Great New Creative Writing from Karen Cochrane

Please find some of Karen’s latest writing to thrill and inspire you.


The skirt rustled and swaying around her settling like a forlorn cloud around her frozen body. So cold. So very cold. Frozen to the very depth of her being – she’d never be warm again.

Her mouth moved in frozen jerks, the words too horrible to speak. The horror building, swamping thought, movement, sense.

She began to rock, slowly at first then faster, back and forth, back and forth. The ice within fracturing, searing, tearing, long crevasses of pain exposing the horror beneath.

Frantic fingers clutched the silk, exquisitely manicured nails catching the threads. Hands smoothing, panicking,

‘No, no, no… can’t spoil…’

So cold,… so cold, leaden chest, can’t think, can’t breathe.

A thousand words and images jumbling helter-skelter, crashing in discordant chaos, exploding inside her mind.

Louder and louder, faces shouting, faces crying, faces condemning, faces smirking…….

His face!

A fat tear rolled down her cheek unchecked, dripping down onto the flawless silk caressing her breasts.

The voices stilled!

One isolated image remained.

His face!

A deep shuddering breath steadied her and she rose from her crouched position against the wall, brushing eager hands away unwilling to be touched.

Alone, lost to the world in a sea of pain. Numbed to all voices except in her head. Eyes dead, face frozen, alone.


Deep breath, eyes unfocused, head high.

She turned and with an unconscious grace, smiled and stepped out of the church.

Bloody Monday

The rain was torrential, cold, bleak, endless. Grey skies claustrophobic, a steel vice compressing the soul. Wind whistled under the shelter, crawling up legs, gnawing the bones with the chill. She sighed, and rubbed her distended stomach.  Sixteen days, sixteen days to go. She sighed again. They never said it would be like this. Thick ankles, bad back, peeing every thirty damn seconds……… She pushed her lank straggly hair back from where it was sticking to her  face.

She was going to be late. (Sigh). Again. That snotty Deidre would give her hell when she got in.  ‘Just because you’re pregnant is no reason to abuse Mr Coulters generosity’, she’d sneer, then look down that beaky nose as if there was a nasty smell in the room.  Bitch, just jealous cos no-one wanted to get in her knickers… Everyone knew she had to hot’s for the boss, good luck to her there, he was screwing the receptionist.

‘Due soon love.’

She turned and smiled wryly at the old lady huddled over her trolley.

‘Not soon enough I bet. I had six of the blighters myself.  She grinned exposing her tombstone teeth with its gaping holes.

‘Catholic’s huh!’ She shook her head muttering to herself. ‘You need to get your feet up my gal, you youngsters don’t seem to stop for a second, what with your phones and twattering’.



‘Twittering not twattering, oh, never mind. Any idea when the bus is due.’
‘Come when they feel like, they wait and watch until you walk away and then BANG they got you. Three come around the corner and are away before you can get back to the stop, Bastards!’

‘The rain’s getting heavier or I’d walk.’ Her eyes skittered sideways to the youth lurking in the corner. He was huddled over, jacket too thin for the weather a feverish glow in his eyes.
‘Do you have the time?’ She smiled tentatively not sure if she was doing the right thing.
His eyes widened in panic, head shaking as he shrank even further into the corner of the bus shelter. Eyes scuttled wildly between the two women as he clasped his bag even closer to his chest.

‘Bloody foreigner ain’t he,’ the old woman sneered. Then sniffed and turned her shoulder to the youth.  ‘Can’t be trusted not a one of them, need to go back to their own bloody country, taking our benefits, living in our council houses. Bloody foreigners!’

‘I think he’s ill, mmmm, ex..cuse me are you O..kay, she mouthed the words slowly enunciating as if to a child, her mouth distending with each syllable. ‘Do. You. Need. A. doc..tooor…’

‘Bloody waste of time, leave him be, he’s probably one of those bloody Oasis, bloody nutters.’

‘Oh thank God here comes the bus’. She was thinking that Deidre could not be any worse than the company she was keeping.

‘Not before time, bloody bus company, I told my Jack that they needed a good shake up, just like the bloody country… gone to the damn dogs.. not like it was in my day’.
She sighed and rubbed her lump, ‘great indigestion again, all I need now is for me to pee my pants and my day will be complete’.

She stood to one side as the bus pulled up sloshing cold greasy water over their ankles.

‘You go first love, us old un’s have all day’.

‘Thanks’.  She shuffled past the trolley, showed her pass and made her way down the crowded bus.  The old lady followed pushing her trolley, banging and crashing against the legs of the passengers. The youth appeared to be having trouble with his money, he was mumbling and muttering under his breath as he fumbled beneath his coat.

A moment of horror rippled down her back as she watched him fumble, then his hand came out with the necessary money and a brief bright smile lit his face.

‘Stupid bugger, you’ll bring on early labour at this rate’. She grinned and turned to the old woman who at that moment was reaching into her trolley, exposing a mass of wires and a large very loud ticking clock.

One moment in time stretched into eternity as her life blew away.

About David Rollason

I am a writer, creative, inventive, observant, but the results are for you the reader to decide. There are things in my head constantly that I need to get out and into a readable form and this for now is my preferred medium. I am a simple being with complex workings. I am a complex being with simple logic. I am really just..... me.
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1 Response to Great New Creative Writing from Karen Cochrane

  1. Karen’s writing can always lead you gently to the place you expect to be lead ….then out of nowhere she hits you with the unexpected. But I do rather enjoy the trips to oblivion that she delivers.

    Liked by 1 person

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