In my dream there is a cove of blue
– not dark, some light; some medium, ordinary blue
– where the sky is white and there is nothing
and by being there
I become part of the nothingness.
It is bad but it is silent
and sometimes you want that.
Sometimes you think you do.
When the world is full of white light and screaming
and pink and purple and mauve
and shadows becoming people and people becoming shadows
and light, light, light… you think, I’ll go to the blue place.
But when you are there it is full of people
and the look of confusion and pain on their faces
on the faces of the children
makes you want to send them all back
get rid of the blue place
have only good and bad, here and there, never a cross,
never a place to go
when it means the other place becomes empty.
If they had to stay
what would become of them? What would become of us?
Where is there between life and death and a life of constant pain?
Nothing, only bad judgment and egos
and shadows and ash.
The colour of money
When I was a kid I’d collect money off the ground. I made
£1.17, something like that, from just one day of picking up
discarded change. I made a museum for old coins. They sat alongside
my pieces of rose quartz and gems from vending machines,
and crystals I’d grown.
There was a competition when I was at high school to design 50ps featuring
sports for the Olympics in London. You’d win your coin in gold, and it would be
produced and circulated. I longed for that golden coin, to feel
its seven edges in my hand. I would do a design for every sport, I vowed.
In the end I did none. I see them every now and again
in my change and feel a twinge of regret
but you have to move on.
I remember the coins in Harry Potter always looked nice. They looked like they’d
be heavy in your hand. The knuts were the best; they were
bronze. They were deep; not thin discs like we have here
in the real world. I went to China aged eighteen. Their 10 Yuan notes
are rainbow coloured and are the most beautiful money
I’ve ever seen. They’re worth a pound each
but that’s irrelevant, really.
Now I’m twenty and don’t have a recent money story. I have stories
about money but none about holding it in my hand. About silver money and
gold money and bronze money and rainbow money.
Maybe I’m getting old.
I do value my collection of coin press pennies, of Montpellier Aquarium and
Montparnasse Tower but even they seem to be lost, the presses replaced
by machines selling souvenir medallions
that cost a fortune.
Elizabeth Gibson’s work has been, or is due to be, published in The Cadaverine, London Journal of Fiction, Far Off Places, Sonder, Under the Fable, Visual Verse, Sincerely Magazine, Sibliní and Ink, Sweat and Tears. She was long-listed for the 2014 Melita Hume Poetry Prize. She writes for Cuckoo Review and The Mancunion and since 2012 has been a Digital Reporter for Manchester Literature Festival. She studies IPML French and Spanish at the University of Manchester and has written a YA novel which she hopes to have published. She tweets at @Grizonne and blogs at http://elizabethgibsonwriter.blogspot.co.uk.