By Marion Clarke
Dark Mocha
Barbara cradled a warm mug of tea at the kitchen table and swept a crumb of toast from the gingham tablecloth. She smiled, then sniffed, as she remembered the meals she’d shared there with her husband and son over the years. Baby tears misted her vision but she blinked them away. At least Ben had been some company for her once his father had gone. She remembered how the click of his key in the lock, followed by the shout of, 'Mum, I’m starving,' had been her signal to heat up the pan. She hugged herself at the memory of a time when she’d felt needed.
But then Ben had gone to college, and then to....God knows. Barbara shuddered. She still lived in hope of his return. Since their argument about his ‘girlfriend’, she’d worried endlessly. How could he afford the rent? – to eat, even?
She tutted and began to clear the table. Oh well, his choice. His loss, she thought.
In the hall, she tugged on her raincoat, checked her reflection and stepped outside. She had arranged to catch up for coffee with an old friend from school before going Christmas shopping.
In the cafe, teaspoons clinked, and the low tones of customers’ voices floated on the aroma of dark coffee beans.
'Ben?' Barbara beamed her reply. 'Oh, he went up north to study. He’s doing really well. Works in ICT, you know. Recently promoted to business manager, in fact.'
'Really? You must be so proud of him.'
Barbara smiled and flicked her hair from her face. 'Yes, I am. Is your Lily still hairdressing?'
'Uh huh, still gallivanting with the stars.' Jennie looked down. 'Always on tour, they are, so I hardly ever get to see her.'
Barbara frowned. 'That must be so difficult. Well, are we all finished up here?'
'Yes, that was lovely, Barbara.' She cupped her ear with her hand. 'But hark, the shops are calling to us now.' They laughed together as they got up.
Outside the coffee shop, Jennie grasped her friend’s arm. She’d tripped over the bottom of a grubby sleeping bag that was sticking out of a doorway.
'Oops, I’m sorry!' she said, steadying herself.
The doorway dweller inched down a black bin liner bedspread to reveal a headful of dull dreadlocks and sad, grey eyes. The eyebrows arched in recognition and the eyes lit up in a smile. A weak voice whispered, 'Mum?
Barbara remained stonefaced. She snorted. 'Me? Don’t be silly! Come on, Jennie, let's go shopping. The boy’s obviously on drugs.'
Marion has had technical articles and features on many subjects published in the UK trade press over the years. On returning to her native Northern Ireland, she began writing fiction more recently after winning a short story competition. Another story was selected last year for Bridgehouse Publishing’s anthology Devils, Demons and Werewolves.
msclarke@sky.com
Friday, 28 January 2011
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Tour and Duty
By Rebecca Emin,
mochaccino - it's gritty and rich at the same time.
I spent five months as part of a special tour with my unit. Five months in a cave in the middle of the Afghan desert with no running water, no mains power and only my unit for company. We were never sure if we would be discovered by the search parties that knew we were hiding but weren’t sure where. If they found us, that day would have been our last.
We learned to take pleasure in simple things, for fear that we would never feel pleasure again. We were reduced to being grateful for bars of soap and packets of sweets donated by kind strangers who had read of our situation and filled shoe boxes to send to us via our BFPO address. We had an old Playstation in our kit which we wired up to an old TV screen. How the TV got to our rock, out in the middle of the barren desert, goodness only knows, but it was left by a previous unit. The word must have got home, as suddenly we began to receive DVDs in the shoe boxes. It was good to see images of the outside world again. It reminded us that there was life back at home and outside of our unit; another life where people were carrying on with the daily routine while we were absent.
We finished up our tour and were transported home. We never get enough notice to let anyone back home know dates and arrival times, but the official word always gets back before we do. We were greeted on arrival by families and friends in a vague attempt at a hero’s welcome. It is always a shock to the system to come back from somewhere so bleak and isolated, to the developed world with networks of roads, fully working communications and running water, not to mention electricity as well as gas. It takes a while to adjust.
I go for a medical a week after my return. It’s a routine thing, but I mention something that has been bothering me. After investigations I am given a prescription, and I walk out of the office with the form in my hand and a feeling of despair in my heart. I can be forgiven for being away for so long, and for missing birthdays, anniversaries and sometimes even Christmas, but this? As the doctor said ‘You and your fiancé must both take a course of this and it will clear it up,’ I knew that “What happens on tour stays on tour” wasn’t going to be accurate this time.
If only I hadn’t been quite so fearful of death. If only I hadn’t resorted to seeing human comfort during my time over there. If only I hadn’t got such a feeling of relief from it that I had found it impossible to give it up once I had started. It wasn’t as if they meant anything to me, other that being part of my team, it just seemed to be the only way to cope with the situation. For a fleeting second I think of the people that shared in this outlet, the ones who came home to their families, and Williams and Morrison, who left our camp one morning for a routine patrol, and came back to England much like a jigsaw puzzle pieced together inside matching wooden boxes draped with patriotic fabric.
Cars hoot and belch out exhaust fumes next to me as I walk up the main shopping street in the city and wonder what to do. I feel dirty inside and out. I can’t avoid the revelation of what has happened now that we both have to take the medication. It’s stalemate.
I finally give in and return home. As I approach the home that we created together I wonder if it will cave in on us after I explain what is wrong.
I hand the medication over first. I take a breath to explain, but a gentle finger on my lips makes me pause. I look into deep blue eyes, and see a gentle shake of his head.
There is silence as I fill two glasses with water. We take our medication and I feel arms around me. I lean into the hug.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he says, ‘I don’t need to know details. You’re home now and that is all that counts.’
I am so relieved. Telling him would make our plans unravel. The plans for a future together that we created when we discovered that my womb was barren and I needed to focus on something else instead of my dream of one day giving birth and holding my own child in my arms. He is my rock in this world, and he understood that I needed to have a purpose for a while, and to reconcile myself to the truth.
As I relax in his arms, I am glad that I did what I had to do, but that my final tour of duty is over.
We are free.
www.rebeccaemin.co.uk
mochaccino - it's gritty and rich at the same time.
I spent five months as part of a special tour with my unit. Five months in a cave in the middle of the Afghan desert with no running water, no mains power and only my unit for company. We were never sure if we would be discovered by the search parties that knew we were hiding but weren’t sure where. If they found us, that day would have been our last.
We learned to take pleasure in simple things, for fear that we would never feel pleasure again. We were reduced to being grateful for bars of soap and packets of sweets donated by kind strangers who had read of our situation and filled shoe boxes to send to us via our BFPO address. We had an old Playstation in our kit which we wired up to an old TV screen. How the TV got to our rock, out in the middle of the barren desert, goodness only knows, but it was left by a previous unit. The word must have got home, as suddenly we began to receive DVDs in the shoe boxes. It was good to see images of the outside world again. It reminded us that there was life back at home and outside of our unit; another life where people were carrying on with the daily routine while we were absent.
We finished up our tour and were transported home. We never get enough notice to let anyone back home know dates and arrival times, but the official word always gets back before we do. We were greeted on arrival by families and friends in a vague attempt at a hero’s welcome. It is always a shock to the system to come back from somewhere so bleak and isolated, to the developed world with networks of roads, fully working communications and running water, not to mention electricity as well as gas. It takes a while to adjust.
I go for a medical a week after my return. It’s a routine thing, but I mention something that has been bothering me. After investigations I am given a prescription, and I walk out of the office with the form in my hand and a feeling of despair in my heart. I can be forgiven for being away for so long, and for missing birthdays, anniversaries and sometimes even Christmas, but this? As the doctor said ‘You and your fiancé must both take a course of this and it will clear it up,’ I knew that “What happens on tour stays on tour” wasn’t going to be accurate this time.
If only I hadn’t been quite so fearful of death. If only I hadn’t resorted to seeing human comfort during my time over there. If only I hadn’t got such a feeling of relief from it that I had found it impossible to give it up once I had started. It wasn’t as if they meant anything to me, other that being part of my team, it just seemed to be the only way to cope with the situation. For a fleeting second I think of the people that shared in this outlet, the ones who came home to their families, and Williams and Morrison, who left our camp one morning for a routine patrol, and came back to England much like a jigsaw puzzle pieced together inside matching wooden boxes draped with patriotic fabric.
Cars hoot and belch out exhaust fumes next to me as I walk up the main shopping street in the city and wonder what to do. I feel dirty inside and out. I can’t avoid the revelation of what has happened now that we both have to take the medication. It’s stalemate.
I finally give in and return home. As I approach the home that we created together I wonder if it will cave in on us after I explain what is wrong.
I hand the medication over first. I take a breath to explain, but a gentle finger on my lips makes me pause. I look into deep blue eyes, and see a gentle shake of his head.
There is silence as I fill two glasses with water. We take our medication and I feel arms around me. I lean into the hug.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he says, ‘I don’t need to know details. You’re home now and that is all that counts.’
I am so relieved. Telling him would make our plans unravel. The plans for a future together that we created when we discovered that my womb was barren and I needed to focus on something else instead of my dream of one day giving birth and holding my own child in my arms. He is my rock in this world, and he understood that I needed to have a purpose for a while, and to reconcile myself to the truth.
As I relax in his arms, I am glad that I did what I had to do, but that my final tour of duty is over.
We are free.
www.rebeccaemin.co.uk
Monday, 8 November 2010
Memories
By Jane
Black Americano
The Arum lilies were beautiful. Stems, brightly green with exquisite cream flowers. She loved the way they curled and the strength of the stems as she held them. A strand of ribbon binding the six lilies together. She clutched them tightly, breathing in deeply, allowing the floral scent and emotion to fill her senses.
Her eyes were closed. It was her wedding day, every little girl's dream. It was to be her perfect day. With eyes closed, Christie remembered the days in the run up to the wedding, of visiting the small, family run cake store to check on the cake prior to delivery. Trying on her wedding dress to obsessive levels, watching how it flowed around her body as she danced in front of the mirror. The white bodice and capped sleeves, showing her tiny frame perfectly, whilst the drop of the silk from the bodice, swam around her slender legs, giving her the feel of a princess. She had also shopped for thank-you gifts for her two bridesmaids, Sarah and Lucy, friends since the first day of infant school, at just five years of age, when they were all pigtails and frilly socks.
Now she also had Jonathan in her life. She first noticed him when he started working in the large conveyors offices. She noticed his tall frame, dark styled hair and endearing smile, the minute he walked through the large antique wooden framed doors. She figured he was out of her league. Not only was he incredibly handsome, but he was kind and softly spoken. The day he asked to take her out, had been, a really bad day. She had been passed over for promotion in favour of an unknown candidate. She was upset and left early for a strong sweet fix in Chloe's coffee shop. Her favourite place. This was where she was sat when Jonathan walked in. Christie hadn't noticed him enter as she had cocooned herself into the corner of the shop as tears flowed, as out of view as she could possibly be, sitting with her back to the rest of the shop in an effort to hide the demented panda look, the running mascara was creating.
He had sat down quietly in front of her. He didn't say anything, he just sat and looked at her. Bewildered, she gave an uncertain smile and at that, he quietly took her hand. From there, conversations, picnics, restaurants and days filled with laughter ensued, a journey to this point. The point where she was stood in the doorway of the old church about to marry her perfect man. She could see the guests, the colours and smiles as she stood waiting to walk down the aisle towards Jonathan. The joy and emotion was tangible. It felt warm and sure, slowly caressing her as it enveloped and secured her.
She looked at her father, the man who would give her away, traditionally handing her to her husband, who would be waiting for her at the altar. She lifted and touched the flowers to her nose, taking a moment in the fragrance and feeling the heat of love. The softness of the petals caressing the tip of her nose. The sweet scent stirred something in her.
She opened her eyes. Confusion welled up, a deep knot from her stomach, churning up into her chest, up welling, taking her very breath from within her. She held on to the strong stems, soaking up the scent into every pore of her being, she felt the gentle hands of Sarah and Lucy cupping her elbows and knew it was time to let go. With a breath taken from the depth of her soul, she looked down, deep into the dark hole in the earth opening up in front of her and opening her hands, released the beautiful cream Arum lilies, watching as they fell softly into the ground for her husband, Jonathan.
Jane
Website: www.lifeinclarity.gmail.com
Black Americano
The Arum lilies were beautiful. Stems, brightly green with exquisite cream flowers. She loved the way they curled and the strength of the stems as she held them. A strand of ribbon binding the six lilies together. She clutched them tightly, breathing in deeply, allowing the floral scent and emotion to fill her senses.
Her eyes were closed. It was her wedding day, every little girl's dream. It was to be her perfect day. With eyes closed, Christie remembered the days in the run up to the wedding, of visiting the small, family run cake store to check on the cake prior to delivery. Trying on her wedding dress to obsessive levels, watching how it flowed around her body as she danced in front of the mirror. The white bodice and capped sleeves, showing her tiny frame perfectly, whilst the drop of the silk from the bodice, swam around her slender legs, giving her the feel of a princess. She had also shopped for thank-you gifts for her two bridesmaids, Sarah and Lucy, friends since the first day of infant school, at just five years of age, when they were all pigtails and frilly socks.
Now she also had Jonathan in her life. She first noticed him when he started working in the large conveyors offices. She noticed his tall frame, dark styled hair and endearing smile, the minute he walked through the large antique wooden framed doors. She figured he was out of her league. Not only was he incredibly handsome, but he was kind and softly spoken. The day he asked to take her out, had been, a really bad day. She had been passed over for promotion in favour of an unknown candidate. She was upset and left early for a strong sweet fix in Chloe's coffee shop. Her favourite place. This was where she was sat when Jonathan walked in. Christie hadn't noticed him enter as she had cocooned herself into the corner of the shop as tears flowed, as out of view as she could possibly be, sitting with her back to the rest of the shop in an effort to hide the demented panda look, the running mascara was creating.
He had sat down quietly in front of her. He didn't say anything, he just sat and looked at her. Bewildered, she gave an uncertain smile and at that, he quietly took her hand. From there, conversations, picnics, restaurants and days filled with laughter ensued, a journey to this point. The point where she was stood in the doorway of the old church about to marry her perfect man. She could see the guests, the colours and smiles as she stood waiting to walk down the aisle towards Jonathan. The joy and emotion was tangible. It felt warm and sure, slowly caressing her as it enveloped and secured her.
She looked at her father, the man who would give her away, traditionally handing her to her husband, who would be waiting for her at the altar. She lifted and touched the flowers to her nose, taking a moment in the fragrance and feeling the heat of love. The softness of the petals caressing the tip of her nose. The sweet scent stirred something in her.
She opened her eyes. Confusion welled up, a deep knot from her stomach, churning up into her chest, up welling, taking her very breath from within her. She held on to the strong stems, soaking up the scent into every pore of her being, she felt the gentle hands of Sarah and Lucy cupping her elbows and knew it was time to let go. With a breath taken from the depth of her soul, she looked down, deep into the dark hole in the earth opening up in front of her and opening her hands, released the beautiful cream Arum lilies, watching as they fell softly into the ground for her husband, Jonathan.
Jane
Website: www.lifeinclarity.gmail.com
Thursday, 4 November 2010
To Be Somebody
Cinnamon latte
By Danielle Smith
The smallest dressing room at the rear of the Palace variety bar had been assigned to Dorothy and five other girls. Dorothy was the eldest of the girls and by far the most glamorous; her porcelain skin complemented her dark eyes and scarlet lips. Dolled up to the nines she was the image of sin and infatuation, she embodied the lust of all the men who frequented the seaside bars looking for a fleeting romance or a naughty fumble. The other girls despite being only one or two years younger looked like children next to Dorothy. They performed as an ensemble three times a day. They all danced and some sung but only Dorothy did it all. She was good at what she did and knew that given the chance she could escape the small dressing rooms and break into the big wide world, she knew that if she pleased the right people and carried on bringing in the audience she would be sent to the tower. The room was hot and crowded, she sat by the open window smoking, she watched the smoke swirl to nothing in the sky .Dorothy tried to smile as the other girls danced around excited for the show but there was also a knot in her stomach that had been building over the past few weeks. Bob Thompson knocked on the door.
'Ten minutes till curtain up my lovelies,' he leered rubbing his palms together.
Some of the younger girls giggled in excitement for each show filled them with pride and a great sense of achievement; whereas to Dorothy the show was just the first rung of the ladder to her childhood dreams of having her name in lights.
'You alright Dorothy? Your Bertie not writing back to you anymore?' asked Mary, a young skinny girl with legs as long as the golden mile.
'Oh, he is, he wants me to stop all this nonsense he says I can’t afford to have such fanciful dreams, he wants me to be his wife soon but he has been saying that for an age,' she replied with a smile.
Mary looked around the room as she searched for something to say.
'You’re lucky Dorothy, but don’t he know how well you’re doing here. You said there’s work coming your way at the tower soon.'
‘He knows,’ Dorothy tried to avoid Mary’s gaze but Mary did not move she sat looking at her with a sense of intrigue and wonderment.
‘He just wants a wife, that’s all. He’s not at all fond of the crowds looking at me the way he did when we met, he wants me at home. He has a hold over me Mary you will understand when you find a man who wants to make you a wife’
‘You could be a kept woman, Dot. Wouldn’t that be good? Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘It used to be enough that he wanted me, but of late I am unsure that it is me he wants.’
Mary laughed. “He wanted you enough the first time he saw you. Couldn’t keep his hand off you I remember the look in his eyes, like a man gone wild”
‘I think he just wants a wife to come home to, but he’s away for so long. I could be his wife whilst he’s here but when he’s gone I’m nothing and I wasn’t born to be nothing Mary.’
’You’re a funny one Dorothy’ Mary smiled and one by one they left the room for the stage door.
Danielle Smith
Twitter :_Dani_elle
Blog:http://www.ablogfromblackpool.blogspot.com/
Danielle is a writer based in Blackpool. She writes Young Adult Fiction and
performance poetry.
By Danielle Smith
The smallest dressing room at the rear of the Palace variety bar had been assigned to Dorothy and five other girls. Dorothy was the eldest of the girls and by far the most glamorous; her porcelain skin complemented her dark eyes and scarlet lips. Dolled up to the nines she was the image of sin and infatuation, she embodied the lust of all the men who frequented the seaside bars looking for a fleeting romance or a naughty fumble. The other girls despite being only one or two years younger looked like children next to Dorothy. They performed as an ensemble three times a day. They all danced and some sung but only Dorothy did it all. She was good at what she did and knew that given the chance she could escape the small dressing rooms and break into the big wide world, she knew that if she pleased the right people and carried on bringing in the audience she would be sent to the tower. The room was hot and crowded, she sat by the open window smoking, she watched the smoke swirl to nothing in the sky .Dorothy tried to smile as the other girls danced around excited for the show but there was also a knot in her stomach that had been building over the past few weeks. Bob Thompson knocked on the door.
'Ten minutes till curtain up my lovelies,' he leered rubbing his palms together.
Some of the younger girls giggled in excitement for each show filled them with pride and a great sense of achievement; whereas to Dorothy the show was just the first rung of the ladder to her childhood dreams of having her name in lights.
'You alright Dorothy? Your Bertie not writing back to you anymore?' asked Mary, a young skinny girl with legs as long as the golden mile.
'Oh, he is, he wants me to stop all this nonsense he says I can’t afford to have such fanciful dreams, he wants me to be his wife soon but he has been saying that for an age,' she replied with a smile.
Mary looked around the room as she searched for something to say.
'You’re lucky Dorothy, but don’t he know how well you’re doing here. You said there’s work coming your way at the tower soon.'
‘He knows,’ Dorothy tried to avoid Mary’s gaze but Mary did not move she sat looking at her with a sense of intrigue and wonderment.
‘He just wants a wife, that’s all. He’s not at all fond of the crowds looking at me the way he did when we met, he wants me at home. He has a hold over me Mary you will understand when you find a man who wants to make you a wife’
‘You could be a kept woman, Dot. Wouldn’t that be good? Isn’t that enough for you?’
‘It used to be enough that he wanted me, but of late I am unsure that it is me he wants.’
Mary laughed. “He wanted you enough the first time he saw you. Couldn’t keep his hand off you I remember the look in his eyes, like a man gone wild”
‘I think he just wants a wife to come home to, but he’s away for so long. I could be his wife whilst he’s here but when he’s gone I’m nothing and I wasn’t born to be nothing Mary.’
’You’re a funny one Dorothy’ Mary smiled and one by one they left the room for the stage door.
Danielle Smith
Twitter :_Dani_elle
Blog:http://www.ablogfromblackpool.blogspot.com/
Danielle is a writer based in Blackpool. She writes Young Adult Fiction and
performance poetry.
Daffodils
Espresso
By Lauren Bannister
He creeps across the floorboards, quietly cursing each creak for exposing his secret. You clasp your eyes shut and listen intently to his heavy breathing, while your nostrils hunt for his familiar, comforting smell. He quickly undresses and slides under the sheets, he wraps his body around yours in the naïve hope that sleep is contagious. You shift your body and pretend that his arrival has disturbed you from your deep sleep.
‘Hi.’ His words lick your ear as he locks his arms around you, pulling you yet closer.
‘What time is it?’ you ask feigning sleepiness and already knowing the answer.
‘Don’t worry about that, just get yourself back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up,’ he responds, ever the doting husband.
Doubt weaves its web across your mind like a silent spider. He notices you glance at the clock, your steely silence encourages him to go into unnecessary detail.
‘You know what it’s like with work mates…one drink down the pub after work means five drinks and stopping off for a kebab on the way home.’ He searches for your hand under the vast expanse of duvet.
You nod but the words do not come, they sit echoing in the pit of your stomach. You know without having to smell him, that there will be no traces of kebab on his breath or skin. His arm grows limp against your body and you know that he is asleep. It has always baffled you how quickly he is able to surrender himself as though he does not have a care in the world. You shrug his arm away from you and move to a cold part of the bed. You shiver and pull your arms under the sanctuary of your own body, eventually drifting off.
When you wake up he is gone. The scribbled note on the side table tells you that he has taken your son to the park. Next to the note sits a bunch of freshly picked, sweetly scented daffodils, still glistening wet with morning rain. You pick up the flowers sitting pretty in their perfect vase and hurl them against the far wall, where the vase smashes and the flowers lay bruised. You have always hated daffodils.
Lauren is currently in the last year of studying for a BA in English and Creative Writing at Salford University. She thoroughly enjoys exploring the genre of short fiction and flash fiction.
By Lauren Bannister
He creeps across the floorboards, quietly cursing each creak for exposing his secret. You clasp your eyes shut and listen intently to his heavy breathing, while your nostrils hunt for his familiar, comforting smell. He quickly undresses and slides under the sheets, he wraps his body around yours in the naïve hope that sleep is contagious. You shift your body and pretend that his arrival has disturbed you from your deep sleep.
‘Hi.’ His words lick your ear as he locks his arms around you, pulling you yet closer.
‘What time is it?’ you ask feigning sleepiness and already knowing the answer.
‘Don’t worry about that, just get yourself back to sleep. I’m sorry for waking you up,’ he responds, ever the doting husband.
Doubt weaves its web across your mind like a silent spider. He notices you glance at the clock, your steely silence encourages him to go into unnecessary detail.
‘You know what it’s like with work mates…one drink down the pub after work means five drinks and stopping off for a kebab on the way home.’ He searches for your hand under the vast expanse of duvet.
You nod but the words do not come, they sit echoing in the pit of your stomach. You know without having to smell him, that there will be no traces of kebab on his breath or skin. His arm grows limp against your body and you know that he is asleep. It has always baffled you how quickly he is able to surrender himself as though he does not have a care in the world. You shrug his arm away from you and move to a cold part of the bed. You shiver and pull your arms under the sanctuary of your own body, eventually drifting off.
When you wake up he is gone. The scribbled note on the side table tells you that he has taken your son to the park. Next to the note sits a bunch of freshly picked, sweetly scented daffodils, still glistening wet with morning rain. You pick up the flowers sitting pretty in their perfect vase and hurl them against the far wall, where the vase smashes and the flowers lay bruised. You have always hated daffodils.
Lauren is currently in the last year of studying for a BA in English and Creative Writing at Salford University. She thoroughly enjoys exploring the genre of short fiction and flash fiction.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Hell Hath No Fury Espresso
By Mandy James
Slowly his consciousness surfaced from the bubbles of a champagne slumber. It took a few moments to realise that the insistent Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! was not part of his dream but a car alarm. Stuffing a pillow over his ears he tried drowning it out, but its banshee wail continued unabated.
Stupid dick-head neighbours! The damned thing was always hollering, he’d complained about it only the other day and was assured they would sort it. Well he’d bloody well sort them first thing tomorrow.
Pressing his face deeply into his pillows he inhaled the intoxicating perfume left behind from his latest conquest. The alarm was temporarily forgotten as he relived the last few hours of passion between the sheets. The wife was looking after her sick mother yet again, and he took advantage of it every time. He wondered why he bothered to hide it really. She knew as well as he did that he kept her around out of pity...and convenience of course. She did cook rather well and attended to his every need. But since he’d got promotion and rocketed up the ladder, over these past few years he’d outgrown her – left her at the bottom.
The banshee still drilled into his brain, so rubbing his eyes he dragged his hung-over body from bed to window. At first he imagined the dawn light deceived his eyes. The banshee wailed from his car, and the car appeared to be bleeding.
Taking the stairs three at a time he grabbed keys, flung open the door and ran onto the drive. His new silver soft-top Mercedes was coated head to toe with red paint. The empty can sat guiltily by the wheel. Pointing the keys he snapped off the alarm. Totally bewildered he knelt on the cool concrete, his ears ringing in the silence. It was then that he noticed the envelope. Ripping it open he read:
Time you were taught a lesson - felt some pain. I thought the way to do this was to ruin your latest treasure. You wound me daily by the way you are indifferent to my love. This hurts much more than your infidelities. I won’t put up with it any more...I can’t put up with it anymore.
His wife’s pale face floated briefly - blue eyes pleading. Next time he saw her he’d add some black to them. He’d slapped her before, but this time she was really going to get a beating.
Marching back inside he was unnerved to see his wife standing behind the kitchen counter. Her eyes had turned from pleading blue to cold grey steel. He didn’t think he could reason with those eyes. He felt uncertain, but rage pushed him forward, fists clenched. How dare she just stand there after what she’d done!
The answer came in the shape of a shotgun raised and cocked in one fluid movement. The cold grey steel matched her eyes. There would definitely be no reasoning with that.
Slowly his consciousness surfaced from the bubbles of a champagne slumber. It took a few moments to realise that the insistent Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! was not part of his dream but a car alarm. Stuffing a pillow over his ears he tried drowning it out, but its banshee wail continued unabated.
Stupid dick-head neighbours! The damned thing was always hollering, he’d complained about it only the other day and was assured they would sort it. Well he’d bloody well sort them first thing tomorrow.
Pressing his face deeply into his pillows he inhaled the intoxicating perfume left behind from his latest conquest. The alarm was temporarily forgotten as he relived the last few hours of passion between the sheets. The wife was looking after her sick mother yet again, and he took advantage of it every time. He wondered why he bothered to hide it really. She knew as well as he did that he kept her around out of pity...and convenience of course. She did cook rather well and attended to his every need. But since he’d got promotion and rocketed up the ladder, over these past few years he’d outgrown her – left her at the bottom.
The banshee still drilled into his brain, so rubbing his eyes he dragged his hung-over body from bed to window. At first he imagined the dawn light deceived his eyes. The banshee wailed from his car, and the car appeared to be bleeding.
Taking the stairs three at a time he grabbed keys, flung open the door and ran onto the drive. His new silver soft-top Mercedes was coated head to toe with red paint. The empty can sat guiltily by the wheel. Pointing the keys he snapped off the alarm. Totally bewildered he knelt on the cool concrete, his ears ringing in the silence. It was then that he noticed the envelope. Ripping it open he read:
Time you were taught a lesson - felt some pain. I thought the way to do this was to ruin your latest treasure. You wound me daily by the way you are indifferent to my love. This hurts much more than your infidelities. I won’t put up with it any more...I can’t put up with it anymore.
His wife’s pale face floated briefly - blue eyes pleading. Next time he saw her he’d add some black to them. He’d slapped her before, but this time she was really going to get a beating.
Marching back inside he was unnerved to see his wife standing behind the kitchen counter. Her eyes had turned from pleading blue to cold grey steel. He didn’t think he could reason with those eyes. He felt uncertain, but rage pushed him forward, fists clenched. How dare she just stand there after what she’d done!
The answer came in the shape of a shotgun raised and cocked in one fluid movement. The cold grey steel matched her eyes. There would definitely be no reasoning with that.
Slowly his consciousness surfaced from the bubbles of a champagne slumber. It took a few moments to realise that the insistent Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! was not part of his dream but a car alarm. Stuffing a pillow over his ears he tried drowning it out, but its banshee wail continued unabated.
Stupid dick-head neighbours! The damned thing was always hollering, he’d complained about it only the other day and was assured they would sort it. Well he’d bloody well sort them first thing tomorrow.
Pressing his face deeply into his pillows he inhaled the intoxicating perfume left behind from his latest conquest. The alarm was temporarily forgotten as he relived the last few hours of passion between the sheets. The wife was looking after her sick mother yet again, and he took advantage of it every time. He wondered why he bothered to hide it really. She knew as well as he did that he kept her around out of pity...and convenience of course. She did cook rather well and attended to his every need. But since he’d got promotion and rocketed up the ladder, over these past few years he’d outgrown her – left her at the bottom.
The banshee still drilled into his brain, so rubbing his eyes he dragged his hung-over body from bed to window. At first he imagined the dawn light deceived his eyes. The banshee wailed from his car, and the car appeared to be bleeding.
Taking the stairs three at a time he grabbed keys, flung open the door and ran onto the drive. His new silver soft-top Mercedes was coated head to toe with red paint. The empty can sat guiltily by the wheel. Pointing the keys he snapped off the alarm. Totally bewildered he knelt on the cool concrete, his ears ringing in the silence. It was then that he noticed the envelope. Ripping it open he read:
Time you were taught a lesson - felt some pain. I thought the way to do this was to ruin your latest treasure. You wound me daily by the way you are indifferent to my love. This hurts much more than your infidelities. I won’t put up with it any more...I can’t put up with it anymore.
His wife’s pale face floated briefly - blue eyes pleading. Next time he saw her he’d add some black to them. He’d slapped her before, but this time she was really going to get a beating.
Marching back inside he was unnerved to see his wife standing behind the kitchen counter. Her eyes had turned from pleading blue to cold grey steel. He didn’t think he could reason with those eyes. He felt uncertain, but rage pushed him forward, fists clenched. How dare she just stand there after what she’d done!
The answer came in the shape of a shotgun raised and cocked in one fluid movement. The cold grey steel matched her eyes. There would definitely be no reasoning with that.
Slowly his consciousness surfaced from the bubbles of a champagne slumber. It took a few moments to realise that the insistent Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! was not part of his dream but a car alarm. Stuffing a pillow over his ears he tried drowning it out, but its banshee wail continued unabated.
Stupid dick-head neighbours! The damned thing was always hollering, he’d complained about it only the other day and was assured they would sort it. Well he’d bloody well sort them first thing tomorrow.
Pressing his face deeply into his pillows he inhaled the intoxicating perfume left behind from his latest conquest. The alarm was temporarily forgotten as he relived the last few hours of passion between the sheets. The wife was looking after her sick mother yet again, and he took advantage of it every time. He wondered why he bothered to hide it really. She knew as well as he did that he kept her around out of pity...and convenience of course. She did cook rather well and attended to his every need. But since he’d got promotion and rocketed up the ladder, over these past few years he’d outgrown her – left her at the bottom.
The banshee still drilled into his brain, so rubbing his eyes he dragged his hung-over body from bed to window. At first he imagined the dawn light deceived his eyes. The banshee wailed from his car, and the car appeared to be bleeding.
Taking the stairs three at a time he grabbed keys, flung open the door and ran onto the drive. His new silver soft-top Mercedes was coated head to toe with red paint. The empty can sat guiltily by the wheel. Pointing the keys he snapped off the alarm. Totally bewildered he knelt on the cool concrete, his ears ringing in the silence. It was then that he noticed the envelope. Ripping it open he read:
Time you were taught a lesson - felt some pain. I thought the way to do this was to ruin your latest treasure. You wound me daily by the way you are indifferent to my love. This hurts much more than your infidelities. I won’t put up with it any more...I can’t put up with it anymore.
His wife’s pale face floated briefly - blue eyes pleading. Next time he saw her he’d add some black to them. He’d slapped her before, but this time she was really going to get a beating.
Marching back inside he was unnerved to see his wife standing behind the kitchen counter. Her eyes had turned from pleading blue to cold grey steel. He didn’t think he could reason with those eyes. He felt uncertain, but rage pushed him forward, fists clenched. How dare she just stand there after what she’d done!
The answer came in the shape of a shotgun raised and cocked in one fluid movement. The cold grey steel matched her eyes. There would definitely be no reasoning with that.
Tuesday, 21 September 2010
A Fond Farewell (Espresso)
I love you, Cindy.
I’ve loved from the first day I saw you. Not the day we met; I’d seen you before that, many times.
I first saw you in the town. You were sitting with friends laughing about some TV show you had all seen. You had tears running down your face; it must have been a funny show.
I don’t know what it was that first grabbed my attention, your hair maybe; short and dark, cut high, showing off your beautiful neck to perfection. Maybe it was the sound of your voice, or that soft, almost musical laugh. It’s hard to remember after all these years. I do remember you turning to speak to your friend though, that’s when I saw your face for the first time. Brown eyes, deep enough to drown in, a perfect nose and soft, rose petal lips. I caught my breath and lost my heart in an instant.
I saw you many times over the next few weeks, I made sure I did. You didn’t see me though; I made sure of that too. I always had a newspaper or a book to hide behind, I even bought reading glasses and a hat, so I could get as close to you as I could without you being aware. I got a job in the bar where you used to go. I went everywhere with you, protected by a crowd of students, a face in the crowd, but one you never picked out. That was a long summer, Cindy; I got to know a lot about you by the end of it.
Before I even got to speak to you I had a good idea of your musical tastes, your fashion sense and your politics. I knew where you lived where you shopped and even how long your male visitors stayed after a night out. In another life I could have been a spy.
We finally did meet the day you lost your bag in the college library. I found it under my chair, remember that? You were so grateful that nothing was missing. You had your bus pass and the keys to your apartment in that bag, so it could have been quite serious.
I never told you, Cindy, but I hid it there, I was so desperate to speak to you. It wasn’t just infatuation; it was much more than that. I was already in love, I was your slave, I would have done anything to make you mine. I offered my soul to the devil in exchange for your heart and he obliged. It was a good job the offer was of enough value to him, I had nothing else.
Remember those early days? I couldn't keep away; I once slept in the passage outside your door because you had mentioned that some kids had been causing trouble in the flats. That was a cold night. I had to be at work the next morning, so I left at 7 am. I don’t think I’d do that again, Cindy, much as I love you. My neck ached for days afterwards. I caught a cold too.
How far did your flatmates go in trying to put you off me, Cindy? I know that Janie and Cynth didn’t think I was your type. They made that pretty obvious whenever I came round. They used to lie sometimes when I rang and tell me you were busy when you weren’t. They were always trying to get you to go out with them if they knew we had a date. Thankfully you saw through them and would have none of it. You knew we were soul mates.
Your mother didn't like me much either did she? Still doesn't. I don't know what I did to make her hate me so much. Did she ever tell you? I tried my best with her. I was polite and respectful in the extreme; I even used to stand up when she came into the room. None of it was enough to sway her opinion though.
It’s such a shame I never got to meet your dad. I think we'd have got on just fine; he might even have put in a good word with your mother for me.
He liked a beer, just as I do. Maybe if I’d have gone out with him now and then, he might not have drunk quite so much. My heart bled for you when he died, Cindy, your mother was very bitter about it all. But maybe she was the cause of his problem in the first place.
My mother loved you, Cindy, though you never took to her did you? Yes I know she was a little protective, but I am her only son and a mother has to look after her young. If she seemed overly critical it was only because she wanted the best for me; us.
Where did it go wrong, Cindy? Was it my job? I know there were long hours, I know I was away a lot but I made good money. It meant you could stay home and write your stories; they were good stories, Cindy. Those editors shouldn't have been in their jobs, even I can tell a good yarn when I read one and they were good. I wanted to publish them for you, would have if I could.
I’ve spent many an unhappy hour trying to work out where and why we began to drift apart, but I’m no closer to an answer. We were good together in the old days, we didn't need anyone else. We talked for hours, fixed the world, laid out our plans and our dreams, even our fantasies. I was shocked by some of yours, Cindy; though it looks like you were determined to fulfil a lot of them.
Why so many men, Cindy? I knew a good while back I wasn't enough for you, so I got out of the way when I could. My mother never understood why I needed to stay over as often as I did, or why I didn’t bring you round with me. She told me that I was a fool to let you out on your own all the time. You were never home when she rang and my lame excuses got lamer as time went on.
She called you a whore; I told her she was wrong. I said you had needs that I couldn't help you with; she said you should go on the street with those needs, at least you'd have bought some money in to help.
I didn’t agree with my mother all the time, Cindy.
Maybe it would all have been different if we had managed to have kids. My mother was desperate to be a Grandmother. I think even your mother may have mellowed had we produced a grandchild for her. It wasn’t to be though, something to do with your ovaries. They all knew it was nothing to do with my body, but your mother blamed me anyway.
I’d give anything to make love to you one last time, Cindy; but that’s not possible now, you being dead and all. I’d have loved to have taken you to our wood by the river one last time. It’s autumn again, I could have laid you down in the fallen leaves; it was my favourite place, our special place. Did you ever take anyone else there, Cindy? I hope not, that wouldn’t have been right.
I’ll have let you lie alone for a while, Cindy; I’ve got a cramp in my arm now. Maybe that’s a good thing as I won’t feel the hypodermic when I use it. I’ll take the same amount I gave to you; it worked pretty quickly. You seemed to be having trouble finding a vein; I guess that’s what happens when you do it as often as you did.
I never begrudged you the money for the drugs, Cindy; I knew that you needed them to get by. I didn’t like the people you had to mix with to get the stuff though. Some of them should have been in jail.
I was robbed more than once buying it for you myself. You weren’t happy when I came back empty handed, but when I did, that guy Rodrigo always came through. You seemed very close to him; he didn’t smile much did he? Did you know he ran prostitutes? I only found out the other day; it was in the papers, they arrested him for it.
It’s getting dark now, Cindy, I guess it’s almost time to say goodbye. I’ve left a note for my mother, but not for yours. I have nothing to say to her. What could I say? I’ve never done anything right in her eyes and I don’t expect her to approve of this either.
I’ll say a prayer for you, Cindy and one for me. I think God will understand why I did it. I’ll put in a word for you when I get to heaven. I’m sure they’ll let you off with a warning or something. You were never a bad person; you might even get to see your Dad. I doubt your mother will ever be allowed in though. There are limits, even in heaven.
I’m going to use a new hypodermic when I have mine, Cindy, It’s wrong to share needles.
Goodbye for now.
I love you, Cindy.
--
Tracy's Hot Mail, the paperback, coming soon from BigBadMedia http://www.bigbadmedia.com
Tracy's Hot Mail, the new eBook from T A Belshaw
read a sample or download from Ma2Books. http://ma2books.webplus.net/tracyshotmail.html
I’ve loved from the first day I saw you. Not the day we met; I’d seen you before that, many times.
I first saw you in the town. You were sitting with friends laughing about some TV show you had all seen. You had tears running down your face; it must have been a funny show.
I don’t know what it was that first grabbed my attention, your hair maybe; short and dark, cut high, showing off your beautiful neck to perfection. Maybe it was the sound of your voice, or that soft, almost musical laugh. It’s hard to remember after all these years. I do remember you turning to speak to your friend though, that’s when I saw your face for the first time. Brown eyes, deep enough to drown in, a perfect nose and soft, rose petal lips. I caught my breath and lost my heart in an instant.
I saw you many times over the next few weeks, I made sure I did. You didn’t see me though; I made sure of that too. I always had a newspaper or a book to hide behind, I even bought reading glasses and a hat, so I could get as close to you as I could without you being aware. I got a job in the bar where you used to go. I went everywhere with you, protected by a crowd of students, a face in the crowd, but one you never picked out. That was a long summer, Cindy; I got to know a lot about you by the end of it.
Before I even got to speak to you I had a good idea of your musical tastes, your fashion sense and your politics. I knew where you lived where you shopped and even how long your male visitors stayed after a night out. In another life I could have been a spy.
We finally did meet the day you lost your bag in the college library. I found it under my chair, remember that? You were so grateful that nothing was missing. You had your bus pass and the keys to your apartment in that bag, so it could have been quite serious.
I never told you, Cindy, but I hid it there, I was so desperate to speak to you. It wasn’t just infatuation; it was much more than that. I was already in love, I was your slave, I would have done anything to make you mine. I offered my soul to the devil in exchange for your heart and he obliged. It was a good job the offer was of enough value to him, I had nothing else.
Remember those early days? I couldn't keep away; I once slept in the passage outside your door because you had mentioned that some kids had been causing trouble in the flats. That was a cold night. I had to be at work the next morning, so I left at 7 am. I don’t think I’d do that again, Cindy, much as I love you. My neck ached for days afterwards. I caught a cold too.
How far did your flatmates go in trying to put you off me, Cindy? I know that Janie and Cynth didn’t think I was your type. They made that pretty obvious whenever I came round. They used to lie sometimes when I rang and tell me you were busy when you weren’t. They were always trying to get you to go out with them if they knew we had a date. Thankfully you saw through them and would have none of it. You knew we were soul mates.
Your mother didn't like me much either did she? Still doesn't. I don't know what I did to make her hate me so much. Did she ever tell you? I tried my best with her. I was polite and respectful in the extreme; I even used to stand up when she came into the room. None of it was enough to sway her opinion though.
It’s such a shame I never got to meet your dad. I think we'd have got on just fine; he might even have put in a good word with your mother for me.
He liked a beer, just as I do. Maybe if I’d have gone out with him now and then, he might not have drunk quite so much. My heart bled for you when he died, Cindy, your mother was very bitter about it all. But maybe she was the cause of his problem in the first place.
My mother loved you, Cindy, though you never took to her did you? Yes I know she was a little protective, but I am her only son and a mother has to look after her young. If she seemed overly critical it was only because she wanted the best for me; us.
Where did it go wrong, Cindy? Was it my job? I know there were long hours, I know I was away a lot but I made good money. It meant you could stay home and write your stories; they were good stories, Cindy. Those editors shouldn't have been in their jobs, even I can tell a good yarn when I read one and they were good. I wanted to publish them for you, would have if I could.
I’ve spent many an unhappy hour trying to work out where and why we began to drift apart, but I’m no closer to an answer. We were good together in the old days, we didn't need anyone else. We talked for hours, fixed the world, laid out our plans and our dreams, even our fantasies. I was shocked by some of yours, Cindy; though it looks like you were determined to fulfil a lot of them.
Why so many men, Cindy? I knew a good while back I wasn't enough for you, so I got out of the way when I could. My mother never understood why I needed to stay over as often as I did, or why I didn’t bring you round with me. She told me that I was a fool to let you out on your own all the time. You were never home when she rang and my lame excuses got lamer as time went on.
She called you a whore; I told her she was wrong. I said you had needs that I couldn't help you with; she said you should go on the street with those needs, at least you'd have bought some money in to help.
I didn’t agree with my mother all the time, Cindy.
Maybe it would all have been different if we had managed to have kids. My mother was desperate to be a Grandmother. I think even your mother may have mellowed had we produced a grandchild for her. It wasn’t to be though, something to do with your ovaries. They all knew it was nothing to do with my body, but your mother blamed me anyway.
I’d give anything to make love to you one last time, Cindy; but that’s not possible now, you being dead and all. I’d have loved to have taken you to our wood by the river one last time. It’s autumn again, I could have laid you down in the fallen leaves; it was my favourite place, our special place. Did you ever take anyone else there, Cindy? I hope not, that wouldn’t have been right.
I’ll have let you lie alone for a while, Cindy; I’ve got a cramp in my arm now. Maybe that’s a good thing as I won’t feel the hypodermic when I use it. I’ll take the same amount I gave to you; it worked pretty quickly. You seemed to be having trouble finding a vein; I guess that’s what happens when you do it as often as you did.
I never begrudged you the money for the drugs, Cindy; I knew that you needed them to get by. I didn’t like the people you had to mix with to get the stuff though. Some of them should have been in jail.
I was robbed more than once buying it for you myself. You weren’t happy when I came back empty handed, but when I did, that guy Rodrigo always came through. You seemed very close to him; he didn’t smile much did he? Did you know he ran prostitutes? I only found out the other day; it was in the papers, they arrested him for it.
It’s getting dark now, Cindy, I guess it’s almost time to say goodbye. I’ve left a note for my mother, but not for yours. I have nothing to say to her. What could I say? I’ve never done anything right in her eyes and I don’t expect her to approve of this either.
I’ll say a prayer for you, Cindy and one for me. I think God will understand why I did it. I’ll put in a word for you when I get to heaven. I’m sure they’ll let you off with a warning or something. You were never a bad person; you might even get to see your Dad. I doubt your mother will ever be allowed in though. There are limits, even in heaven.
I’m going to use a new hypodermic when I have mine, Cindy, It’s wrong to share needles.
Goodbye for now.
I love you, Cindy.
--
Tracy's Hot Mail, the paperback, coming soon from BigBadMedia http://www.bigbadmedia.com
Tracy's Hot Mail, the new eBook from T A Belshaw
read a sample or download from Ma2Books. http://ma2books.webplus.net/tracyshotmail.html
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