Falling · Slowly

*Under construction*

A body was discovered at the Spanish Arch in Galway city centre this morning.

The night starts off in someone's gaff. A friend of a friend. The house quivers in time with the blaring techno music. There are people everywhere; dancing in the middle of the floor, knocking back shots in the kitchen, draped over the furniture. It's hard to breathe through the smog of hairspray, cigarette smoke and the stench of fake tan. Girls wobble like skittles from room to room, screeching like deranged parrots. She sits on the sofa, stretching her face into a smile, trying to ignore the whispered comments of 'brasser' and 'slag' that are being thrown in her direction. She tugs at the end of her sequined dress, wishing that she had stayed at home, wishing she had never come to this city. She crosses her arms, trying to hide how the stretchy fabric strains against her chest. Someone hands her a drink and she accepts it, clutching it like a lifeline.

Gardaí are treating the case as suspicious.

They stumble towards a taxi. She follows, lurching in her stilettos. She's laughing. She even lets out a shriek as she clambers across the backseat. She's forgotten about her dress, and how it slides up her thigh if she isn't careful. She chatters to the taxi man while attempting to fix the smudged mascara ringing her eyes.

The victim suffered numerous injuries...

The bouncers whisper and shrug over her I.D. She's swaying slightly, fixing a nonchalant stare on a post box as she waits for the jury to reach their verdict. The rope is lifted, she's motioned through. Success. She weaves her way through the queue, craning her neck to find a familiar face.

...and the state pathologist had ruled out the possibility of death due to natural causes.

The music pulses through the air, mimicing her heartbeat. Bodies whirl and writhe, slither and slide. She's alone, trapped by the surging crowd. He approaches her, offers her a quick smile, then pushes his lips on hers. Their teeth scrape, his stubble scratches her chin raw. When he breaks away, she can taste blood. When he grabs her hand, she doesn't protest.

...contusions to the upper body, several fractured fingers, and, most shockingly, the bottom lip had been bitten off...

He leads her through the maze of cobbled streets, his grip bruising her wrist. The rain blinds her; the salt air stings her flayed lips. They come to an archway, and he shoves her against the wall. The granite bites into her back. His hands are tangled in her hair, his tongue searches for hers. She can smell him; a mixture of sweat and desire. He grinds his hips against hers. His movements are primal, visceral. And too fast. She struggles. He pins her down, a butterfly at the mercy of a lepidopterist. Her limbs flail. They are weak, easily snapped. His strength suffocates her, weighs her down. She watches as the stars begin to pinwheel, as the street begins to blur. No. She can't let this happen, won't let this happen.

Gardaí are appealing to the public to help them identify the victim, as the young man did not have identification on his person when he was found.

She hobbles through the streets like a grotesque Cinderella, slipping on the slick pavement. Her tights in tatters, the heel of her remaining shoe is splintered. She doesn't look back at him, curled like a foetus under the arch. She lifts her arm and wipes her mouth. The blood blooms against her ghostly skin.

Heart:	mischievous
Ears:	Imogen Heap - Getting Scared | Powered by Last.fm

**I'm baaack. First entry in around five months I'd say. Here's hoping it's not terribly terrible. The prompt is "Cue". And I have followed it so loosely it's not even funny. And it's my first attempt at poetry. Ever. So yeah. Voila.**

Today I saw
The first winter robin
Fire glowing on its chest
A cue for the Christmas season.

They always were
Your favourite birds:
Their breadcrumbs reserved in the bread bin.
The one thing
You didn't bah humbug.

Was it hot or cold the day you died?
Was there snow?
Sun light?
Rain drops leapfrogging on lily pad umbrellas
As we stood somber around
The jaws of your grave?

I don't remember.

It's lost in the forgetful flow of funerals
That formed my childhood.
A smoker: cancer was always your destiny.
You made it your legacy, too;
Spawning a generation of lump-filled lungs.

The fever of flowers,
Of wreaths
And well-wishers
Became the norm
Their meaning meaningless
Their supposed solace on strike
Leaving only dirt on the kitchen floor.

When we went back to your house
(It was never a home)
We packed away your belongings:
Eight pairs of unworn slippers,
A shiny microwave,
A redundant dog collar.

You are no longer a witch
Strong
Cold
Your visions clouding my decisions

You are pale
Ghostly
Lost in a severe sea
A memory made murky by time.

No more candles on your birthday cake.
No longer present with your
Suffocating security.

You can neither forgive me
Nor forbid me
This
Fresh freedom.

**AHHH RUSH JOB AHHHH**


"So are we going to get to it or what? I'm guessing you didn't pay me just to sit here and look pretty."


Her words are coarse, brash, yet her voice quivers, spoiling the desired effect. She's nervous, scared even. She's probably as new to this as I am. I reach over, take her shaking hand in mine. It's tiny, practically a child's hand, complete with ragged fingernails bitten down to the quick. She stiffens momentarily, then promptly places my palm on her breast. I tear it away. I'd forgotten that in our situation, physical contact is not a comfort but a commodity. She looks startled, even a little hurt. I am not obeying the etiquette of her trade.


"I'm sorry. I just thought we could sit here a while first. Talk. Get to know each other a little."


She stares at me, her brown eyes bulging with terror.


"Let me out of here, you sick bastard! I know what you're up to you pervert! Unlock this car now!"


"It's-it's-it's open, I-I-I haven't locked it..."


Her outburst overwhelms me, makes me stutter. Glaring, she lunges for the door. When it pops open, I see her jaw drop. I expect her to run, flinging foul-mouthed phrases in my direction as she flees. Instead she turns back to me, looking sheepish.


"Sorry, I guess I thought you were a creeper. Like that guy in The Collector. He just wanted to talk too, and look what happened there."


A teenage hooker that reads classics. It's true what they say, you really can find everything in this city. I clear my throat, offer her what I feverently hope is a friendly grin.


"I didn't mean to scare you. But trust me, that's really all I want to do. Talk. I guess I didn't know where else I could find someone to listen."


I haven't smiled in a long time. My jaw muscles feel rusty, they're aching with effort. She arches her eyebrow, skeptical.


"That right? Well, what do you want to talk about?"


"My wife. Our vows. We wrote them ourselves. We had a hell of a time finding a priest who'd allow it. I promised to love her forever and a day-"

I'm interrupted by a snort. I turn questioningly to my companion.


"I never knew picking up prostitutes was part of fairytale romance," she quips, one delicate eyebrow raised mockingly. My jaw tightens. To my embarrassment, a familiar lump rises in my throat. Any second now the tears will drive pinpricks into the backs of my eyelids until I leave them roll free. I turn away, but not before she notices.


"Mister," she says uncertainly, "I know I'm not exactly an expert on love or anything...but if you're crying about her...I guess it means you still love her, huh? Don't do this to her. Go home, get some flowers from a gas station, surprise her. It always worked with my Mom."


I look at her gratefully. Her chestnut hair frames her delicate face, the moonlight making it shimmer like spun silk. She smells of strawberry lipgloss, the kind my thirteen year old niece likes to wear. She so young.


"Thanks. I guess I'll do that."


She beams, her face transformed from waif to nymph-like beauty. She clambours out of the car, throwing a "no problem" over her shoulder as she resumes her place on the corner. I want to take her home, keep her safe. One look at her faltering strut lets me know that she won't allow me to. I sigh, and drive on.


The cemetary is empty. Not surprising, given the time of night. I pick my way through the maze of headstones until I find hers.


"Hey baby," I whisper, as I carefully place the bouquet of poppies I bought from a twenty-four hour gas station on her grave.

Heart:	numb
Ears:	Macy Gray - Still | Powered by Last.fm

**This is my entry for week four of this month's brigits_flame writing competition. The prompt this time round was "Craft". Three cheers for last-minute inspiration.**


He was stupid. The teacher would have chided them for using that word, but it was true. He sat at the back of the classroom, in his special desk. He screamed when touched and more often than not a string of drool would be clinging for dear life at the end of his chin. He wore a pair of standard issue Coke-bottle glasses, which fogged up with frustration and effort whenever he was required to labouriously trace the alphabet in his copybook. Numbers were still a mystery to him - they swam like exotic fish across the page, somersaulting backwards, upside-down, until he had forgotten what they were meant to look like in the first place. At colouring time, the crayons jumped and skittered out of his clumsy grip. His tongue lolled permanently out the side of his mouth, and occasionally he would groan audibly, causing the other children to burst into hastily muffled sniggers. He was different, and no number of threatened detentions could make them forget it.
 

It was in the playground that he suffered the most. The other children either avoided him, frightened of his unpredictable behaviour, or antagonised him, curious to see what reactions they could provoke. To the adult world, these actions were cruel, but the children didn't mean them to be. For them, he was like an animal in the zoo, and their chants were no more malicious than tapping on the glass of an enclosure. The real cruelty came from the adults themselves, carefully disguised as concern, but present none the less. Hushed whispered condolences, pity for his mother, thanking God that their child had been born 'normal'. They spoke to him in syrupy, indulgent tones, all the while confident that he would never be able to function in their world.


Yet when it came to Arts and Crafts, he was a genius. Confronted with a basket of wooden lollipop sticks and a tube of glue, his facial features transformed to adopt an alert, focused expression. His tongue would continue to protrude from his lips, but in a purposeful manner. His process was methodical - glue, stack, glue, stack, glue, stack. At the command of his stubby fingers, skyscrapers would rise. Neighbourhoods of neat family homes would be created, complete with a population of lollipop men, women and children. Once, he even built an ark to rival Noah's, the wooden animals peeping stiffly from the oddly square portholes. When he sat at his special desk, sticky-fingered and concentrating, he could play God.











 

Heart:	ditzy
Ears:	Fight Like Apes - I'm Beginning To Think You Prefer Beverly Hills 90210 To Me | Powered by Last.fm

**This is my entry for week three of the July brigits_flame writing competition. This week's prompt was "Strike". It's rushed and it shows, but better than nothing, right?**


By the time he returned home, the sun was starting to rise, the indigo sky punctuated by dusty pink streaks. He was exhausted, but knew he wasn't finished just yet. Turning his key in the lock, he trudged half-way across the hall before pausing and reconsidering. His wife constantly chastised him for 'clumping about' in his work boots, exasperated by the trail of flaky mud they left in their wake. Better take them off and avoid the hassle. The carpet squelched under his feet. He smiled to himself, pleased. His wife had kept her promise.


He padded upstairs, skillfully avoiding the creaking step third from the bottom. No point in waking the whole house up if he could avoid it. He crept towards the girls' bedroom and peeped in the door. They were curled up in a tangle of sheets and limbs, fast asleep. He marvelled, as he often did, at how he could have produced something so perfect, so beautiful, not once, but twice. At how they could share his knobbly knees and his love for the outdoors, have the same green eyes as his wife and her delicate features, and yet be strangers at the same time. He learned something new about them everyday. His little changelings. Quietly, he tiptoed to the bed and planted a kiss on each of their foreheads, and adjusted the covers a little. They were damp. He walked away.


His wife lay curled on the left side of the bed, faithfully keeping his space free. She was pale as porcelain, and just as delicate. He felt a surge of love well up deep inside him, and he reached over to squeeze her hand gently. He could watch her sleeping all night, listening to her whispery breaths and occasional murmurs. But not tonight. Tonight he still had work to do.


He made his way to the kitchen. They had decided it would be the best place to start. It had the most furniture, after all. And the gas cooker would help things along. He fumbled in his pocket for what seemed like an eternity, then at last his fingers grasped the battered box of matches. His hands didn't shake as he opened the package, selected one, then ran it along the bumpy side of the box. Strike. A pale yellow flame sprang up, as if summoned by an invisible magician. His nostrils filled instantly with the scent of sulphur. He closed his eyes, then dropped it. The flame ran down.








 

Heart:	cynical
Ears:	Remy Zero - Save Me | Powered by Last.fm

**This is my entry for week to of the brigits_flame writing competition for the month of May. The prompt was "Morning Glory".**


"Come on Granda, you promised this would only take ten minutes," I say exasperatedly, throwing an impatient glance at my watch. My grandfather remains transfixed by a huge sign advertising barbeques, and doesn't turn to face me. Instead he  waves my words away with is free hand while the other grips a shelf for support. 
 

"Patience is a virtue, Mutiny. Come look at this, it says that you can adjust the temperature of the flames. Imagine! In my day we would just fling whatever we had into a frying pan over the fire and be done with it!"


I half smile, half roll my eyes at the use of my childhood nickname, earned during the prolonged 'no' stage I went through as a toddler. "In your day dinosaurs roamed the earth, or so you'd have us believe. Come on, we have to go, I promised Mrs. Power I'd have you home in time for tea."


His back stiffens at the mention of his carer's name. "That woman," he mutters darkly, "might as well be working in Mountjoy prison, the way she treats me. If she had her way I'd be locked up in a cage and fed through a slot."


I laugh and link my arm through his. "Now who's the muntinous one," I tease. "We'll come back next weekend, I promise."


He gives a last grumble then reluctantly begins to shuffle towards the exit. I've almost managed to steer him out to the car park when something catches his attention. "Look at that," he exclaims gesturing, "I didn't know they even sold those still!"


I glance in the direction he's pointing to, and am surprised when I see the row of frail, delicate flowers in front of me. "Morning glories? I didn't know you liked those."


"They remind me of your Nanna," he says softly. "They were her favourites."


I hold my breath at this rare mention of my grandmother. She died when I was three years old, and my grandfather hasn't spoken of her since. Oblivious to my shock, he continues.


"I used to call her my morning glory, because to me she was always the most beautiful just after she had woken up. I'd pretend to be asleep as she brushed her hair, humming to herself. Raven black, it used to be, and as soft as velvet. Shining as bright as the sun. She could have been a princess, she was that beautiful. And I'd lie there wondering how a man like me could have found something so precious. And I'd thank God for her, and for the miracle that she loved me back."


His eyes are misted with a past only he can remember. I examine his face for moment, then squeeze his hand and pick up a tray of the flowers. "Come on," I order gently, " we're going to visit Nanna."


He shakes himself, bewildered. "But what about Mrs. Power?" he asks tentatively, hope creeping into his voice.


I undo the strap of my watch and put it in my bag. "We lost track of the time," I shrug, and head towards the checkout, leaving my grandfather gaping after me, mystified. Slowly, his face breaks into a smile. "That's my Mutiny," he declares affectionately, and hobbles to join me, placing his gnarled hand on my shoulder.
 

Heart:

blank

**Late, rushed and short. This week's prompt was "Aspirations". Yup, it's average at best..**


I hum absent-mindedly to myself as I turn on the taps. Almost immediately the bathroom begins to fill with steam as the water gurgles in the bathtub. I can feel the tension in my stomach beginning to unwind, and sigh contentedly to myself. I've been looking forward to this all day, a chance to get rid of the stress and pressure that have been building up for a while. Crouching down, I deliberate over my collection of pearly bubble baths. Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate - even reading the labels is enough to make my mouth water. Eventually I choose the soothing lavender. I carefully unscrew the bottle, briefly waft it under my nose and inhale the scent, then tilt my head back and begin to pour it down my throat.


It tastes disgusting. It always does. My stomach is churning in protest. Good.  In one seamlessly choreographed move, I sink to my knees and face the toilet bowl. Perfect timing. My mind goes blank, all that matters now is becoming as physically empty as I feel.


Hours later (at least it feels like hours, but it could have been minutes, seconds - time doesn't obey the rules anymore), and there's nothing left. I feel dizzy, light-headed, satisfied. Using the sink as a support, I heave myself upright. I peer anxiously at the mirror through the swirling fog. A ghost stares back, ashen-faced, beads of sweat clinging to her temples. Her lips are ringed with bile and blood. I touch my own with the back of my hand as she wipes at hers half-heartedly. The dark circles under her eyes seem to burn as she begins to speak. Her voice is a whisper. "Am I beautiful now?"

 

Heart:

tired

**Does exactly what it says on the tin. The prompt was "The Devil Is In The Details". Another rush job, gah.**


I used to have a sister. Papa never speaks of her, and the congregation follow his example. They think silence will erase her existence. They are wrong.


My mother died three days after my birth. She was a sickly woman, and it was a miracle that she had managed to carry me to term at all, especially after all the babies she had lost throughout the years. Yet even though I pray for her daily, I do not mourn her, even now. Why would I? I had Abra.


She was ten years older, with coltish legs, shimmering black hair and a laugh that gurgled like the stream behind our house. In the outside world she would have been considered beautiful, but beauty counts for little in our community. She was the one who reared me, who taught me how to gather my hair under my cap and arrange the finicky pins in such a way that they stayed in place all day, the one who read me my favourite stories from our family Bible every night before we curled up to sleep, the one who spent many patient hours teaching me how to stitch, our heads bent close like conspirators, the sun painting the backs of our necks pink. The last must have been especially tiresome for her as she was a gifted mistress with a needle, every stitch tiny and even, whereas to this day I still struggle to sew a button in place. My talent lies in the kitchen, and I think this relieves Papa. After all, if it hadn't had been for her embroidery, maybe Abra would still be with us.


I'm not supposed to know, let alone remember, what happened four years ago. I was twelve, a child, innocent and ignorant. Yet whoever makes these rules forgets how thin most walls are. At first the discussion was hushed, but then it rapidly grew more and more heated, boiling over like a stew left unattended for too long. Abra was crying, Papa was bellowing. I sat crouched in my bed, unable to breathe, straining to make sense of the fragments I heard: "market place", "marry", "abandon us", "faith", "sin", and, the chilling "not my daughter". I hugged my knees and shivered, torn between fear of the unknown and the prospect of having it confirmed. I didn't have to make the choice in the end. I heard Abra's footsteps bolting up the old wooden stairs, and when she entered the bedroom we shared, I could only gape. For the first time I saw her in clothes from the outside world, and they failed to conceal what her shapeless woolen dresses had. She saw my face and whispered as soothingly as she could through her own tears, "It will be alright, we are to be married." She embraced me, and I wiped the tears from her face. If I had known that it was the last time that we would be close, I would never have released her. She broke away to rummage in her drawer, then handed me a parcel. "For your wedding," she explained. My blood froze in my veins. A marriage quilt? Now? "You are coming back?" I demanded, my voice tight with panic. From downstairs Papa began to roar again. Abra kissed my cheek quickly, and then she was gone. She never answered my question.


No one ever mentioned Abra's sudden disappearance, though they must have wondered. Perhaps this was due to Papa's high standing in the community, or perhaps it had happened before, or perhaps our neighbours' walls are just as thin as our own. Whatever the reason, she was turned into a ghost, a piece of history best forgotten.


Papa found the quilt she had given to me just two weeks after she had left. He was burning it in the hearth when I returned from a sewing circle one day. I begged him to stop, tried to pull it out, but he subdued me easily. He claimed it was a source of sin, of vanity, pride and lust. My heart ached and I wept. In the detail of the intricate stitches, I saw my childhood, my home, a plea for reconciliation, hope for the future, enduring and never-ending love; but all Papa could see was the devil.

 

Heart:	groggy
Ears:	Counting Crows - Baby, I'm a Big Star Now | Powered by Last.fm