruffled his papers, the way that people of importance do and cleared their throats as though they had taken in a whole life time of this damp. We were waiting for Sally.
My stomach churned and my toes curled tightly in my pale blue slippers at the thought of having to stay a moment longer. I chanted my soon chant; soon I would be out, soon I’d no longer smell this white and see these faces. Soon I would be out there. Soon.
Cover design by Sifa Mustafa