Home

Advertisement

Customize

Falling · Slowly


Take This Sinking Boat And Point It Home

Recent Entries · Archive · Friends · User Info

* * *


Comment to be added :).
 
* * *
It's four minutes past midnight. I'm officially an old, dusty man D: nineteen. Time to break out the anti-wrinkle cream.
Ears:
Kimya Dawson - Great Crap | Powered by Last.fm
* * *
*Poetry again. The prompt was 'Scratch'. Warning: Deals with child abuse.*

It's a game
That he plays with you
And you alone.
Your little secret.
Lucky you.

And in your candy-cane, sugar-spun skull you know
Even if you could make this
STOP
You wouldn't
Because Something Else might
START.
I love you so very much, darling.

His hands begin to roam
under your vest
over your chest
across your collarbone
and you twist, but it just makes his moans
Louder, Faster, Harder
and then his hands are on your thighs.
and then you squeeze your eyes shut
and then
and then
and then

He seals it with a kiss
(on the forehead this time)
And pulls the blanket up
And he checks your wardrobe for monsters
Leaving you
ALONE
Filthy s-l-u-t
in the darkness.
His itch scratched.
Heart:
sad sad
Ears:
Kings of Leon - Crawl | Powered by Last.fm
* * *

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

For the past three days, I've felt like I've been hit by a truck. Every part of me feels as if it's been bruised. And all I want to do is sleep. It's kind of worrying me, considering my exams are starting next week. I've been knocking back the Neurofen and some weird herbal tea that promises to give me energy, so hopefully I'll be ok.

I actually have no news whatsoever. My life is fair boring.

Oh wait, I have a story brought to you courtesy of my crazy drunk stoner roommates:

*Loud banging on door*
Stoner roommate #1: (in fear) Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca get up to fuck! You actually have to see this! Oh God oh God oh God....
Me: *opens door and makes sleepy questioning noise reminiscent of Lurch from the Addams Family*
Stoner roommate #2: Can you see it?? Can you?? Oh Jesus, what are we going to do?
Me: *lost in confusion*
Stoner roommate #3: THERE IS A DINOSAUR IN OUR HALLWAY.

The dinosaur turned out to be a plastic bag. I chose not to tell them this. Instead I watched them try to muzzle it with a tea strainer and feed it cabbage leaves, worrying because it was so thin it made Kate Moss look fat. Evening well spent.




Heart:
cold cold
Ears:
Fiona Apple - Oh Well | 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 numb
Ears:
Macy Gray - Still | Powered by Last.fm
* * *
Marie stood in front of the display, dithering helplessly over the pile of blankets stacked neatly before her. After forty-two years of avoiding all baby paraphenelia, the pastel rainbow of baby pinks and powder blues overwhelmed her. Hesitantly, she reached out and allowed her fingers to brush one. The material felt impossibly soft against her skin. She imagined wrapping the baby in one, her tiny fists trying to grip the fleecy folds, and smiled to herself. She carefully extracted a blanket from the pink pile. The decision reached, she shuffled awkwardly in the direction of the till.


To everyone in the village, she was a lonely spinster. No husband, no children, not even a cat for company. Sometimes, she even found herself believing that this was true. It was easier than remembering. Than hoping. What had been done was done - there was no changing the passage of time.


Two days ago, her past had wormed its way back into her present. 


Her name was Sylvia. She had a wild tangle of blue hair and a nose stud. When Marie had opened the door, she had been standing there with her left hand resting on her heavily pregnant stomach. With a mixture of fear, disgust and pity, Marie had noted that her ring finger was bare. Before she had had a chance to object, Sylvia had charmed her way into her poky living room and plonked herself down on the dusty setee. Smiling triumphantly, she had declared that Marie was her grandmother.


In August 1956, she had been seventeen, beautiful and in love. That Christmas, she had been abandoned, frightened, and hidden away in a Magdaline laundry. The baby had come early, so early that she was sure it wouldn't survive. A procession of nuns weaved in and out of the room, ferrying clean sheets and boiled water, seemingly deaf to her screams of agony. No attempt to encourage her, to reassure her, was made. Just when she feared that she would die from exhaustion, the child was yanked from her. She heard it cry once, then it was whisked away. She asked after it, but her pleas her met only by frosty glares and sealed lips. After four days, she stopped asking.


"Is that everything, Madam?" the cashier enquired pleasantly. Marie blushed furiously - speaking with strangers flustered her.


"Yes...yes thank you," she murmured.


"Would you like me to gift wrap it for you? I'm sure your grand-daughter will be thrilled with it."


Marie started, then returned the girl's smile. "Great-grand-daughter, actually," she whispered, marvelling at how sweet the words sounded on her tongue.
Ears:
Imogen Heap - Loose Ends | Powered by Last.fm
* * *
OMFG THE CAO POINTS WERE LEAKED ONLINE OMFGOMFGOMFG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


IF THIS ISN'T A TROLL I GOT MY COURSE OMFGOMFGOMFGOMFG!!!!!!!!!!!!

* * *
**This is my entry for week two of the August [info]brigits_flamewriting competition. The prompt was "Brave and Crazy". This is kinda-sorta a continuation of this story, but it stands alone ok as well.**


Like their counterparts everywhere, the children relished the moments when their mundane classroom routine was disturbed. These moments became legends, to be shared in secrecy in the corner of the school yard over a carton of fruit juice and crackers. To date, the most memorable tale was that of the day their teacher, upon discovering a rat nestled comfortably beside her stapler in the desk drawer, had fled the room screaming and wrapping her skirt tightly around her legs. None of her current class had had the pleasure of witnessing the event, being too busy teething at the time; but its legacy endured all the same, passed on from cousins of cousins, friends of friends. They occasionally dared each other to squeak during lessons in the hopes of provoking a hysterical re-enactment, but so far no one had been brave enough to accept the challenge. They longed to witness an incident firsthand, to create an immortal story themselves. One particularly rainy day in February, they got their wish.


The new boy refused to meet any of their eyes, preferring to stare at his shoelaces instead. Their teacher gripped him by the shoulders, beaming. She introduced him by a name none of their ears could catch, the syllables strange and unclear, and eagerly invited the new boy to greet them. Begrudgingly, he offered them a fleeting glance, and mumbled something dejectedly. The words didn't matter, and he knew it as well as they did. His skin had already marked him as different.


His first mistake was choosing the desk next to Graeme. He hadn't been thinking, he had just wanted to escape the frantic flurry of whispers and burning stares. By the time he had noticed how Graeme's tongue lolled from his lips, how his desk was still littered with chunky crayons when all the other children had moved on to pens, it was too late. He had chosen his place, he couldn't move. In an effort to reconcile the situation, he smiled catiously at the other boy. This was his second mistake. Graeme shrieked, balled up his fists and began to bang the table. A symphony of cracked necks rang out in the classroom as every head whipped round to seek out the source of the disruption. When they saw the new boy apologising profusely, they began to snicker. Their jeers hit him like a tidal wave. He sank back, sure he was going to drown.


For the next month, he and Graeme were labelled crazy by the other kids. The latter showed no sign of being affected by his new name, but then again he rarely reacted to anything. The new boy, however, raged inside. He wasn't crazy. But neither was he brave enough to convince the other children of this. Then the plan hit him.


He waited impatiently for Graeme to finish stacking and glueing the lollipop sticks in place. His stomach jittered with butterflies. This was his chance to prove himself, to prove to the others that he was just like them. He had seen how they avoided Graeme, seen how they taunted him behind the teacher's back. When it came to these small tortures, they were a unified force. And he was about to join it. He watched as the other boy lovingly added the last stick to his creation, his glasses fogged with concentration. He waited for him to crow in delight and satisfaction. Then with one swoop of his hand, he brought the structure crashing to the floor.


The aftermath of his plan would haunt him for years. Graeme began to shriek, clawing his face repeatedly with his fingernails, so hard that he drew blood. The teacher was powerless to soothe him, powerless to end his suffering. Graeme trashed and groaned, and the new boy understood that this was the sound a heart made when it broke. Eventually, Graeme's mother was called in. Her own eyes watered as she struggled to lift her hysterical son, her knees buckling under the weight she had to carry.


Afterwards, when the other boys invited him to join in their football match, the new boy knew he was no longer considered crazy. Yet the icy stone that plummeted to the bottom of his stomach when he remembered Graeme's tear-stained face served as a reminder that he wasn't brave either.
* * *
**This is my entry for week one of the August [info]brigits_flamewriting competition. This week's prompt was "Smoke and Mirrors". This piece is yet another rush job. It's based on this story. WARNING: Contains many references to child abuse.


It started three days after he was born. Seventy-two hours of bottle feeds, nappy changes and cuddles and the novelty of having a new baby had worn off for his mother. She spent hours in front of her computer screen, eyes widening with delight and satisfaction as nests of naked bodies writhed and moaned before her. At times, she would add her own variety of grunts to the chorus, her hand working furiously under her unwashed sweatpants. When he cried, she merely shut the door.


*******


"Your baby has an ear infection, Mrs. Smith. Nothing a dose of antibiotics won't clear up. And as for these bruises, I'll run some tests, but I wouldn't worry about it. It's not necessarily a sign that something is wrong. Some children do bruise more easily than others, especially at this young age. Chances are as he gets older, he'll get sturdier."


"Oh, thank you, Doctor. I know it's silly, but I can't help feeling frantic over these things. He's my first, you see. And I couldn't bear people thinking that I might have...might have hurt him. My own beautiful boy."


Her voice broke as carefully calculated tears began to slide down her cheeks.


The doctor patted her arm comfortingly and offered her a tissue before escorting her out of the surgery. Once she had manouvered the pram safetly onto the streets, she allowed herself to smile smugly. She made a mental note to scold Jason about leaving bruises in such obvious places. The baby cooed quietly as the pram bounced over the cobblestones.


*******


"I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith, I know how distressing this must be for you, but it's hospital policy. It's in the interest of the children, see. You have nothing to worry about, it's a routine procedure...."


The nurse continued in an embarrassed, almost apologetic tone. Mrs. Smith adopted her distraught and disgusted expression. Underneath, her heart pounded. Jason had gone too far this time. They were going to be caught out. The nurse was clearly a bleeding heart, ready to be convinced that the baby had broken three ribs by accident. A social worker would be a different matter.


The baby lay listless in the plastic bassinette. He cringed any time the sound of footsteps echoed on the tiled corridors.


*******


"I'm sorry he's such a grubby little boy today, Ms. Ward, it's just that Peter loves his choccy-woccy, don't you darling? Only he hasn't managed to deliver it to his mouth quite yet, isn't that right sweetheart?"


The baby shrieked delightedly and clapped his hands. Maria Ward smiled. The child was clearly happy - there'd be no need for any tiresome paperwork today. "That's alright, Mrs. Smith, I'm used to it. I'll give you a hand cleaning it off. Do you have any wipes handy?"


His mother nodded, and wordlessly handed her one. Maria's smile disappeared as the brown mush was replaced by a different kind of blemish.


"How did Peter get these bruises, Mrs. Smith?" she asked casually, her voice cold.


"Oh, you know how toddlers are," the other woman replied, "Always sticking their noses into everything. He keeps trying to play with the older children on the estate, but sometimes they get a bit too rough for him. Please don't take him away from me for this. Please. I'll keep him inside in future. It's just his little eyes light up when he hears them calling. Please don't think I'm a bad mother. Please."


The woman began to break down. Maria Ward rubbed her temples. So much for an early night. She thought longingly of the hot bath she had planned.


"Mrs. Smith, do you feel you have a viable support system? For you and for Peter?" she asked, sighing inwardly.


"Oh yes, yes we do. There's my mother, she helps out quite a bit, and Jason, well he's like a father to him. We're a proper little family now."


After a brief battle with her conscience, Maria Ward decided to accept the woman's words. "Call me if you need anything" she said, handing the woman her card before letting herself out of the dingy flat. The woman nodded, then closed the door. She turned to face the baby. His laughter stopped as though she had flicked a switch.


*******


"It's just a cold, Mrs. Smith. Keep him warm and make sure he drinks lots of fluids." The doctor found himself shouting as he struggled to compete with the toddler's miserable wail. His headache, a slight annoyance only twenty minutes beforehand, had escalated into a full-blown migraine. He wanted nothing more than to go home and put his feet up, to enjoy a cold beer while watching the football match. Hastily, he scrawled a prescription for baby pain relief and handed it to the mother. She thanked him hurriedly, and carried the screaming child out of his office. The doctor opened his desk and rummaged around for a paracetemol. He forgot all about his young patient, and the strange way he had arched his back. He yelled at his receptionist to boil the kettle.


*******


Three days later, they found him in his cot. Cold. Bruises adorned his tiny body like sapphires. A four inch gap gaped on his forehead. His spine had been snapped clean in half, his ribs crushed beyond recognition. A tiny smile lingered on his lips. He was free.
Ears:
Blue October - Amnesia | Powered by Last.fm
* * *

**This is my entry for week four of this month's [info]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.











 

* * *

**This is my entry for week three of the July [info]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 cynical
Ears:
Remy Zero - Save Me | Powered by Last.fm
* * *
**This is my entry for week two of the July [info]brigits_flamewriting competition. This week's prompt was "Trash". The following is my submission. It got a little preachy towards the end, but oh well.


When it comes to trash, most kids grow up with sayings such as 'waste not want not' and 'one man's trash is another man's treasure'. Not me. My father, being a refuse collector, had his own pearls of wisdom regarding the topic. "A man's trash is as unique as his fingerprint," he used to say as I'd clamber onto his lap, then fill me with stories about the people on his rounds. By the age of four, I knew secrets that Mrs. White, the town gossip, would have traded her finest bone china to hear. I knew that you could tell exactly how rich a person was by the number of trash bags they set out to be collected, as "poorer folks tend to appreciate all that they got". I knew that Mr. Jaques most likely had a drinking problem, judging by the number of whiskey bottles that clinked in his bins every week. I knew that the Johnsons' youngest child had been a surprise, as they had thrown their crib out two years before after Liam had started hauling himself up on his feet. I knew that poor old Mrs. Larson was in dire financial trouble (not that I understood what the phrase meant) as unopened letters from the bank formed neat piles outside her door. And I knew how to keep all these things a secret, because my father had told me that spreading rumours about people was the lowest thing a person could do. My father's trust was sacred to me, and I wasn't about to break it.


Once I started school, however, everything changed. My father lost his status as a hero and slowly sank into the category of an embarrassment. The other children at school would taunt me mercilessly, asking me what it was like to live in a dump or asking me if I had gotten my clothes out of someone's trashcan. I ignored them as best I could, and never breathed a word at home about their jeering. My silence was worthless though. The damage had been done. I'd diligently avoid mentioning upcoming parents' evenings and other school events. My father noticed, but never said anything. Perhaps he understood my childish fears. If he was hurt, he never showed it. The only emotion I ever saw in his eyes when he looked at me was pride. Every ribbon I brought home, every A I earned, every glowing report card, all were greeted with a beaming smile and a trip to Spencer's for an icecream soda. All the while I was striving to become as different as he was as possible, he stood right behind me, offering endless support and encouragement. By the time I received my college scholarship, I saw him with the same scornful, almost sneering, gaze the rest of the town viewed him with. He was a man who cleaned up after everyone else's mess, a servant, a nobody. And I was determined to become a somebody.


He died three weeks before my graduation. Cancer. I sat numb for the four hour train journey to the small town I had long since outgrown, feeling as though I had been trapped in a nightmare. At the funeral I held my mother, a haggard weeping stranger, as the priest droned on. I couldn't help but look around the pews in a kind of detached amazement. My father had been a quiet man, kept himself to himself. He had few friends, bar a handful of occasional drinking buddies down at Madigans, yet every pew in the chapel was filled with mourners. After the funeral, they formed a neat line, shaking my hand and murmuring their condolences. I was surprised by the number who not only offered the generic brand of sympathy, but shared personal anecdotes of their encounters with my father. Like Mr. Jacques, who confided in me that it was my father who convinced him to join the AA. And Mrs. Larson, who told me that my father sat with her when she finally found the strength to confront her financial woes. Hearing these people, I realised that I could never be half as great a man as my father was. Despite all my fancy qualifications, I had no knowledge of people . And that made me a nobody for certain.


Thirty years later, I still put my trash out in black bags rather than the cheaper clear ones. My father would have acknowledged it as a sign of mourning. I doubt my bin man cares enough to notice. And every Thursday, when my grandchildren come over to visit, I pull them up on my arthritic knee and tell them about a very clever man who knew just what people needed by looking at what most others chose to ignore - their trash.
Heart:
blah blah
Ears:
Fight Like Apes - Recyclable Ass | Powered by Last.fm
* * *
**This is my entry for week one of the July [info]brigits_flame writing contest. This week's prompt was "Wings". Once again, I went for a depressing approach.**


The sports hall was buzzing with conversation. Parents mingled in small groups, exchanging pleasantries and generally getting acquainted with each other. The students formed tight knots in the various corners of the room, chattering excitedly and occasionally emitting a shriek of delight. Julia surveyed the room silently, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She had to hand it to the decorating committee; if she hadn't attended the school she wouldn't have been able to tell that this part of the building normally housed tennis rackets, basket ball hoops and sweaty gym kits. They'd even managed to turn the locker room into a refreshments station, by no means an easy feat.


"Enjoying yourself?" an amused voice enquired behind her. Startled, she turned around to find herself facing her favourite teacher, Miss Havers, beaming at her.


"I just can't believe it...it doesn't seem real..." she replied, returning the older woman's smile. Miss Havers chuckled appreciatively.


"It doesn't seem real for you? How do you think I feel? One moment you're a little girl almost collapsing under the weight of your school bag and struggling up the stairs to the First Year corridor as though they were Mount Everest, your hair in one of those God-awful side ponytails that you girls deemed the height of fashion, the next I turn around and you're a beautiful young woman, ready to make her mark on the world. You girls, you never fail to make me feel old," she scolded good-naturedly. Julia adopted a suitable chastised manner. Miss Havers winked, then continued.


"Just don't forget us when you've made it to the top, alright? A clever girl like you will go far. Your speech tonight was excellent."


Julia flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.


"Thank you Miss Havers," she murmured shyly. The teacher shook her head.


"No, no, none of that Miss Havers business. I'm not your teacher anymore. As from today, you and I are equals."


She squeezed Julia's arm lightly, tipped her a final wink, then hurried over to prevent a gaggle of hyper girls from knocking over the Birco boiler. Julia felt a wave of sadness wash over her. Taking a final look around the hall, she rummaged for her keys, then slipped quietly out the door.


***


The plan was flawless, really. Julia's mother thought that she was going to an after party at her friend's house. She hadn't realised that her daughter was the school outcast. This normally made Julia's blood boil with frustration, but tonight it suited her perfectly. She hummed along softly with the radio, keeping her concentration on the road in front of her. After a while, she pulled over and parked. Grinning, she got out and began to walk, drinking in the exhilirating scent of the fresh sea air.


She had always loved the cliffs, ever since her father had brought her there for a picnic when she was six. They used to go every week until Julia had become too grown up to spend time with him. Returning tonight made her regret all the lost time they could have spent together. She huddled into her cardigan and picked up the pace.


The sea was calm, inky black in the dim moonlight. Trawler ships bobbed like toy boats on the surface. For once the sea gulls were silent, sleeping in their rocky nests. Julia tiptoed nearer to the edge, until she could almost feel the ground crumbling under her feet. She closed her eyes tightly. Then she took a final step forward, and flew.
Heart:
awake awake
Ears:
Sia - Drink to Get Drunk | Powered by Last.fm
* * *

**This is my entry for week to of the [info]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 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 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 groggy
Ears:
Counting Crows - Baby, I'm a Big Star Now | Powered by Last.fm
* * *

Previous

Advertisement

Customize