Ella Moorhouse
Ella was winner of Deanna Rodger's masterclass 'Form in Poetry' with her poem ‘How Not to Write a Love Letter’. Ella was also runner-up for Laura Dockrill's masterclass 'Finding Your Inner Voice', with 'Like the Curry'
Ella Moorhouse is a writer and aspiring screenwriter. Her work explores modern relationships and the things in between that are often left unsaid, and is inspired by the small details of everyday life which she develops into poetry. She was chosen and completed a screenwriting residency with BFI Newcastle in 2019. She is part of the Young Audience Panel at Exeter Phoenix and collaborated with the annual Two Short Nights short film festival. She is starting her BA Hons degree in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University this year to further her study.
She found the What If You Spoke? competition inspiring and encouraging, and enjoyed the one-on-one nature of the masterclasses.
She lives by the sea in South Devon.
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© Ella Moorhouse, 2021
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Like the Curry
It was a day of many firsts, one of them being the first katsu curry that ever graced my lips. The one we shared that time, remember?
The quiet meander around the city centre, my silent need to make this part of the day perfect. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t let your emotions reveal themselves. We were searching for dinner, the right kind at the right place. Pasta on the other side of the bridge, too formal. Burgers on the boat restaurant, light bulbs hanging heavy like ripe fruit on a vine, too expensive. A man starts shouting, swearing, above our heads at someone down below. You did an impression of Vin Diesel and I laugh, freely, indulgently, because I can. You described a paranoid flatmate from a past houseshare and I listen, because I have nothing to add. We don’t hold hands.
It was late afternoon, and the sun was setting glibly across the city, making the concrete glow rose-gold. I held my breath with the shock of it all, committing everything to memory so I can write it all out now. You acted like you’d already forgotten what had happened, what you’d started. We ended up walking back down your road, a side street opposite a church, to the Korean street food place. All the windows were steamed up, spicy soups incensing the air. We got the table with all these mirrors mounted on the wall; one had shutters, like a tiny rustic French window, distressed painted wood and everything. I remember trying to make a joke about it and you smiled. You bought everything, always the gentleman. I sipped on a blood orange lemonade, its tart fizz prickling my tongue. You drank an Asian beer, a blonde pillar in its glass. We snapped the chopsticks; you did it with ease, mine splintered awkwardly like a broken leg. I wondered who else you had taken here to eat.
The food came. You had got the katsu curry, moving the chopsticks so expertly they looked like a heron’s beak diving in and out of the golden pool of sauce, catching its prey of jasmine rice. I had ordered the pumpkin fritters, garnished with one leaf of spinach that had curled up into surrender; its fudgy texture glued to the roof of my mouth. You kept asking if that was enough, and after I had swallowed my food down, you pushed your plate towards me and we ate quietly together. You had squeezed out sriracha sauce all over like ketchup, bright red zig-zags glistening like scars under the halogen lights. I crunched on the last piece of bread-crumbed tofu that you had saved for me; its juicy white flesh yielding under the polished porcelain of my teeth. You looked at me then, properly, your tired eyes dipping, pupils like half-moons. I savoured every crumb, knowing somehow that this would be the last time.
Whenever I bring out the curved red bottle of sriracha, arched gracefully like a tulip, crayoning lines of fire over my curry, I wonder if I'll ever see you again.
© Ella Moorhouse, 2021
