She woke up, disorientated by her dreams. Did that really happen, or did her stupid brain just make it up? She sifted through the details in her head before they faded away, as dreams always do. No. No it was a dream. Her boyfriend didn't wear glasses. Weren't they the glasses her dad used to wear? Ah yes. Abandonment issues. Awesome. Everyone should try them. Fear of being with someone and fear of being alone.
She stretched. He wasn't here, and in a way she was quite pleased. Nice to wake up in the morning sometimes without feeling obliged to be nice and make conversation before she'd had her first cigarette. She could smell her breath, sour from the long sleep. What time is it anyway? Oh, it's only 7 in the morning. More sleep? The uncomfortableness of the nights adventures had left her feeling weird, kind of scrumpled up inside. No. Better to get up and have a cup of tea. Maybe start the days writing task. It's only 750 a day, after all.
She padded to the kitchen. It was tidy for a change and she didn't even have to go in the dishwasher to retrieve a cup. What a lovely change, although she knew it was only because she was doing anything at all at the minute to avoid writing. It was just so hard sometimes. The blank page. The tabula rasa. It could be so daunting. What to write about? Fantasies about men on white horses come to take off their lady loves? Aliens and robots invade earth only for mankind to fight back and to live another day?
The possibilities were endless and that meant there was no choice. She put the kettle on, the cold water splashing out of the sink and hitting her bare stomach. Jesus. that's icy. That's one way to wake up, eh?
After she made her tea, she went and sat at the computer and turned it on. The bloody thing seemed to take longer and longer to get going, and she thought that she probably should have turned it on before making a brew. God. With banal thoughts like this, how was she ever going to get anything good written.
She sat back in her chair and waited for the windows start up tune to come out the speakers. It did, too loud and she jumped. Bloody thing. Why was is so loud? ah yes. She'd been watching a film last night and the dodgy copy had bad sound so she'd had to turn it right up.
Right. Quickly check facebook, reddit, twitter, emails...
Bugger. that's an hour of the day wasted again. She had been pleased to read in the news that the two boys accused of raping a little girl had not been imprisoned. What was the world coming to where a game of 'I'll show you mine and you show me yours' got you on the sex offenders register. She thought back to when it had happened to her. She had been 9, and her and her sister were playing with a boy from down the street. What was he called again? Wayne? Ben? Something, not that it matters. She had been horrified, as he got out his cock. Her sister had raised up her skirt and she'd bolted to tell her mum all about it. Seems daft now.
Maybe that was something to write. A story from the perspective of all three characters, her, her sister and the little boy. That could fill 750 words, surely? Nah, she wasn't in the mood right now for that kind of thing. Too early. Maybe try that tomorrow, or later in the day when she felt slightly more human. Her half-left cup of tea had gone cold, so she went back to the kitchen to make another one.
There now. She sat back down, sitting with one leg up on the chair and one dangling on the floor. Still no inspiration. What was the quote she'd read the other day? 'I love being a writer but what I can't stand is all the paperwork.' ha. It would be funny, if it wasn't so tragically true. How was she ever going to make it if she couldn't even rustle up a few words? Aha! What about just writing all this down? She began to type... 'She woke up, disorientated by her dreams. Did that really happen, or did her stupid brain just make it up..?'
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
A lady in Paris
She squirmed in her seat, trying to surreptitiously move her dress back up to where it was, without attracting any attention. That was the problem with the strapless ones, they always seemed to come down at the most ridiculous of moments, when reaching across the table for the water bottle, or when dancing. Her hair, which she thought dull and mousy, had escaped it's clip and was curling down her back as well.
She had been invited to dinner by Michael. He had seemed so nervous when he had asked and she thought it would have been rude to refuse, but now she was here, she was feeling a little out of place. He and his friends were talking and laughing too loudly for the crowded restaurant, after all the wine and brandy they had had, and the women were all joining in.
She wasn't used to it, all the razzmatazz of Paris after her quiet live in the village. Nemours had been too small, and she'd wanted to experience life, but now she was here, it was all so.... so very gauche, so very ooh la la and she felt so very out of place, a country bumpkin surrounded by elegant ladies and proper gents. What could she talk about? She could take someone on a country walk and point out and name all the plants and flowers, but in Paris, what could she talk about? The weather? The shops? It all seemed so trivial and when they all started talking politics, discussing whether the Germans were going to invade again, she felt so out of her depth.
She had lost her father and mother in the war. Her father had been sent to the front, he had fought at Verdun, and after the letter arrived telling them he'd been lost in action just before the war had been declared officially over, she'd watched her mother fade to nothing over the next few months. She'd been unable to do much apart from cry. Amelia had sometimes gone into her mother's room on a night and slipped into bed beside her, feeling her tremble. The weather had been very cold, and in a morning, she'd blamed it on that but Amelia knew it was more than just that. She had tried to get her to eat, but the meal always came back with just nibbles out of them. She had got a job in the local bar, and one day she'd come home from work to find her mother hanging from the beam in the bedroom. There was a letter and a medal on the table. Apparently, her father had been awarded it for bravery. It had been a final twist of the knife to her mother, and Amelia knew that she'd felt abandoned, even with the excuse of death, for his bravery.
Her uncle had taken her in, but he kept trying to come into her room late at night. His wife, and her aunt, had passed away from the flu after the war, and he had turned into a bitter, lonely old man.
When Michael had offered to take her to Paris, she'd jumped at the chance. Anything to get away from her uncle's prying eyes and monstrous hands. Michael had got her a job in a bar, and the work, while it was busier than she was used to, was not much more difficult than at home. This paid for her apartment, well, room really, and Michael had taken her out any night she wasn't working, to dances and meals and even soirees in big houses where Ameali had felt quite unwelcome with her dowdy homemade clothes and lack of airs and graces.
They were in a fancy restaurant now, with too much silverware and prices that she had gasped at. Everything smelt of elaborately roasted meats and expensive wine. Not to worry, Michael always paid for everything, but she knew that at some point there would be a return expected, for him helping her to escape. She was grateful, really, but she knew that she didn't love him and never would, and that would be what was expected of her.
'Are you alright, my dear?' . The lady sat next to Amelia had turned and looked at her. Amelia had obviously been staring off into the distance and now she blushed, feeling rather ignorant and rude.
'Why, yes, thank you mademoiselle. I just feel a bit out of place. You all look lovely, in your dresses and I just don't ever know what to do at these kind of gatherings'. Amelia blushed even more. The wine had made her talkative, and now she had embarrassed herself in front of someone who was probably important.
The woman smiled at her.
'I always felt like that when I first started coming to the affairs. Countrified and like I had nothing to say. Paris does take some getting used to after all.'
It was like the lady had read her mind.
'I'm Elizabeth. I've only lived in Paris for 2 years. I promise, you soon get settled in'. She put her hand on Amelia's arm, and squeezed gently.
'I'm Amelia.'
'Where are you staying?'
'Oh, I'm only 15 minutes walk from here.'
'Well, my dear, it would appear that the party is starting to break up. Would you care for someone to accompany you home? It can be awfully scary later on an evening, and an unaccompanied lady is not the thing, even in this day and age.'
Amelia looked over at Michael. His cheeks were flushed with the alcohol, and he was deep in conversation with the lady next to him.
'If... if you don't mind, that would be lovely.'
'Of course. Let's leave the men to their tomfoolery, and go have ourselves a little fun.'
They both rose from the table, and Elizabeth signalled to the waiter that they needed their coats. Elizabeth came around the table, and after putting her coat on, held out Amelia's. She put hers on, and Elizabeth took her arm. They set off, and just before they went through the door, Amelia looked back. Michael was watching her, an anguished look in his eye. She shrugged, almost imperceptively, and he looked down at his empty plate as she and Elizabeth set off into the night.
She had been invited to dinner by Michael. He had seemed so nervous when he had asked and she thought it would have been rude to refuse, but now she was here, she was feeling a little out of place. He and his friends were talking and laughing too loudly for the crowded restaurant, after all the wine and brandy they had had, and the women were all joining in.
She wasn't used to it, all the razzmatazz of Paris after her quiet live in the village. Nemours had been too small, and she'd wanted to experience life, but now she was here, it was all so.... so very gauche, so very ooh la la and she felt so very out of place, a country bumpkin surrounded by elegant ladies and proper gents. What could she talk about? She could take someone on a country walk and point out and name all the plants and flowers, but in Paris, what could she talk about? The weather? The shops? It all seemed so trivial and when they all started talking politics, discussing whether the Germans were going to invade again, she felt so out of her depth.
She had lost her father and mother in the war. Her father had been sent to the front, he had fought at Verdun, and after the letter arrived telling them he'd been lost in action just before the war had been declared officially over, she'd watched her mother fade to nothing over the next few months. She'd been unable to do much apart from cry. Amelia had sometimes gone into her mother's room on a night and slipped into bed beside her, feeling her tremble. The weather had been very cold, and in a morning, she'd blamed it on that but Amelia knew it was more than just that. She had tried to get her to eat, but the meal always came back with just nibbles out of them. She had got a job in the local bar, and one day she'd come home from work to find her mother hanging from the beam in the bedroom. There was a letter and a medal on the table. Apparently, her father had been awarded it for bravery. It had been a final twist of the knife to her mother, and Amelia knew that she'd felt abandoned, even with the excuse of death, for his bravery.
Her uncle had taken her in, but he kept trying to come into her room late at night. His wife, and her aunt, had passed away from the flu after the war, and he had turned into a bitter, lonely old man.
When Michael had offered to take her to Paris, she'd jumped at the chance. Anything to get away from her uncle's prying eyes and monstrous hands. Michael had got her a job in a bar, and the work, while it was busier than she was used to, was not much more difficult than at home. This paid for her apartment, well, room really, and Michael had taken her out any night she wasn't working, to dances and meals and even soirees in big houses where Ameali had felt quite unwelcome with her dowdy homemade clothes and lack of airs and graces.
They were in a fancy restaurant now, with too much silverware and prices that she had gasped at. Everything smelt of elaborately roasted meats and expensive wine. Not to worry, Michael always paid for everything, but she knew that at some point there would be a return expected, for him helping her to escape. She was grateful, really, but she knew that she didn't love him and never would, and that would be what was expected of her.
'Are you alright, my dear?' . The lady sat next to Amelia had turned and looked at her. Amelia had obviously been staring off into the distance and now she blushed, feeling rather ignorant and rude.
'Why, yes, thank you mademoiselle. I just feel a bit out of place. You all look lovely, in your dresses and I just don't ever know what to do at these kind of gatherings'. Amelia blushed even more. The wine had made her talkative, and now she had embarrassed herself in front of someone who was probably important.
The woman smiled at her.
'I always felt like that when I first started coming to the affairs. Countrified and like I had nothing to say. Paris does take some getting used to after all.'
It was like the lady had read her mind.
'I'm Elizabeth. I've only lived in Paris for 2 years. I promise, you soon get settled in'. She put her hand on Amelia's arm, and squeezed gently.
'I'm Amelia.'
'Where are you staying?'
'Oh, I'm only 15 minutes walk from here.'
'Well, my dear, it would appear that the party is starting to break up. Would you care for someone to accompany you home? It can be awfully scary later on an evening, and an unaccompanied lady is not the thing, even in this day and age.'
Amelia looked over at Michael. His cheeks were flushed with the alcohol, and he was deep in conversation with the lady next to him.
'If... if you don't mind, that would be lovely.'
'Of course. Let's leave the men to their tomfoolery, and go have ourselves a little fun.'
They both rose from the table, and Elizabeth signalled to the waiter that they needed their coats. Elizabeth came around the table, and after putting her coat on, held out Amelia's. She put hers on, and Elizabeth took her arm. They set off, and just before they went through the door, Amelia looked back. Michael was watching her, an anguished look in his eye. She shrugged, almost imperceptively, and he looked down at his empty plate as she and Elizabeth set off into the night.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
Wake up and smell the coffee
She woke up. Perhaps on any other day this would not have been worth mentioning, but today she was rather excited. It was her birthday. Then it hit her. Bugger. What had she done last night? There was something... just a feeling that somewhere, someone had a reason to hate her. She rolled over to go back to sleep, and bumped into something. Oh yes. that was it. Her best friend's boyfriend. He woke up, and turned over.
Morning.
Um... good morning.
Happy birthday.
Yeah... what the smeg happened last night?
He raised himself up onto his elbow.
Don't you remember?
She shook her head.
No. No, it's all a blur. I vaguely remember going to the last bar with everyone, but that's it.
He sat up, and rolled his head.
God. My head hurts. You got coffee?
Um, sure, it's in the kitchen.
Really? Well, I wouldn't have thought of checking there.
He hopped out of bed. He still had underwear on. He grabbed a jumper, and putting it on, stumbled out of the bedroom.
She lifted the duvet, and checked. No, she didn't have any clothes on. A bit of a mystery then. Did they... do it?
She got out of bed, and put on her dressing gown. She went to the bathroom to relieve her near-bursting bladder and to check how awful she looked in the mirror. Bleugh. She'd not taken her make up off, and looked like she had two black eyes. She peered closer, and managed to hit her head on the frame.
Ow! Fuck! That hurt!
You ok in there?
He'd come through to the hall, and tapped on the door.
Yeah, yeah, just drunk still, I reckon.
How do you like your coffee?
Strong, lots of milk, lots of sugar. I'll be out in a second.
She heard him go back through to the lounge and rubbing her head tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Nope. No joy. She gave up, and followed him through.
How's your head? I found painkillers in the cupboard above the microwave. You need any?
No, I'm feeling ok, I just can't remember last night.
Not that suprising after the amount of shots you had.
I don't mean to be rude, but did we..?
God. Was I that bad?
Really? We did? But what about Katie? Oh my god, she's going to kill me.
Sarah... what are you on about?
You know, Katie, your girlfriend? My best friend? She's going to kill me. I can't believe I'd do that to her. I can't believe you'd do that to her.
You seriously don't remember, do you?
Remember what?
Our plan?
What plan? I don't remember any plan.
Mark stood up, and taking her by the hand took her through to the kitchen. There, on the counter was Katie's head. The eyes had started to bloat. They looked like they were coming our. Her once blond hair was now streaked with red, and the smell was... actually not that unplesant. Sort of like pork, but a little bit more metallic.
Sarah screamed.
What the fuck is this?
It was the plan, babe. Do you remember yet?
Oh yes. The plan. Sarah had had her eye on Mark for a while. She knew he liked her too, and together, last night, they'd gotten drunk. He'd asked what she wanted for her birthday, and she'd said him. A few more shots of tequila and they'd hatched THE PLAN. As neither of them wanted to hurt Katie's feelings, they'd decided the best option was to just kill her. No fuss then, no extended feelings of guilt and remorse as Katie would later eye them across bars and cafes, huddling together with her friends to talk about them both and the inevitable fall out as people picked sides. No, best way, they had decided would be to kill her, and then Sarah could fall into Mark's arms, and everyone would just assume it was inevitable as they comforted each other to get over Katie's disappearance. Seemed like a winner last night.
We did it?
Fuck yeah we did it.
Well, I suppose if it's already done, there's no point in fretting about it. What's for breakfast?
Mark went over to the fridge, opened it, and held up a plate of what looked like bacon.
Katie and Egg sandwich?
Sarah smiled, and went over to Mark. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
That would be lovely, darling. Eggs over easy, please.
Morning.
Um... good morning.
Happy birthday.
Yeah... what the smeg happened last night?
He raised himself up onto his elbow.
Don't you remember?
She shook her head.
No. No, it's all a blur. I vaguely remember going to the last bar with everyone, but that's it.
He sat up, and rolled his head.
God. My head hurts. You got coffee?
Um, sure, it's in the kitchen.
Really? Well, I wouldn't have thought of checking there.
He hopped out of bed. He still had underwear on. He grabbed a jumper, and putting it on, stumbled out of the bedroom.
She lifted the duvet, and checked. No, she didn't have any clothes on. A bit of a mystery then. Did they... do it?
She got out of bed, and put on her dressing gown. She went to the bathroom to relieve her near-bursting bladder and to check how awful she looked in the mirror. Bleugh. She'd not taken her make up off, and looked like she had two black eyes. She peered closer, and managed to hit her head on the frame.
Ow! Fuck! That hurt!
You ok in there?
He'd come through to the hall, and tapped on the door.
Yeah, yeah, just drunk still, I reckon.
How do you like your coffee?
Strong, lots of milk, lots of sugar. I'll be out in a second.
She heard him go back through to the lounge and rubbing her head tried to figure out what the hell had happened. Nope. No joy. She gave up, and followed him through.
How's your head? I found painkillers in the cupboard above the microwave. You need any?
No, I'm feeling ok, I just can't remember last night.
Not that suprising after the amount of shots you had.
I don't mean to be rude, but did we..?
God. Was I that bad?
Really? We did? But what about Katie? Oh my god, she's going to kill me.
Sarah... what are you on about?
You know, Katie, your girlfriend? My best friend? She's going to kill me. I can't believe I'd do that to her. I can't believe you'd do that to her.
You seriously don't remember, do you?
Remember what?
Our plan?
What plan? I don't remember any plan.
Mark stood up, and taking her by the hand took her through to the kitchen. There, on the counter was Katie's head. The eyes had started to bloat. They looked like they were coming our. Her once blond hair was now streaked with red, and the smell was... actually not that unplesant. Sort of like pork, but a little bit more metallic.
Sarah screamed.
What the fuck is this?
It was the plan, babe. Do you remember yet?
Oh yes. The plan. Sarah had had her eye on Mark for a while. She knew he liked her too, and together, last night, they'd gotten drunk. He'd asked what she wanted for her birthday, and she'd said him. A few more shots of tequila and they'd hatched THE PLAN. As neither of them wanted to hurt Katie's feelings, they'd decided the best option was to just kill her. No fuss then, no extended feelings of guilt and remorse as Katie would later eye them across bars and cafes, huddling together with her friends to talk about them both and the inevitable fall out as people picked sides. No, best way, they had decided would be to kill her, and then Sarah could fall into Mark's arms, and everyone would just assume it was inevitable as they comforted each other to get over Katie's disappearance. Seemed like a winner last night.
We did it?
Fuck yeah we did it.
Well, I suppose if it's already done, there's no point in fretting about it. What's for breakfast?
Mark went over to the fridge, opened it, and held up a plate of what looked like bacon.
Katie and Egg sandwich?
Sarah smiled, and went over to Mark. Standing on her tiptoes, she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
That would be lovely, darling. Eggs over easy, please.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
http://750words.com
Right, here goes. I've been failing to write anything apart from song lyrics and angst teenage poetry for the last two months, and I need a push. I will treat this as a opening for the rest of the day, and see if I can keep it up.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.
She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.
She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.
How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?
There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.
Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.
there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.
What to write about though? My mood? too obvious.
Start with a random object. or thing. The smell of spaghetti bolognaise. I have just made some.
She stirred the bolognaise sauce. It was her go-to, her staple for when she couldn't decide what to eat, which was half the days ever. ( this is terrible. It's ok, it's a warm up.) She'd been feeling pretty shitty recently. Nothing to do in the holidays from university. Yes, she could have gone an got a part time job, but what was the point? The hours would have interfered with general day to day activities, and to be honest, she couldn't even get out of bed in a morning and tidy up her flat, let alone go out and find work from a pedantic, watch-checking, arsehole who thought that her sole role in life was to be a slave to the minimum wage. What was the point of uni anyway? Just another excuse to not get a proper job. She wanted to be a writer. Ha. The aspiration of all pseudo-intellectuals. They do say that everyone has got a novel in them, but she was fairly convinced that her was buried under a thick, hard layer of apathy and patheticness.
She helped herself to a plate of hot spaghetti and sauce, and went and sat down by the computer. What to do? Trawl facebook, twitter, reddit, all these needless distractions from the fact that she should really be writing. No, today it was time to actually pick herself up and do some typing. It had all started so well. The beginning of summer, the 500 words a day minimum, which she had managed to stick to, even when she'd been on holiday. After that, the sun came out every day. There seemed to be little point in the writing when she knew she could be outside with her friends, doing nothing in particular but still having a great time. Drinking in the sun. the perfect way to spend the holidays. And now? The sun hadn't bothered to come out from behind the clouds for any longer than an hour, so instead she sat in the pub, doing the crossword and moaning about being bored. She had said that she had been waiting for the bad weather but when it came, she hated it even more for the fact that she was still incapable of getting off her arse and doing some writing.God. How trivially boring she was. There's that old saying, only boring people get bored. She thought about her friends, Ami, who worked 50 hours a week and still had time to write essays on philosophy and the nature of consciousness. She'd thought that maybe the work ethic of her boyfriend might have rubbed off somewhat but no, she was just one of those people who is, quite frankly, lazy. God. Some days she couldn't even be bothered to have a wash. Grebby. She put on the iPlayer, and watched a supposed comedy about a vicar. Is this supposed to be funny? It just seems bleak and almost cliched. A vicar has a crisis of faith? Oh no. Surely in this day and age all vicars must have crises of faith on a daily basis, what with the existence of science and the non-existence of a beard in the sky telling people what they could and couldn't do.
How on earth did she expect to write a novel? It would take years. Millenia. It's not too much to ask, is it? a couple of hours in the morning. Perhaps this could be a turning point. She opened her blog, and started to write. What to write? Perhaps a moan about how she couldn't write. It's an idea, eh?
There. That wasn't to bad. Flash fiction, a quick story/moan etc. God. Still got 60 words to go. Try a tanka.
Boredom kills the urge
to write anything at all
which is quite silly
because boredom is killed by
writing a few words at all.
there. that's better. I may even post this on my blog. fill up some space in the ether, whilst avoiding trolls. Perhaps I was a billy goat in a past life. baaa.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Germination
The large window at her back lights up the photographs and doodles of tattoos on the wall. The chair is worn and shiny with use, the blue and white of the foam pokes through holes worn by other peoples' skittish hands pulling at the tatty threads. The rain outside bounces off the glass, and the traffic as it trundles past the studio. The whole city goes by, as her hands tap nervously at her phone as she sits. She waits. Her stubby, rough skinned fingers hit the keys as she sends messages to her friends. This tattoo is a birthday present to herself for her 18th. She wanted something that would last, and what lasts longer than a tattoo, right?
She will turn 18 in 23 days and she hopes that the tattooist cannot tell that she isn't old enough. She is getting more added to the previous one, a rose she'd had done a couple of weeks before. A voice calls from the back and she goes through to the small room. It smells of faintly of antiseptic, like the dentists or a hospital. The walls are painted pink and yellow, an odd colour combination for the tattooist who sits in it, with his black rubber gloves and his heavy rock music shrieking out of the speakers, making the pictures on the walls shudder slightly. The tattoo inks line one side of the room, the bottles smudged with fingerprints. On the opposite wall there is a mirror, resting on the floor with a handprint once belonging to a small child in the centre. She wrinkles her nose. It smells clean, but it looks a bit dirty.
The tattooist adjusts the chair to the right height before she sits down. He stands her back up and applies the purple transfer to her side. She goes over to the mirror to check her new design. Perfect. And her mum won't see it if it's there. Her nerves increase as she goes back and settles back down in the chair. She turns towards him as he questions her about the design she is having extended, a red rose which is still slightly sore. It's only a week old. It's fine though. It looks like it has healed enough although he warns her it might hurt more than last time. She sits twisted in the chair, peering down at the transfer, biting her short nails even shorter. He orders her into an uncomfortable position, and starts up the tattoo gun, its needle dipped in the black ink he has placed on the table besides him. He begins, and the pain is not as bad as she thought it would be. It vibrates up her spine, like an electric shock. The music is drowned out by the angry buzzing of the needle. It sounds like a razor, accompanied by sharp strokes as he draws on the outline of a new flower.
Suddenly, her phone vibrates. It was one of her friends, replying to the message she'd sent before. The tattooist's arm had been resting on her back pocket to steady it. The vibrations added to his already shaking arm and the needle slipped. Where there was supposed to be a leaf, there was now a thick black line. She looks down, and promptly burst into tears. Shit. Don't worry, I can fix this, he says. He grabs a biro off the table, and draws on more lines. As she looks, they turn into tendrils, emerging from behind the leaves. The design, perhaps poorly chosen in the first place, begins to grow. It looks like part of her, emerging from inside her as he erases her skin.
How's that? He asks, and she tells him that it's perfect. The needle starts up again, and she shuts her eyes. She imagines the design growing and growing, until she is covered in its creepers and flowers and tendrils. It covers her in ink. It covers her scars, the ones she had inflicted last year. The ones that she thought looked like maggots on her arms. She remembers having needles in her skin then, as the doctor sewn up the wounds. She'd watched, fascinated, as the gaping bloody wounds had disappeared, leaving behind bright blue knots of thread against the now thin red lines.
Right. Time for a break, he says. He stands up, and stretches his arms above his head, hands clasped. He pulls off the gloves, and throws them in the bin. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes. Want one? She nods, and takes one from his hand. They go through to the front, and he holds open the door to let her outside. The rain has stopped now, and the sun is showing above the buildings. She puts it in her mouth, and lighting it, inhales and exhales deeply. The smoke wreaths before it is blown away to nothing by the wind.
Monday, 17 May 2010
When I were a lad
Back when I were a lad,
It weren't like it is today.
We used to be more friendly, like,
We all knew our neighbours.
I blame all the immigrants,
Coming over here, taking our stuff...
What stuff?
Why, back when I were a lad
There weren't no bloody immigrants
No, not like today
I knew my neighbours,
Knew 'em all by name, like.
Coming over here, taking our jobs, like
They haven't got jobs of their own? Stuff
'em I say. Mrs Jones, my neighbour,
Who I've known since I were a lad,
Says some of 'em swore at her today.
Too many bloody immigrants.
I can't stand these bloody immigrants,
Coming over here, and taking our houses, like
They've got a right to 'em. Free stuff.
That's all they are 'ere for... when I were a lad
We didn't have foreign bloody neighbours.
I don't want 'em as my neighbours
Have you seen these bloody immigrants,
I saw this one lad,
Rude as you like,
Stealing from the supermarket, putting stuff,
Down his trousers today.
These bloody people. Everywhere, today.
They're not prepared to help their neighbours
With things you might need, just normal stuff.
You won't get help off the immigrants.
They don't even talk to you, like.
Not like when I were a lad.
Today, the old man spat hate about immigrants.
Neighbours? Who'd want to be yours, like?
Stuff you! Glad I'm not that bitter, thought the lad.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Intihar
The title for this entry means suicide in Turkish, playing around with the notion that people that try to commit suicide are somehow 'chicken'. It is a non-fiction piece.
I tried to kill myself once. I was nearly successful. A weekend of too much drinking and partying, a way of avoiding the caustic truth that once again I had managed to upset the man I loved to the point where he couldn't even be friends with me. Again. All I had done was tell him that my biggest fear was for him to leave me. Silly girl. No one wants to hear that. At least he didn't. He started behaving strangely after that, until eventually communication broke down entirely, and he finished off by telling me he didn't think he could be with me anymore.
I remember that evening quite well, considering . It was a Tuesday and I was out, watching a band in the Blues Bar. It was a busy night in there, lots of people dancing and shouting in each other's ears, trying to make themselves heard over the music. I couldn't get into it. I vaguely remember speaking to Matt, his face pale against the dark of the bar as her leant over to make sure I was ok. I think he offered to come crash at my house if I needed some company, not anything sexual, just one friend looking out for another. I said no. I think I had already decided what I was going to do. I remember walking home. It usually only takes 10 minutes, but I was weaving and wobbling along the pavement, crying as I tried to send my lover a text. I finally managed to write what I felt was the perfect thing to say.
'This is all your fault.'
After all this was over, the thing I regretted most was these five words. What if I had actually managed it? How could I have put the blame for something this awful at someone else's feet?
I worked myself up into a frenzy of snot, tears and shaking. I could barely get my keys in the door when I eventually arrived home. I knew that I had a strip of amytriptaline tablets in the cupboard in the kitchen. My flat was a mess, from where I had just dumped coats, bags and shoes over the weekend before heading back towards the madness I was in now. All I knew was that I didn't want to wake up in the morning. I got a glass of water and proceeded to pop out pills onto the worktop. I remember thinking that it was actually quite difficult to swallow loads of pills. You have to do it a few at a time, not all at once. I managed to get down 28 tablets, and went and sat on the sofa. I felt calmer. And then it hit me. What the hell had I done? Shit. I rang my best friend. I had sobered up; I think it must have been the shock of the situation. She eventually answered, and slurring, I told her what I had done. Since that night, I have tried to imagine what it must have felt like to be her. Sure, I'd rung her in the past and needed to go to hospital for self-inflicted cuts and once, a minor overdose, but never anything on this scale. I imagine her waking up, sitting up from the sofa where she'd dozed off watching her favourite show, standing up and hurrying out to the car to come and save me again.
By the time she arrived, only 10 minutes later, I had started to feel drowsy. I told her I didn't need to go to hospital, and started to doze off on the sofa, after sweeping all the mess off onto the floor. She jumped on my computer and looked up the side effects of an amytriptaline overdose. She came over to me, and shook me awake. 'Nope. We're off to the hospital.'
I staggered out to the car. I gave Anna my keys to lock up; I couldn't keep my eyes open. There was no traffic on the road, and she drove too fast. We arrived after only a couple of minutes. All I remember is getting into the hospital, stumbling into A and E, finding a chair to sleep in. the lights were really bright and I just wanted to shut my eyes.
I don't remember very much about the next 36 hours; brief glimpses of green and bright lights. No, not THAT bright light... Although I do remember one brief scene when I woke up because someone was touching me intimately. I remember coming round and trying to fight them off, and having to be held down by my family as the nurse put in a catheter.
When I came round, I couldn't move. Not an inch. They'd pumped me full of diazepam to try and slow my heart down. It had been going at nearly 200 beats a minute for hours. I'd been in intensive care, which I only found out after a nurse came to see how I was doing and told me. When the ability to move and speak returned, I demanded they took out the catheter. Awful thing. Makes you feel like you're pissing and pissing nonstop. I wanted a cigarette. I looked out of the window, which was high up the wall, and my mind went blank as I stood up to look. These rooftops weren't the rooftops of Harrogate. It turned out I had been moved to Leeds hospital, but I didn't know that. I thought I'd managed to kill myself, and ended up in purgatory. Not that I'm religious, but it turns out you do think some ridiculous things when you've just woken up from a self-induced coma. Not to mention the ridiculous things you thought that got you there in the first place.
A woman from the psychiatric ward came down to talk to me. She took me off to a private room, and asked me the usual questions. I had been asked them so many times before. Why did I do it, did I still want to die? Mostly, I just felt stupid. Like I'd let everyone down.
Sometimes, I still think about doing it. Just a flash across my mind if something has got to me or if someone upsets me. Sometimes it's just silly things. Not been able to get an essay finished. Saying something dumb. The thought appears, like the glimpse of a fish in a river, a flash of silver and then gone. I won't be trying again though. The pain and hell I put my family through showed on their faces, and while they said the most loving things to me that day, I knew what I'd done to them. Never again.
Monday, 10 May 2010
seeing glass
The streetlamps stutter and die, the barely perceptible humming turns silent, replaced with the sounds of cars. At first, just one or two, but later there will be a concerto of beeps and rattles and growls. For now, there is near silence and Henry wonders what it was that woke him up. Liz always maintained she couldn't hear the streetlamps, that he was making a fuss over nothing. Admittedly it wasn't overly loud, but that was what made it worse; an insistent mosquito humming at the periphery of your hearing. He'd have complained to the council long time ago, but she'd talked him out of it.
The room is still dark, the morning light not strong enough to have made its way past the curtains.
He turns, half asleep still, and reaches his hand over the wrinkled duvet to where she used to sleep. Now, he goes to bed alone after yet another unfulfilling evening, where he watches telly with the sound up just a bit too loud, and dram after dram of whisky. Anything to blot it out. The silence in the house is ear-splitting now that she's gone. He sits up slowly, using his elbows to force him up, fumbles for his glasses which he carelessly threw on the side, and hauls himself out of bed. On with the dressing gown. One of the belt loops has broken, and he struggles to reach around his back to tie it. Bloody hell. If only Liz could see him now, she'd bloody kill him. He left last night's clothes at the end of the bed, in a sad looking heap. She used to go ballistic if he didn't put his clothes in the wash. Said that he was a cliché for leaving his dirty socks on the floor. The room is untidy, and it smells like old man. When had that happened? How the hell had he got so ancient?
Oh yes. That was what woke him. Today was his birthday. Silly how these things slip your mind. It used to be that he would wake up early, excited to get his presents from the family. He remembers John and Will, bouncing in with a tray of breakfast, half the tea spilled everywhere in a rush to get him to open his yearly packets of socks, pants and ties. And Liz, after the excitement had died, would send them away to give him his special birthday present... Hmm. Bet no one has bothered to get him anything this year. John and his family might have sent him a card, the wife reminding him dutifully. Liz used to do that. Ring them up and remind them that it was coming. Not now. Will would have forgotten. The neighbour, Ada, has hinted over the fence that she would expect him to pop over for tea. Interfering old baggage. She was always coming over, trying to look past him when he opened the front door so that she could tell her friends how the house has gone to pot without Liz here to look after it.
Anyway. Better get to the toilet. His bladder usually has him up a few times in the night. A few times too many, and he was starting to get, not worried, no, but it preyed on his mind sometimes in the middle of the night. He should probably go to the doctors, but he didn't want to make a fuss about something that was more than likely nothing. He shuffles down the hall, and into the bathroom, pulling the stiff cord to turn on the light. The tiles are really cold under his feet. British Gas put the prices up again this year, and he refuses to pay their extortionate rates while he's asleep and warmed under the duvet. He wishes he could find his other slipper. There's one under the bed, but the other one has vanished. Although, he must have come upstairs with them both on. It must be in the bedroom somewhere.
He sits down to relieve himself. His balance is going, and it saves having to clean up if he misses the bowl. The busybodies at the council had come and installed handles next to the toilet for Liz when she had first got ill, and he now used them himself. Bugger. No loo roll. He shakes himself, and pulls himself up, trying to not look at his hands, which have started to look like they are made of crepe paper. Feels like it too. As he does, he catches sight of himself in the mirror. That's not him looking back. The man in the mirror is small and tired, a wispy grey cloud around his head where there should be dark brown locks. He peers in. His glasses are slightly lopsided, and they cover wrinkled and saggy eyes. He has a few days stubble, no, almost a beard and he looks fragile. Like he could fall and break at any moment. He glares at the man in the mirror, and the man there pulls some kind of grimace back at him. Bloody hell. Better get cracking. It is his birthday today, after all, but it's bloody miserable getting old on his own.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Tanka
In a cold doorway
he huddles in an old mac
his breath visible
like mist in the air
The morning brings grim release
Beautiful lady,
perched on a stool in the bar
she asks for a light
for the cigarette she holds
a ruse to attract clients
skinheads in black boots
hang around outside the shop
waiting for their chance
to make their views know round here
with fists, blunt bats and sharp knives
The needle goes in,
the plunger pulled back slightly
until a bloom of red shows
then down, forcing the drug inside
The first hit was the best though
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