Mist-ed Coffee Morning (poem)

a memory trapped in a coffee shop

its mist-ed rained window panes

sheltering us from the air

letting us hide

for a moment longer

in the steam cloud of secrets

pretending it wasn’t about to end

Chapter Eleven | Finding Jennifer Book Teaser

Here is a little taste of what’s going on in Chapter Eleven of my upcoming novel – and sequel in the SEARCHING FOR KATHERINE series, FINDING JENNIFER. Enjoy!


The Fraudulent Writer | Prose | 22 Blog Series

There’s nothing worse than feeling like a fraud. Telling people you’re something, an ideal, that you haven’t been in a very long time.

I am a writer.

Lies, all lies. Haven’t been one of those for months now. And months, inside the head of a strangled creative, is a lifetime when you can’t express yourself. Everything comes out harsh and dramatic and whiny. You and the keyboard aren’t talking anymore. You can’t bring yourself to open your manuscript and stare at words a past version of you typed and labored and loved.

The world is in a funk, that grey mess of a cloud; your brain turning to soup. Like an addict, your cells are dying the longer you pretend to live a normal life. That 9-5er day in day out dragging you down into the mundane abyss of the working age. Any attempt to take yourself back to your own personal Renaissance ends in a self-hating war that lasts days.

Nothing happy sticks.

Not being able to get out of bed in the morning, even though there is nothing officially wrong with your life, no one understands. That sinister melancholy clutching onto your skin like a cheap shower gel that won’t wash off. No amount of scrubbing or crying or screaming is going to get that melancholy off.

Not until you get the fuck out of your own head. GET OUT! Stop being a liar, a fraud claiming to be creative! Stop being the one that can’t see past the cloud. Where’s your curiosity? Run through the fog, arms flailing, singing along to stupid songs that make you want to dance.

You always want to write when you’re happy. And that boy is making you happy. You’re just being stubborn. So stop being a misog. Go and fucking write.


Read the rest of the 22 Blog Series here. 

Your Past Made You Amazing | Picture

it made you amazing 13.6.16

Originally posted on my Instagram feed. Follow me at: www.instagram.com/melissaholden94 for more posts like this!

Dear Me: The World Has Changed

Dear Me,

You grew up thinking the world was a certain way. That intellect and creativity were flaws and things to be hidden. You grew up knowing how to stretch money. You grew up thinking girls were wrong.

You were wrong. The world doesn’t just exist of your past.  It’s fragile, and constantly changing: but it’s beautiful.

A crazy-amazing world built for people who want to change. People who want to progress. People who have learned from their mistakes.

Because, guess what?

You’re alive in the 21st century, where Girl Power isn’t the Spice Girls. Where we have better paid jobs and where intellectual role models are aspired to almost as much as glamour models. Where girls can be just as strong as boys. And where creativity is encouraged.

Dear Me… The world grew up too. Enjoy it.

Hearing The Streets: A Short Story

Headphones in, shuffling through weak-lit streets on a Friday night. Chinese take-out dangling from my left hand, half gripped half slacked, gently swaying as I stride.

Even through the music buzzing in my ears, I hear the click-clack of thirty-somethings in heels they can’t walk in, attempting to relive their twenties, but with more money and kids at home.

As I nip through an alley way, I am invaded by the sight of fourteen year olds, lurking in their bright-white Nike trainers and slogan-printed sweatpants.

One girl still has her school uniform on; black pleated skirt hitched up on her hips, her fake tanned thighs exposed. Her face glows in the iPhone light with a pasty-pale cheap foundation, probably bought with her pocket money. I can see her false eyelashes from here, and the resist the urge to peel them from her make-up caked face.


I carry on, forking right at the end of the street, eyes on the uneven paving slabs. The echo of lads-night-out is already abusing my music selection: taking over David Bowie’s Let’s Dance. The guys seem to sway in time to some invisible beat, somehow in rhythm with the chorus in my ears. Smart shoes ruined by vomit and spilled beer, they saunter off past me, taking their garish comments with them.

It starts to rain, so I pull my sweater hood up and I feel the preluded baby raindrops trickle down the back of my neck. I ignore them, but now I’m cold and eager to be home in my overpriced-underused flat.

The vibrations from a neighbouring night club make my shoes feel loose; my strides get longer and my breath gets quicker. The vodka flavoured cloud of breath exuding from my move hits me in waves. There are two boys on bikes crossing my path, about thirty feet or so away from me. I don’t exist to them, and I pretend I’m not intimidated as they wheelie and stand on the pedals, laughing and shouting to each other. The ignorance keeps up appearance and we all go our silent, separate waves.

The older of the two looks over to me; I recognise his face – but not enough to bother saying hello. He smirks at me through thin cigarette-stained lips, but his eyes looked daunted. I realise I work with his mother and make a mental note to forget this scene.

I can finally see my flat, my bedside lamp left on for safety, solitarily glowing purple in the dark. My playlist runs out just as I reach my building but before I can remove my headphones, they are wrenched from my head, knocking my hood down. My hair snags in the metal adjustments and I feel blood ooze over a piercing.

The last thing I hear is a faraway owl, hooting at the moonlight and then the crunch of my nose breaking as I face-plant the concrete that once glistened underneath my feet. Then, just like that, the world wasn’t full of drunk mothers and teenagers and bikers. It wasn’t full of melody and noise and vibrations. It was silent and dark and completely unapparent to the blackened sockets that once held my eyes: windows to the soul.