Julie Murrow
Bio
I'm an avid reader, writer and pianist. I have written on a variety of subjects and in various genres from children's stories, poetry and history to adult short stories. My three Skinny Pigs and I live by the sea, where I grew up.
Stories (36/0)
Passions
When I considered the title of this challenge I had to stop and think. I love reading and writing, studying and playing the piano but what actually gets me fired up enough to speak out? I have a Facebook page where I share my thoughts in both prose and poetry so I had a look back to see if there was a recurring theme. And there was. I discovered a curious mix of sentimental prose, rather dark fiction and poetry that I have obviously written from the lofty heights of my soapbox.
By Julie Murrow3 years ago in Humans
Recycle, Up-cycle
Hazel is my upstairs neighbour. She’s little, old and thin and rather reminds me of my mum who died twelve years ago. In fact, they’d be about the same age, both born just before the end of World War II. Once a week or so Hazel and I have a coffee either in her flat or mine. I don’t allow smoking in my flat but I make an exception for Hazel. When I put the kettle on I dig out my mum’s green, glass ashtray from the 1970s and, with coffees in hand, I make myself comfortable while I listen to Hazel’s stories, most of which I’ve heard several times. That’s the trouble with getting old, you can only look back. But, I am very respectful of the fact that old people have lived, really lived (I’m thinking bombing and rationing) and I think I carry that respect over into material possessions too. I hate the idea of memories being lost and perhaps I place too much sentimentality onto inanimate objects but that’s what makes a possession sacred and special - the emotion we project onto it.
By Julie Murrow3 years ago in Humans
Fury at Last
God, this coffee’s rank. I feel like a bit of a shit for walking out of the wake but you know what? I don’t fucking care. For years she ruined everything for me - playdates cancelled ‘because I said so’, school discos missed ‘because I said so’, hot dates denied ‘because I said so’ and why? Because she fucking said so. That was her ‘go to’ when she had no other reason for making my life miserable. When I was a kid I believed her when she’d say she was only looking out for me but I soon saw the truth. You know you get to that age, that bloody frustrating age when you’re old enough to rationalise and argue your point but ultimately you’re still a child and have to do as you’re told? I’ll tell you, if being a bitch was an Olympic sport my mother would win gold. And, lucky me, I was an only child. Dad fucked off when I was ten. Can’t blame him. He’d had enough and the local barmaid, Liz, was warm and caring and fun and normal. I loved spending time with her and dad. But mostly it was just me and mum for about a decade. Me, mum and ‘because I said so’.
By Julie Murrow3 years ago in Psyche
Lessons Learned
Simplicity and Practicality. My mum was a simple woman. I don’t mean unintelligent, she just didn’t crave money or material possessions. Her hair was always short and she rarely wore make-up. I rarely remember her in anything but trousers (particularly her purple, flared cords so popular in the 1970s). My dad told me that he loved the way she was plain but feminine. In her wardrobe though, she had a pretty pink blouse, a black pencil skirt and some patent leather court shoes for special occasions. After my son was born my wardrobe was divided up much like my mum’s used to be. Looking back at photos I can see that the clothes with the persistent stains and holes are linked with some wonderful times with my son and my sister’s kids - messing about in the garden, playing on the beach, making art and craft projects and cooking. When I was a kid we had a vegetable garden. Mum was always out there weeding, picking and digging. In fact she was digging up potatoes the day my sister was born. She was never bothered about my clothes getting dirty - they could be washed. I’m very much the same. I would much rather enjoy my time with my youngest nieces than fret about chocolate finger prints on my jeans. They’ll grow up soon enough and my jeans can be washed.
By Julie Murrow3 years ago in Families
The Wedding
So this is it, I thought. In three quarters of an hour I shall be a married woman. With clammy hands I smoothed down the front of my dress. I had fallen in love with that dress from the first time I’d tried it on. Eleven petticoats underneath sparkling ivory silk and taffeta. Beautiful.
By Julie Murrow4 years ago in Humans
Heat
‘As thus: mine eye’s due is thy outward part, And my heart’s right thy inward love of heart’ Shakespeare, Sonnet No. 46. Sacha was a music teacher, an accomplished pianist whose guitar was an extension of himself. He had delicate hands and long, lean, spatulate fingers that plucked the guitar strings in a way that would make your heart weep. Sacha was a quiet, solitary person who enjoyed his own company, only venturing on nights out for a drink with a couple of close friends occasionally. Of course, that somewhat precluded the opportunity to meet Mr Right. Despite his introverted character, Sacha was quick-witted and easy-going. His friends were always bemoaning his single status asking how it could still be so when he was such a great guy and so easy on the eye too. Sacha wasn’t blind, he could see when he looked in the mirror that there wasn’t a monster looking back at him. He was one inch off six feet tall. He was lean but solid, thanks to years of playing football. His long black hair was usually tied in a plait revealing his high cheek bones, full, red lips and bright blue eyes. Unfortunately what Sacha’s friends did not know was that it wasn’t just Mr Right that Sacha was looking for. He had known for a long time that he was naturally submissive and because he wasn’t comfortable with online dating he had accepted the fact that he would just have to wait for Mr Right to appear. It wasn’t just a sub/dom relationship he wanted but someone who would truly love him, care for him, look after him and direct him but who would appreciate Sacha’s need for independence and solitude sometimes.
By Julie Murrow4 years ago in Filthy
Peapod
One day when I was washing up in the kitchen I noticed that the bin was full. After I had dried my hands I pulled the black sack out of the bin and tied the top in a knot just loose enough for me to be able to hook my fingers through to carry it. Pulling the front door closed behind me I made my way to the outside bin area. I lifted the big communal bin lid with my left hand and was about to swing the bin bag into it with my right hand when something furry and thin wrapped around my right wrist. I jumped back, letting go of the bin lid which slammed open backwards on its hinge. I also dropped the bin bag. Whatever had gripped my wrist slithered out of the bin bag and was still hanging there. I looked at it with horror and tried to shake it off but its grip was iron tight. It didn’t have a body as such, just a long, grey, furry ‘pea-pod’ with these thin but strong tendrils curling about around it.
By Julie Murrow4 years ago in Families