Wednesday 26 October 2011
Vincent – A Fairytale
Rai Jayne
Once upon a time, not too long ago on the top floor of a decaying tower
block of flats in the murkiest corner of Manchester lived a shy and awkward girl
named Vincent. Vincent would often stand at her window wishing she was outside
somewhere far away. She didn’t like Manchester and Manchester didn’t like her.
When she looked out of the window, as she often did, all she saw were gray
buildings, rain clouds and pollution. Vincent didn’t like going outside but she
didn’t much like staying in her damp little flat either and quite soon Vincent
began to feel alone. She surrounded herself with plants but they always died
after a couple of days no matter how well she took care of them. She began to
think she was cursed.
One particularly murky and frosty morning in November, Vincent discovered
a green-gray fuzz on her cheese and bread and the milk smelled sour. Vincent sat
cross-legged on the floor staring into the fridge; its low hum soothed her. She
knew she would have to venture outside and buy groceries and this thought filled
her with despair. Eventually the light inside the fridge went out and she
slammed the door closed in disgust. After wrapping a thick scarf around her
neck, and half of her face, she began the decent down the urine-soaked concrete
stairwell.
The supermarket was hell. Tall people rushed past her, most of them
bumping into her in the process, they all had somewhere to be, someone to see.
Vincent didn’t. She walked as slowly as she could up and down each aisle and
taking her time to view each product in depth.
Danish Blue Cheese. A full flavoured blue cheese suitable for any
occasion. 341 calories per 100g. Suitable for vegetarians. Use within 7 days of
opening.
What occasion wouldn’t a cheese be suitable for? Regardless, Vincent
dropped it into the basket feeling pleased with herself, she figured blue cheese
was best as she probably wouldn’t notice when it had gone off. She collected the
rest of her groceries, including a basil plant (easier to look after than other
house plants), and headed out of the store.
Back in the tower block Vincent rid the fridge of its diseased contents
and placed the new items inside. She smiled. The fridge was empty except for a
block of blue cheese, a crusty loaf and a pint of milk. The basil plant! Vincent
had forgotten about him, she spun around but he was already dead. She hadn’t the
heart to put him in the bin so she gave Basil some water and he sat on the sill
looking miserable. She hadn’t the heart...that seemed to be story of Vincent’s
life, no hearts. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room (it was
almost bare except for an old mattress and blanket), an empty glass bottle
clutched in her hand, she knew she was going to need it. All at once the tears
overflowed from her eyelids, cascading down her cheeks and into the bottle. The
world seemed to be crying with her, outside the sky threw its tears against the
windows, inside water trickled down the walls.
Vincent pushed a cork into the tear-filled bottle and placed it on the
shelf; she stuck a label on the side, ‘VODKA.’ No hearts,
the story of her life. Vincent had never received a heart from anyone, no
parents or lovers or even friends; she did have a cat once but it jumped out of
the window...and died. Vincent knows it committed suicide just to escape her.
There was a beautiful little girl who lived down the road in a beautiful little
cottage and men, women and every living creature would lay their hearts down for
her. Countless men were often seen around Manchester with gaping holes in their
chests, or deep red scars from tearing out their hearts. The beautiful girl,
whose name was Rose, accepted the hearts of course, but she didn’t care for
them. They were usually tossed aside and never thought of again. What people
didn’t realised was that Rose, behind her peachy exterior, had a drink problem
and spent her days guzzling vodka. This vodka she got from Vincent who would
trade a bottle for a heart. Rose was only too eager to give away her hearts in
exchange for the burn of Vincent’s tears.
Vincent had built up a small collection of hearts by now and she truly
adored each one. She took care to polish them and hold them to her chest to feel
the warmth they emanated. She would hold them to her ears and hear the beat and
the whispered statements of love. As much as she loved her hearts
she longed for one of her own. She needed someone to tear his heart out and give
it to her and then she would be happy, she was sure.
Vincent leaned out of her window, sucking in the bitterly cold air. She
loved winter, it helped to stay frozen inside and not feel anything. Her tatty
dreadlocks fell down either side of her face liked thick strands of rope. She
closed her eyes.
‘Vincent!’ She was shocked from her daydream. ‘Vincent!’ A handsome young man was standing below her window, she recognised him from the supermarket.
‘What do you want?’ Vincent called back. Her voice was raspy and hoarse and she realised this was the first time she had spoken out loud for a very long time.
‘I love you,’ came the reply. ‘I see you every time you go shopping, you buy bread and cheese.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you love me. Everyone buys bread and cheese.’
‘But you’re special,’ he insisted. ‘Look.’ He tore open his shirt to reveal a bloody, gaping wound in his chest and then he held his heart high above his head. ‘Here is my heart. Take it. Let me climb the ropes to your tower.’
‘Just...up...stairs,’ Vincent was struggling to form words. A tear twinkled onto her cheek and froze instantly.
‘Vincent!’ She was shocked from her daydream. ‘Vincent!’ A handsome young man was standing below her window, she recognised him from the supermarket.
‘What do you want?’ Vincent called back. Her voice was raspy and hoarse and she realised this was the first time she had spoken out loud for a very long time.
‘I love you,’ came the reply. ‘I see you every time you go shopping, you buy bread and cheese.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you love me. Everyone buys bread and cheese.’
‘But you’re special,’ he insisted. ‘Look.’ He tore open his shirt to reveal a bloody, gaping wound in his chest and then he held his heart high above his head. ‘Here is my heart. Take it. Let me climb the ropes to your tower.’
‘Just...up...stairs,’ Vincent was struggling to form words. A tear twinkled onto her cheek and froze instantly.
The Boy burst into the room leaving blood-stained footprints behind him.
He joined Vincent at the window, breathless he held out his heart.
‘For you,’ he said. Vincent looked at the heart, not wanting to touch it.
‘It’s not beating,’ she stated.
‘That’s because it only beats for you,’ his voice was gentle and sincere. ‘Take it.’ Vincent stared at the heart, it looked ugly. It was bloody and messy and...and...
‘No!’ The scream hurt her throat but she didn’t care. ‘No, I don’t want it.’ The Boy’s face crumpled and before he could speak again Vincent pushed him with all of her might and he tumbled from the window, landing in the thorn bush below.
‘For you,’ he said. Vincent looked at the heart, not wanting to touch it.
‘It’s not beating,’ she stated.
‘That’s because it only beats for you,’ his voice was gentle and sincere. ‘Take it.’ Vincent stared at the heart, it looked ugly. It was bloody and messy and...and...
‘No!’ The scream hurt her throat but she didn’t care. ‘No, I don’t want it.’ The Boy’s face crumpled and before he could speak again Vincent pushed him with all of her might and he tumbled from the window, landing in the thorn bush below.
Vincent headed into the kitchen and tore open the crusty loaf, smothered
it with blue cheese and took a bite. The sourness of the cheese calmed her. She
looked over at Basil. He was standing proud, a vibrant green.
Bio - Rai Jayne is a freelance writer, blogger and zinester. She is in her final year of an English and Creative Writing degree at Salford University. She has co-written, self-published and starred in Hospitality. She plays bass for all-girl punk band Pink Hearse. She hopes to one day change the world with a biro, a pritstick, and a typewriter.
Picture by: © Stuart Taylor | Dreamstime.com
Tuesday 25 October 2011
Foolish Things
Jackie Morrissey
Double Espresso with
a shot of brandy
Once I realised that he was going to
propose, the only thing left to do was to vomit.
Oh, don’t get
me wrong, his proposal didn’t make me puke – not directly anyway – but I’d been
holding it back for a while, hoping it would settle. I suppose I just gave myself permission to
let go, right then. It worked. All thought of romantic proposals in the
moonlight by the Seine – bridges of Paris and all that – vanished. Mind you, I’ve never really understood the
romance attached to Parisian bridges. The only thing I’ve ever met under one
was a foul-smelling clochard, clutching a bottle and muttering French
obscenities, or something. And as for
the food… I blame the escargot. I always
said I’d try anything, but that trickle of garlicky green stuff oozing from the
snail shell was a step too far. Gross. OK, I’m a philistine. I like my meat fully dead, too, no blood, so
there’s no hope for me here.
Anyway, adding my wine-tinged contribution
to the gutter didn’t do any harm, but it effectively removed the romance.
Mission accomplished. Cleaning myself up
with a tissue, I asked, wanly, in a performance based on La Dame aux Camelias
(see? I’m not a complete savage), to be taken back to the hotel. Patrick, ever polite, escorted me with
conscientious concern. God, he made me
feel terrible. I probably wasn’t good
enough for him, it’s true. If only he had been a bit less of a bloody boy
scout, it would all have been much easier.
But he was a nice guy, really, just a bit naive and earnest, and those
aren’t necessarily faults, although they are annoying.
I should explain a bit more. Patrick, (never Pat or Paddy), and I had been
going out for a while. Nearly four
months, a record for me. We met when I
was pissed off my head at a party, so he can’t say he wasn’t warned. It was his
nice, gentlemanly quality that got to me that night – I’m a sucker for being
looked after when I’m drunk; anybody who doesn’t swear at me develops a golden
halo-glow. Patrick laughed at my jokes,
propped me up on my stupid party heels, and got me safely home that night. He
stayed, of course. I’d screw any nice
kind man when I’m that far gone, but I can’t remember much about it – too
drunk. He was still there next morning though, sweetly making me a cup of tea
for my hangover. ‘Christ,’ I thought,
‘this one is OK’.
Now, ‘OK’
might not seem too enthusiastic, but my record isn’t good. My last fellow drank
more than I did, and could be an aggressive little bollix when he’d had a
few. Not at me, of course – well, not
physically. We had a few loud fights all
right, when he called me all sorts of slags and whores and bitches, but I can
give that sort of thing back with spades, it doesn’t bother me. I got rid of him in the end because he began
to seem like some sort of old, smelly, stray dog that I couldn’t remember why I
was feeding. He never wanted to go home. The sex wasn’t up to much either. He
was too drunk mostly, and even sober, he didn’t have much idea.
Foreplay?
Hah!
Pretty much of
the ‘brace yourself Brigid’
variety. Eventually, after a loud
drunken row, I dumped his accumulated stuff into a plastic bag and left it
outside his door, along with a note telling him to go fuck himself ( yeah…good
luck with that). Then I deleted him from my life, my phone and Facebook.
I attract
losers.
My friends say
I have a bad attitude to men, but all I can say is that the ones I end up with
have a bloody terrible attitude to me. That’s why Patrick seemed such a
novelty. He was clean, presentable,
considerate and working. I spent the first few days trying to figure out what
was wrong, but he seemed the real deal. A bit dull, I suppose, but that was a
novelty in itself – a man who turned up on time, not drunk, and waited for
me. He could even cook. The sex was OK too, if a bit
predictable. He’d read the right manual,
and twiddled all the bits in turn, systematically. It worked, mostly, although he was not a man
to leave a proven system for anything new.
Hints were wasted on him, as were outright demands. Slapping his hand on a non-prescribed spot,
shrieking ‘oh yes! Yes! Yes!’ never
seemed to get more than a puzzled look,
before he went back to the blueprint. I
suppose after all, I expected too much – he was an accountant in the
making.
But I am being
a bitch.
At least he
knew that foreplay meant more than three
cans of lager and a shoulder of
vodka.
I felt I ought
to stick with this one, like a sort of rehab. (Did I tell you about the one who
wanted to lick my toes? I didn’t mind, but that was pretty much it. The rest of me was superfluous to
requirements, which didn’t do much for my ego).
Anyway, I won’t bore you with a list of my exes, except to say that they
were all, in their individual ways, complete wastes of space.
Patrick. Ah, Patrick. Not a loser, in most terms. He liked figures, and wanted nothing more than to complete all of his exams and become a fully fledged accountant. (My mind boggles, but then, I’m innumerate, and dropped out of college after first year. University College Dublin. English and Philosophy. I work in a bar at the moment, but with those subjects, that was pretty much where I was headed anyway. I have plans, though). He lived at home, which seemed a bit loserish at twenty-four, but his ma doted on him, the house was plush, and I suppose I could see the attraction. At least he got to keep his money for better things than rent – me for instance. He was generous enough – always willing to pay for a nice meal out or a fare. The trip to Paris was just the sort of thing he’d do – ‘Look, I’ve bought these cheap Ryanair tickets, it’s all booked, you have to come.’
Like I’d turn down a free
holiday.
That was my
mistake, though.
So there I was,
that Saturday night, in my Parisian hotel bed with my back to Patrick and my
eyes tight shut. Lying uncomfortably on the bed I’d made for myself – the
moralists would love it. I’d misjudged
everything. I should have said no. He was beginning to bore me anyway, so what
made me think a weekend would work out?
On the other hand, I had no reason to suspect that he was planning a
proposal. He never gave me any hint. He knew my lifestyle. What made him think I
would be interested? Bloody male ego.
I had actually
decided about a week before the holiday that I would dump him. We were having decent-but-dull sex in the afternoon in my place when it dawned on
me – his textbook sex just mirrored his approach to me in general. I was a woman. Women like meals out, and
flowers, and cups of tea in bed… He was
good with theoretical women, but he’d never really shown much interest in me,
if you know what I mean – like, who I
was, my story, all the crap people usually want to know in the early days of a
relationship. Maybe it was the only child thing. He liked having a girlfriend,
I was it. What more was necessary to
know? I knew all about his only-child
heavenly home, his dad (deceased), his squeaky-clean, perfect mum, his good
career prospects. Me? He flinched from
the more interesting bits, patted my hand sympathetically for the sad bits
before changing the subject, and gave no general indication of actually
remembering anything I told him, afterwards.
All too familiar, I thought. This guy was as much a lost dog as the last
one, just a cleaner, better-bred version.
I felt sure somebody would take him in.
Not me
though.
I’m more the ‘mongrel with character’ type,
really, even if they do sometimes turn out to be a bit aggressive, or have odd
habits.
I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have gone to Paris. Yes, yes, but it was one last trip. He’s already bought the tickets. I did like the guy, really, I wished him nothing but well. I was planning to let him
down gently, over a period of about a month.
That seemed the kindest way. One
last fun weekend didn’t seem too much of a problem.
What a
weekend.
It was hard work, I’ll tell you.
I realised my mistake on the Friday
evening. The conversation was just
drifting a certain way, you know? I
hoped I was wrong, but when he bought the rose with added cheap perfume from
the gypsy in the restaurant, I knew I was in trouble. From then on, it was a
battle of wits. Or my wits against his witlessness, more precisely.
Christ, the stress of that.
Do I look like
I’m ready to become a suburban housewife?
I’m twenty-three. Jesus! Ok, he’s only twenty-four, but age is
relative, and he was born middle-aged, so twenty four years on makes him a
pretty dull old fart by any standards.
I was beginning to really hate him
by Saturday.
The mental
effort of trying to keep all conversation away from romance was giving me a
migraine. I found that a bit of gratuitous swearing worked – he hated
swearing. A dirty joke or two also froze
him up. Once, in desperation, I deliberately flipped off a supercilious and
watchful French shopkeeper, just to change the subject.
Patrick didn’t
see that of course, but he experienced the full blast of an irate, Parisian Anglophobe
letting rip. Quite an experience. His
curses followed us down the street, as he stood in the shop doorway,
gesticulating Frenchly.
With somebody else, it might have been
funny. Not with Patrick. He was so shaken by the experience that we
went back to the hotel to recover.
Saturday night
was the night of the almost proposal
and the puking. That got me through to
the last day. Flight home, six pm. We walked through the park at Les Halles,
listened to a busker singing some old fashioned jazz tunes, and took photos peering
through the giant hand sculpture outside the Church of St Eustache. I began to relax and enjoy it. The singer was like Ella Fitzgerald, and I’d
always liked the song:
A cigarette that
bears a lipstick’s traces
An airline ticket to romantic places
And still my heart has wings
These foolish things remind me…
He got me when
I wasn’t expecting it.
‘Marry me,’ he said.
I just stood,
trying to think of an answer that wouldn’t be too cruel, but also wouldn’t give
him hope. My inner ‘bitter bitch’ was
in full flight, bewailing the fact that he’d ruined the trip, we had an
afternoon to fill in yet… The ‘nice’
voice, the one I try to present to the public, was quickly rehearsing the
options: ‘I need time to think…’, ‘ You caught me unawares… ;‘ It’s too soon…’
Patrick filled the silence:
'I know you don’t see yourself as a married
woman, but I know you’ll settle down when we are married. You already drink less than you used to and
your lifestyle is much better. I know it
would work…’
Too much.
‘Bitter bitch’ exploded from her cave, her hag-mutter becoming an
outraged shriek.
‘When’ we are married? I’ll
‘settle down’? Don’t I get to say yes or no about that? Well, listen up, I think I’m fine the way
I am, and a lot of people like me like that.
What gave you the idea…?’
I stopped,
afraid of what else I might say.
‘You’re
my girlfriend,’ he said, wounded. ‘I
love you. You have to marry me.’
Looking at his
earnest face, I wanted to slap him, but also felt horribly guilty. ‘Good girl’ reasserted herself.
‘Look, it’s just a bit unexpected, I need time
to think.’
‘But you will marry me?’
‘I didn’t say that, I said I want time to
think about it.’
He looked
annoyed.
‘I don’t see what there is to think about.’
‘Well I do.’ I said. ‘I’m not sure I want to get married to
anybody. I don’t know what made you think I did…’
His silence made me feel terrible, like a
mother who slaps a toddler without apparent reason. After a minute, I touched his arm.
‘I
really do like you, you know that, but really, we’ve only gone out together for
a few weeks, we’re both young …’
The
silence continued.
‘I
feel terrible for upsetting you. I’m
sorry, I’m really, really sorry…’
His hands were
deep in his pockets.
‘I
told everybody,’ he said. ‘I told
everybody at work that I was going to propose.’
By now I felt so guilty I would have done
anything to make him feel better, short of marrying him. At the same time, I felt pretty pissed off at
being guilt-tripped like that. Why should
he be so sure of himself that he could tell everybody, without ever thinking
that I might refuse? I ignored my evil
inner voice, however, and reached out my hands towards him.
‘Please. Let’s
just walk around the park and not talk about it now. We have all day before the
flight.’
I was hoping some hard-headed, practical bit
of his brain would see that this was the way to go. I was wrong.
‘Fuck you.’ he said. ‘You’re just a drunken slut. I can do better. Just piss off and make your own way home.’
And with that, he marched off, leaving my
consoling hands flapping in the breeze.
I should have known better than to trust that
fake ‘nice girl’ daemon. The ‘bitter bitch’ was always more me, really.
Well, I sat for a while in the pallid spring
sunshine, then went and got my stuff from the hotel. He’d gone ahead of me. The bill was paid, but he had taken my plane
ticket.
The perfect gentleman.
It might have
been an accident.
That airline
makes its fortune on emergency tickets.
I think mine cost more than the whole weekend, accommodation and all. I
looked out for him on the plane, but he must have transferred to an earlier
flight.
I met him
again, about a year later, at a party.
He was with a cat-faced law student, who looked me up and down and made
smirking eye contact with him, as if sharing a joke. I guessed he had told her about me. We were polite. I wondered how long it would
be before they moved to the suburbs to breed little legal calculators.
Later that
night, when he’d had a few drinks, he followed me into the kitchen, and
said he remembered how good we used to
be together. His face had what a drunk
considers a meaningful look, but the rest of the world knows is a leer. He suggested that we should meet up again,
for old time’s sake. I deduced that
bitch-face wasn’t sleeping with him, so scratch that suburban idyll. Not such a perfect gentleman after all. I thought for sure now that he hadn’t
forgotten that airline ticket in Paris.
I wasn’t
remotely tempted to pick up where we left off.
I remembered that Saturday night in Paris, and all I could think of was
some old saying about a dog… ‘As the dog
returns to its vomit, so the fool…’ Whatever.
I can’t remember the whole thing.
Old Dog’s Vomit. Bitch-face can have him.
Not me.
I’m not foolish. I learn from
experience.
I kept cracking up when I thought
of it. I tried to explain the joke to a
guy I fancied, but I was pretty drunk, and he was stoned, so I don’t think he
got it. He came home with me anyway
though, but that’s a completely different story.
Bio:
Jackie
Morrissey lives in Dublin and works in adult education. She has had work
published on Irish Radio, and in a variety of journals. In 2004, she won the
Molly Keane Memorial Short Story Award.
Wednesday 19 October 2011
The Doctor's Wind
By Geoff Steckles
Cinnamon & Almond Hot Chocolate
A strong wind had sprung up off
the sea. The tide was still out, but white plumes were blowing off the waves in
foamy confusion, lining the water’s edge like meringue. In Jamaica he thought,
they’d call it the Doctors Wind,
blowing directly from the sea fresh and clean with that faint salty taste. But
this was South Devon, so it wasn’t called anything except maybe a nuisance. He
thought the Jamaicans had it just about right.
The wind
eddied and blew dry sand down from the dunes, which moved across the beach like
a fine mist, sand blasting his legs with a sharp bite like a faint electric
shock. It kept him company and continued to eddy around his bare feet, playing
with his toes as he walked towards Sand Point, still over four miles away. The
air felt exhilarating and facing the sea, his eyes streamed and his skin felt
like it had been sucked through a vacuum cleaner. He gave quiet thanks that the
beach remained deserted.
He
rested, the sun helping to evaporate his memories. He dreamed of the wind and
ships at sea.
Surprise
shook him when a land yacht went flying by, making a mockery of his tranquil
day, a huge blood red sail at full stretch.
Unexpectedly,
instead of sailing off into the distance, the yacht made a huge gentle turn and
started back towards him, the sails and small boom, swinging into the wind as
it changed direction. A huge almost perfect circle appeared in the virgin sand
as it pulled around and started to lose speed. He half expected the occupant to
throw out some kind of anchor but the machine slowed seemingly of its own
accord. He saw that cleverly, the sails were being used in the wind to slow the
machine and the yacht stopped effortlessly by his side. The red sail flapped
noisily, suddenly redundant. A tiny skull and crossbones flag tied to the mast
fluttered wildly in the breeze, which seemed to match the scene perfectly.
She sat
regally in the single seat, her hair, the colour of straw, blew wildly around
her face although she didn’t seem to notice. She was deeply tanned, with wide
blue eyes and wonderful teeth and she wore small diamond studs in her ears
which caught the sun as her head moved; each ear seemed to wink at him in the
strong light that he found distracting somehow. She wore an old fashioned man’s
white shirt, one of those with a detachable collar, except there was no collar
attached. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and the shirt tail hung
loose. Surprisingly the shirt, unbuttoned almost to her waist still covered her
breasts but she made no move to button the shirt now that she had an audience.
She
looked directly at him, smiling and asked if he flew like a crow, what would be
the quickest way to Sand Point. He remembered silently raising his arm in the
general direction, suddenly unable to speak and feeling particularly stupid
because of it. She asked how far in a voice so soft, he had to strain to catch
it in the strong wind. He leaned closer almost without thinking and was
surprised that even on this wild day, he could smell her body, like lavender
and the sea mixed together and immediately wondered if sunlight could smell,
would it be like this?. Finding his voice at last he managed to croak ' About
four miles from here'. She smiled again and thanked him and made to move off,
then hesitated looking directly at him once more, and asked if he would like a
ride. He nodded, silent again and she invited him in.
He knew
that as a single seater, space would be limited and felt a gratitude to God,
which he hadn’t felt in a while. He managed to squeeze in by her side and had
the satisfaction of having to sit almost sideways facing her with no room to
sit any other way. A small space forward allowed him to stretch out, and being
over six feet tall, he could at least move his legs. But his knees touched her
legs as he wriggled into a more comfortable position and he hoped that she
understood that this intimacy for the moment at least remained accidental. She
released the brake and moved off swiftly, giving no indication that she’d even
noticed that he’d squeezed in next to her. Her face set in concentration and
her eyes moved to the sail as long slender fingers pulled at the rigging and a
strong arm grasped the tiller.
The low
tide had left the sand hard and flat and his eyes closed against the glare.
There was almost no sense of movement, no jolting as they accelerated. The
large red sail filled quickly and he felt power grab the machine like a giant
lung inflating. A sensation of flying over the ground at speed like some great
bird of prey that had just seen lunch awed him. He thought that life should
always be as exciting as this; otherwise it became just a bunch of days and he
prayed that it continued for the rest of today at least.
A great
roaring filled his ears, which made talking difficult, but he couldn’t resist
the inevitable question. ‘How fast are we moving?’ he yelled into her ear. She
placed her face next to his and he heard the words ‘about sixty’ faintly in the
roar. He suddenly had an almost irresistible urge to rub his nose gently on her
cheek. So close yet so far he thought, but instead he just nodded whilst she
was busy being captain again. He relaxed resigned to his fate and perhaps
another moment.
They tore
across the sand like two lovers escaping from a vengeful father, until she
spotted a group of Gulls on the beach ahead of them and he felt the yacht
gently turn in their direction. They took flight well before the vessel reached
them and he could hear their calls and mews above the roar as they scattered
effortlessly like rag dolls in a blizzard of wings. Two birds remained
stubbornly, gliding above the mast keeping up with the yacht and he wondered if
they thought there were fish on board. Looking up at them it seemed like they
were standing still, wings outstretched, floating above like two guardian angels.
Both
birds disappeared suddenly when without warning, she veered again, this time
into the shallows and a huge spray flew into the air and blew across them both.
In seconds they were soaked and his breath left his body with the shock of the
cold water. She threw back her head and laughed out loud. He suddenly forgot
the cold and joined in and soon they were both caught up in the wind and the
spray and given a choice this felt right and he suddenly didn’t want to be
anywhere else.
He tried
to speak again but the wind caught his throat and he nearly choked. Deciding to
keep his mouth closed seemed like a good idea so he just relaxed and enjoyed
the sensation. His eyes streamed once again and the sail towering above them
sang as the gale played with the rigging. She suddenly yelled at him to lean in
to her and he didn’t need telling twice as she turned the yacht once again in a
full circle. So sharp was the turn however that they were suddenly partially
off the ground and in danger of going over and he leaned away from her body
trying to prevent them from capsizing, one hand on the hull and the other
gripping her arm like a vice. Did he scream, he couldn’t remember but she
yelled something and laughed and when he next opened his eyes they were back on
course and she seemed serene, as though nothing had happened. Her face calm and
relaxed and he noticed freckles across her nose, which he hadn’t seen before.
All too
soon Sand Point came into view and he knew they could go no further. He saw his
house on the point and the yacht slowed, the sails deflating suddenly. They
pulled into the end of the beach nearest the road and stopped. The silence
deafening, his face felt as though it had been in a mould and set.
She
didn’t look at him but simply sat letting the sun warm her face. Salt had begun
to crystallise on her cheek and it made her tan seem the colour of age like old
newspaper dipped in time. He felt unsure, afraid somehow and reached across to
touch her face, to reassure himself. But before he could, she turned to him and
smiled and he immediately knew it all. She had allowed him to see it again from
the beginning. He didn’t know why. She was the same and that was all that
mattered.
That was
the start of it, their life. He remembered everything now, their love, their
life together. She was not afraid of gentleness, although passion made her
unkind sometimes. He never minded any of it though and thought it a good thing
and revelled in her company. He never dominated her, preferring the journey
instead. He was never afraid of her, only of losing her. They lived and loved
and the land yacht became their centre, their escape. The beach below the
house, their playground. Like two wild children their summer never ended. But
three years after they met their summer did end and she died as excitingly as
she had lived, in the land yacht. Out alone one day the wind had capsized the
machine at speed and she had been flung onto the sand, her neck broken. The
beautiful red sail covered her body like a shroud.
There had
been a shadow deep in his soul that had threatened to destroy him and he knew
that her beauty and his loss were one and he could not help himself. He forgot
to remember to forget and he walked aimlessly up and down the beach, not
knowing why, afraid to ask, aimless and lost.
'Thank
you' she said.
'What
for' he whispered,
‘For
remembering me, for loving me'
’That was
easy'
‘It’s
been hard for you I know' her voice was in his head.
‘Yes’
‘Not any
more'
She moved
her hand towards his face and he felt a whisper, a sigh that released him
suddenly. He slept then.
He woke
on the beach in front of the house, not knowing how he’d got there. The sand
virgin again, blown clean by the Doctor’s
Wind, his shadow, his grief lifted. But at his feet was a child’s
sandcastle with a tiny skull and crossbones flag stuck in the top. He smiled
and remembered.
Bio.
I'm an amateur
creative writer who just enjoys trying to tell a story.
I live in
Somerset and love everything about the sea.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
Great Expectations
Alan Cadman
Dark Chocolate
Surprise
From a young age Tommy knew where his future lay. He
wanted to be a musician; not just any old musician, but Tommy Baddams . . . the
rock star.
With his black, shoulder length, curly
hair and trade mark wrap-around shades, at least he always looked the part. He
loaded the last of the guitars into the converted campervan and slammed the back
doors shut. The dream he chased, with a passion, had not worked out as he
expected it to.
‘Do you know what your ex missus is up to
these days, Tommy?’ asked Robbie Green, the lead guitarist and singer of the
band.
Tommy rubbed his chin. ‘The last I heard,
she was dating a bank manager.’
‘It makes a massive change then,’ Robbie
said, ‘from being married to a roadie for three middle-aged
rockers.’
Tommy laughed, patted his pockets and
searched for the keys to the van, as they prepared to set off for their next
gig.
Ben Jones checked through his collection
of drumsticks, before joining in the conversation. ‘How’s your young lad?’
Tommy scratched his head. ‘I haven’t seen
him for about eight years. He must be twenty-two now.’
He clambered into the driving seat and
looked over his shoulder towards Scott. ‘Before you ask, your bass is safely
packed away in its flight case.’
Scott yawned and settled down in the
back. ‘Where are we playing tonight?’
‘Some club at the back end of
Wolverhampton, looks like a tricky place to find, the club I mean not the city.
I’m glad I’ve got a sat-nav these days.’
‘Who’s the support?’
‘Whoever the agent wants it to be.’ Tommy
pulled a face. ‘We’re not big enough to choose these days, are we?’ He checked
his dashboard gadget. ‘It’s about a hundred and fifty miles north from here.
Let’s hit the road.’
‘Your ex comes from that neck of the woods,
doesn’t she?’ asked Robbie, who sat in the front seat beside him. Tommy nodded,
but without any enthusiasm.
‘Are you going to pay her a visit then?
You know, talk about all the good times you had together?’ Robbie ducked. He
expected a verbal lashing and covered his ears with his hands. Tommy
had other things on his mind. Even at the age of fifty, he still thought he had
a chance to make his debut in the jobbing band. He knew he could do better than
just being a roadie. ‘I’m still convinced,’ he said to Robbie, ‘It would work as
a four piece.’
Robbie rolled his eyes. ‘We’re a power
trio and always will be.’ He laughed and nudged Tommy in the ribs, which caused
the van to swerve a little. ‘Go and look it up on Google if you’ve forgotten
what it means, old man.’
‘Come on, let me play rhythm guitar and
sing backing vocals. I know the set-list inside out. After all, it’s me that
tapes it to the stage every time there’s a booking.’
Robbie looked out of the window; housing
estates and out of town shopping centres soon evolved into open farmland.
‘You’ve been harping on about this for years. You’re already brilliant at what
you do.’ He tried to reason with Tommy. ‘You’re invaluable to us. Apart from
other things, you load and unload the van, drive us everywhere, set everything
up on stage, and,’ Robbie flashed a cheeky grin, ‘before we knew the error of
our wicked ways, you were our main supplier of, booze, coke and
condoms.’
‘The sound check went well, didn’t it?’
Tommy shouted to Robbie, who jumped off the stage.
‘Yeah, it did,’ he answered, over his
shoulder. ‘Did you notice that curry house outside?’ He glanced at his watch.
‘We’ve got some time to kill. See you over there.’
Tommy nodded, picked up a light blue
Fender from its stand and twisted it around in his hands. He could never work
out why Robbie chose one of those over a standard Gibson Les Paul; his own
favourite.
The bar area, of the club, was getting
crowded with early arrivals, who were hanging around in groups, chatting about
the night’s forthcoming entertainment. After checking the tuning of Robbie’s
guitar, Tommy always played the riff, as a kind of ritual, from the classic Deep
Purple song, Smoke on the Water.
A barrage of loud feedback screeched, as
he held the guitar too close to one of the monitors and hit a wrong note. ‘I
’ope you’re only the roadie and not the lead guitarist,’ a wag shouted from the
bar, ‘or I’ll ’ave me money back.’
Tommy screwed up his eyes. The ripples of
exaggerated laughter grew louder. Maybe it was time for that curry, after
all.
Tommy got back in the club, ahead of the
rest, and decided to order a pint, before watching the support act. He called
over to a teenager, who sported purple and black hair, ‘Do you know anything
about the first band on tonight?’
She sniffed and rubbed her nose. ‘Local
outfit from Wolverhampton called Great Expectations. They’ve got a cult
following round here you know.’
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Tommy
Baddams.’ Tommy recognised the voice straight away and turned round to find his
ex-wife confronting him.
‘Jill. What are you doing here? And less
of the old if you don’t mind.’
She looked him up and down. ‘Don’t even
think, for one moment, I’m here to see your bunch of has-beens. They’re well
past their sell by date.’
Tommy ignored the jibe. Even dressed in
her casual clothes, he still thought she appeared a touch too conservative to be
at a rock music gig. He wondered if she had brought the bank manager along with
her. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘No. I’m with my son.’
‘Young Tommy? Don’t you mean our . . .’
Jill didn’t answer. An awkward silence
followed for a few seconds.
Tommy fiddled with his curly black hair,
which always needed a little help from something in a bottle, and struggled to
find the right words. ‘How is . . . you know . . . how is young
Tommy?’
‘He’s doing fine. It’s a pity you didn’t
stick around to find out yourself though, instead of chasing your silly rock
star dream. You never were good enough to make it as a musician, were you?’
Tommy kept quiet, as he looked down at
the beer-stained floor.
‘Your biggest claim to fame,’ she
continued, ‘was being mistaken for that guitarist in Guns ’n’ Roses, in the
1990s, by two screaming girls. What a let-down it must have been when you turned
round.’ Jill laughed out loud and carried on, ‘I don’t know why you keep hanging
around with those losers, fetching and carrying for them.’
He knew what she referred to; she didn’t
need to spell it out. One album and four singles in the 1980s, that didn’t even
make the top fifty, amounted to the height of the band’s career, before the
record company dropped them.
Tommy spread his hands. ‘Look how many
punters are here already, this place must hold around seven hundred. Including
the walk-up, it’s got a chance of selling out tonight. Not bad for three losers,
is it?’
‘Don’t kid yourself Tommy, open your
eyes. Most of them weren’t even born when you were hoping for that elusive hit
album. It’s Great Expectations they’ve come to see. Haven’t you met them
backstage?’
‘No I haven’t, went for a vindaloo
instead.’
With nothing left to say, Tommy made his
way to watch the opening set. He glanced around him and remembered what Jill
said about the fans. They must be some sort of Goth outfit, this young band, he
thought, noticing the morbid make-up on the faces of both sexes. He looked in
another direction, and that creep, over there, is like someone straight out of a
Dickens novel. He did spot a few long haired ‘throwbacks’ from the 1980s,
drinking brown ale out of a bottle, which cheered him up a little.
‘Excuse me, love. Excuse me please,’ he
asked, pushing his way through the crowd to the front of the stage. ‘Can I just
nip in here, mate? Excuse me,’ he repeated, then announced, for more authority,
‘Road crew! Mind your backs please.’
Jill stood four paces away from him. ‘You
were quick,’ he shouted, over the pre-recorded build-up music, which grew louder
and louder. They must be good for you to rush to the front. Where’s . .
.’
‘Where’s my son, do you mean? He’s in the
band. You’ll see him in a few seconds.’
Tommy lifted his shades slowly. He forced
a smile, which didn’t reach his eyes. Still surprised, he made his way to the
wings and gestured, in an act of compassion, for Jill to join him. She shook her
head, as the main lights began to dim.
The band’s roadie, who Tommy thought
looked at least fourteen, held a torch above his head and flashed it towards the
sound engineer at the back. Great Expectations were about to take to the stage.
Hands started clapping and feet were stamping, harder and harder. There were a
few calls for Tommy Baddams, but they weren’t directed at the original Tommy
Baddams.
The drummer sauntered on first and sat
behind his kit. More of the band came on, with the same laid back attitude, and
took up their positions. Tommy’s estranged son ran across the boards and
strapped on his Les Paul. He had his father’s long black curly hair, and blue
eyes, but a much more androgynous expression peered out from under his top
hat.
As the opening guitar riff rang out of
the speakers, note perfect, a single tear dripped down the face of the
middle-aged man in the wings. He then wept freely and felt pangs of pride
mingled with envy. Young Tommy Baddams grinned and acknowledged the shouts and
whistles that emanated from the front of the stage.
* * *
Fifty Word
Biography
I have been writing
short stories for about four years. My published work has mainly been rewarded
with complimentary issues from magazines. My first and only cheque, so far,
arrived on Christmas Eve 2009. Before this, I was editor of a civic society
newsletter for seven years.
Thursday 13 October 2011
A Soar Life
A
Soar Life
Rich
Styles
Chilled
water
He would count the
twelve steps leading down to our bench often – aloud and without purpose. He
would take my hand and gently guide us through crunched leaves and spots of
sunshine; away from unfavourable youths and long since littered gum. At the
final step he would pretend to trip to make me laugh. I’d try to hold the
corners of my mouth shut each time he did so – though never with much
success.
I
always sat on the left, for the right had an obscene word scrawled in spray
paint or marker or something. I told him it made no difference: the graffiti was
dry; there was no danger of it marking my coat. But he’d insist. He carried the
bread too, as if the stale loaf would somehow weigh me down, be a burden in my
hands.
Lily and George
(after our own two babies, who – as they often remark – are now far too old to
be labelled as such) would swim over from the dense overgrowth on the opposing
bank, through the darkness beneath the bridge on Mill Lane towards the smell of
yesterday’s uneaten wholemeal. He placed the bread straight into their beaks,
stating that he didn’t have much faith for the purity of the thick green river.
A soft whistle would escape his lips as he fed them, the same nameless tune he
would sing as we cared for our garden, or gently hum into my neck after sex.
I often try to turn
the clock back by the river. I go back to our favourite time; a river not filled
with cigarette butts or takeaway wrappings, but busy with the endless flow of
barge and boat. A time when he and I would walk the cobbled lane through Castle
Yard to work, teasing one another with stories of St Mary de Castro’s many
lovers, or the tiny priest who had the good fortune of his own custom-made
entrance at the back of the church.
We’d
bickered playfully about maintaining our weekend ritual of walking to our bench
that Sunday. He had argued that the wind was high; a storm was on the horizon. I
countered with the presentation of waterproof jackets, his golfing umbrella and
a toothy smile – the latter resulting, as always, in his surrender.
The
rain began to fall as we
descended twelve familiar steps and was thundering by the time we stepped
off the final riser. The droplets hammered into the river causing the Soar to
spray upward, passers-by started running for cover underneath the old bus-stop
on Western Boulevard, the passing cars forced to a crawl. I finally admitted
defeat when I saw the seat of our bench already immersed.
Turning to leave,
my left hand searched for his right only to find nothing but air. I twisted back
to find him still staring at our saturated bench, his head lolled forward, his
hand grasping his left arm, embracing himself. He drew a deep breath and then he
began to fall.
I was unable to
hear the howling wind; the rain seemed to slow down – the droplets looking like
diamonds, feeling like bricks. A shopping bag fell to the ground. The thin loaf
escaped from the plastic and rolled into the river, the ripples spreading out
into the water, like passengers fleeing a sinking ship.
I don’t bring the
bread anymore. Lily and George don’t come for it without him. I like to think
they know I would find the memory of them eating painful on reflection. Maybe
they don’t trust the old lady without the familiar whistle. Or perhaps they’ve
just forgotten the man who would bring their breakfast on a Sunday morning. I
envy those hungry little ducks – sometimes I wish I could sit on our bench by
the river and forget him. If only for a short
while.
Rich Styles has recently completed a degree at De Montfort University, and soon starts another at Warwick. These academic pursuits help him to write short-stories and avoid living with his mother. His Dinner Date Preparation website – lennoxleroy.podbean.com –has now helped over two hundred lucky gentlemen.
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