Catching Flies

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Communication, creative, fiction, flash, Love, short stories, story, writing

She moved like a veil in the breeze, delicate and fragile,whispering her love between the clouds as they passed like strangers on the shore. Wisps of her hair, now chestnut, now russet, brushed the silent air, painting it with rainbow hues that scattered their love like angel feathers. Behind the cobweb curtains I shuddered, afraid of catching something that I could never hope to hold; something far beyond any expectations I may have held. I shivered, my fear the cold against the warmth that swarmed around my like an excited army of bees, hungry to feed on the sweet nectar which seeped from her every pore. Stolen glances were always enough: enough to shroud the fear of loss, of letting go what could never be held; enough to feed a dream in which to live, a fortress which I could build and rebuild as I chose, strengthened by a look or an over-heard word.

She floated, dancing on water, drifting ethereal from plane to plane, never resting for too long in any one place. Her voice, the words she spoke, swirled across the land like a nurturing blanket, and I knew that wherever they landed new life would emerge – beauty in the wake of vacuum. Her words touched my ears, kissing them gently like a dying friend, and that was enough.

If only I had known that they had been all for me.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

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A Farewell

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creative, fiction, flash, flash fiction, Honesty, loss, short stories, story, thoughts, writing

I thought of you then, on the day that I left, knowing, despite the words, that we would never meet again. I thought of you as I sat in the darkness, as the Sun dipped like a dying friend beyond the horizon for what might as well have been the last time. I knew that I, like the errant Sun, would rise again, but that neither of us would ever be quite the same: the Sun would burn fractionally less brightly, its gaseous source ever so slightly diminished, and I, with less reason to rise than before, would begin to become a shadow of myself. I thought of you and the words that we had shared wondering if you had ever truly understood my meaning. Had you thought of me as a friend or merely an acquaintance, and had I ever truly understood what lay behind your eyes? I thought of how close I felt that we had become, our shoulders brushing against one another as we shared a joke, our laughter spreading its roots between us connecting us forever, or so I had imagined. But did you leave me behind along with all the other artefacts of work when you closed the door behind you and returned to your home?

I thought of you and wondered whether I had been too obscure, too subtle in my words and looks, for you to see me. And what exactly had I felt? Was this a connection that I felt that I had needed or something that had burst upon me unexpectedly and had opened a new door which whispered quietly for me to go through? Perhaps the moment had come for me, after a life of living at a comfortable distance from the edge, to finally take a chance, a risk. But, of course, caution is a powerful bedfellow, and, by the time I had recognised the chance, if had closed its eye for ever.

I thought of you then and wondered if you had ever lain alone in the dark beneath the Summer’s heat: I wondered if, like me, you had lost yourself to imagination; and I wondered if you had ever found yourself with your hand between your legs, wishing its fingers were mine.

 

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2000-2019

 

Dale Street

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creative, fiction, nostalgia, short stories, short story, story, writing

A bit long, perhaps, but I hope you’ll stick with it (and enjoy!)         

          Only once did I go back. For only one moment did I find my mind swamped with nostalgia and feel its frond-like fingers clutching and clawing at me, trying to choke my future from me. It was only once, merely one, brief moment, one solitary idea which grabbed my thoughts, imploring, pleading, persuading them to take a different pathway; speaking softly in sweet, seductive tones of unfulfilled desires, aspirations unachieved, yet still within reach of my out-stretched hands – of opportunities whose doorways still remained ajar. It was one solitary moment in time, one glimpse of a half-forgotten time, which, in my madness, I allowed to place temptation on my lips; one moment, but still one which I felt inexplicably compelled to follow. Only once did I go back to Dale Street, to see the place where I was born.

          The street looked as it always had done; worn, tired asphalt stretching endlessly before me, dead, grey paving slabs broken, raised and uneven, failing in their ceaseless battle to fight back the weeds which pushed insistently up through the cracks which ran between them. The weeds, it seemed, were the only thing fresh and different in an aspect that otherwise remained forever static. I walked onwards, letting my feet take lead me on a once familiar journey. I walked past doors that I remembered and those which I had never seen before, although I knew that they must have always been there. Gaping windows watched my journey with disinterest as I moved along the pavement, the heels of my black, recently polished shoes clicking gently as they struck the concrete. I imagined the sound echoing through walls, connecting with pasts that hung unobserved in the air deep within the houses, resonating with memories which had long anticipated my return.

          The air that swept me along was warm, tempered only by a softly whispering breeze – a perfect summer’s day – which spoke to me in hushed tones of distant pasts. I could feel the sensitivity of its fingers stretching out towards me like electric wires, their fibrous tendrils crackling, urgently trying to close the gap between the past and the present, desperate to bring themselves close enough to bridge the gap and to complete the connection. I walked alone, aware of the life beginning to rise once more within me, past neatly tended gardens, low built, red-brick walls and alley-ways which stretched away from me like lost children exploring newer and newer connections of their own, making memories which would be unique to them.

          The footpath fell away, almost without warning, opening out into a wider stretch of tarmac which was scattered liberally with cars – passers-through, people who had no connection to me, although of this I could not be sure – visitors; customers. From within the newsagent’s shop, which stood, as it had for generations, as a Mecca for the child with loose change to spend, money that had, at all costs, to be spent, I heard voices. I heard the voice of a boy, a voice that resonated with me. It was a high voice, its young pitch clean; happy, perhaps, but laden too with more than a hint of pleading. The woman’s voice was older, static and unmoving, and as familiar as the boy’s. The denial was final, unequivocal, and even without looking I could see myself in the scene – the turning of a shoulder became the turning of a back and a blocking of ways. The tone dropped lower to an insistent, menacing hiss, and the joy of youth was instantly diminished. One figure moved towards the door, steadily and with conviction. For a moment the second, younger figure was still, as if it were tied to the object of its desire. The boy waited in silence, but the force of his will was not sufficient to sway either his mother or the things that were the focus of his stare: nothing moved. Then, as if responding to the inaudible shrill of a dog whistle, he turned, his reluctance and disappointment hanging like a black clock from his shoulder.

          Outside the grocer’s shop I saw a face that I thought I recognised from many years before. Briefly I was returned to a time that I thought that I had lost many years ago. Once again I was submerged in my teenage years, wrapped in youth and futures that I dreamed were real. I was in a time when options and opportunities were myriad, and I had no inkling, no concept of the fact that it would be me myself who would be the block to my own ambitions and be the one who stood in my way. For now all futures were possible, the table was full, and all I had to do was to select the meal that would fulfil me, and sate my needs. I felt a glow rise within me, filling my aching eyes, and with hope I moved forward. I recognised the girl, and as she turned around she looked into my tired eyes.  By the time my feet had taken me nearer to her, however, my focus had been restored, and as we crossed one another’s paths, we passed as strangers. Words like daughter, niece and grandchild fell from my mind onto my lips and then died, tumbling unspoken to the floor.

          I passed beneath the black-arched bridge which bore the weight of heavy trains as they too took treasures away from the town that had been my home. Its grime and graffiti stained bricks echoed with the sound of dogs as they barked their warnings. For a while I paused, half expecting the rumble of great metal wheels on tracks to awaken something that had been asleep for too long, but no sounds came from above me. And then I was in daylight once more, following Dale Street as it led downwards, its decline more severe than I had remembered. I crossed the gurgling stream, watching it as it continued its endless struggled against the broken undergrowth, discarded rubbish, plastic bags, road traffic cones and abandoned tyres. It bubbled words up towards me, and as they broke the surface of the water, they spoke to me; harsh words and tender lies, ignored advice and disregarded orders, words that I craved to hear, and those that I had never asked to be aired. My ears were ringing and, as I looked both back at the road along which I had walked, and forward to where it was leading, I realised that they had never told me which way it was that I had to go.

          A small group of men walked past me, talking of trivia, filling their motion with empty words as if by doing this their time would bear greater meaning. In their eyes I recognised the expressions of boys, boys who had been forced to spend too long in the same place; boys for whom the novelty of the new had worn out its welcome. And now they were men, men who had lived beyond the point of leaving; men who lived in resignation and acceptance, trapped by themselves, yet within whom still lived the child who they could not quieten. I turned my eyes away and, in my own movement, realised that I had gone unnoticed by them. My voice wanted to roar, to make my presence known. I wanted the street to acknowledge my return and to be aware of my existence. I wanted the town to recognise the son who had come back to it. I wanted the Dale Street of my memories, my clouded, rose-tinted, faded, romanticised memories to take me back.

          But my roar was nothing more than a whisper which floated gently into the air above me and then disappeared without notice over the town that I called home.

Stainless Steel

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creative, fiction, short stories, stories, story, writing

Time, I feel, for a short(ish) story. Hope you enjoy it!

 

When they come, as surely they will, they will go first into the kitchen. Despite my protestations, regardless of my words, they will draw back the bright-striped coloured curtain, ignoring its golden, thick-woven braiding, its subtle details, and enter the room. They will brush disdainfully past the plain, polished pine of the door frame, and set their feet against the cool, hard flagstone tiles. Their shoes will, undoubtedly, be practical, solid and uncomplicated; their soles too thick to appreciate the slight unevenness of each slab as it jostles with its neighbours for prime position. Their highly-trained, analytic eyes will scan every aspect of the room, internalising each detail, speculating, deducing and then committing their conclusion to fact. They will see the high polish on the glittering diamond granite worktop as it sweeps in both directions from the multi-ringed range; but they will not be moved by its antiseptic cleanliness, or by the knowing wink as it sparkles in its surface. They will not be drawn by its practicality and sense of purpose as might a chef. No. Instead their minds will be consumed will painting a study, a caricature of me, and a critique of my life.
The sink is unsoiled, clean, empty and disinfected: Only the most detailed of inspections would reveal the most minute of scratches the mar its skin. The drainer too tells a similar story, wiped clean of the residue of water which had ran from crockery and cutlery now neatly stored out of view. Their eyes will not see the pristine espresso machine which occupies its pre-ordained space like an princely heir sitting at the joining of the granite surfaces as they run perpendicular to one another; one reaching out towards the range, the other like a long-fingered branch stretching out over a range of expensively veneered beech drawers and cupboards, an open wine rack stocked with a selection of overly priced bottles, and an integral fridge-freezer. No, their analytical eyes will pass all this by as if it were merely a collection of clues which would lead them with unerring conviction ton their inevitably conclusion.
Instead their eyes will be drawn to you. You, laying prone and exposed on the floor, framed by the expanse of expensive stone tiling. You, suddenly revealed in your true form, as if disturbed by some shadowy intruder. You, as ever, the centre of everybody’s attention. They will see you, asleep on the floor, your right leg raised slightly, bent at the knee; your right arm flaccid, limp against the stone, whilst your left one leads to a hand hopelessly flat against your chest, its fingers clutching desperately to hold on to life. Your eyes are closed, almost in a state of resigned relaxation, and yet there remains something defiant within your face, a determination which has refused to leave you. Somehow you are still clinging on to a belief in yourself, a belief that the universe revolves for you, and that without you we shall all cease to be.
Their eyes will see the ice-white tee-shirt, which, as always, is slightly too small for you, as it clings to the muscled outline of your torso. They will see your strong arms, with their well defined yet now defunct biceps and triceps, and your ruined chest. They will see the scratches and the incisions that have at first driven the cotton into your flesh and then in the same coarse action ripped them free again. These are not the signature of a surgeon’s scars, dealt with purpose, care and precision, delivered with salvation as their goal. These are not like the fading wound which lies on your skin where your appendix once was. The scar that had changed with your mood or the company that you were keeping at the time: The scar that had been the mark of a still born twin, helpless and conjoined, who had sacrificed any hope that it may have had in order to allow you to breath in life. The scar that had been a cancer which had been released, thankfully benign, from your abdomen. The scar that had been left by an assailant’s blade as you had performed one more heroic deed of bravery. No, theses scars had been delivered with anger, passion and a rage that could no longer be contained. There had, quite clearly, been some attempt at precision, an attempt to complete the task as swiftly as was possible, but just as obviously this was not the work of a scalpel wielding surgeon. No, this had been an act which displayed a far deeper connection between victim and perpetrator.
They will look from you and the shape that you make to the floor and the mass of congealing liquid which hugs its rises and falls. It will no longer be the crimson passion that it once was, but will have taken on a new form that of spilled, black treacle, still sticky beneath its now rubbery skin. Experience will have taught them not to be surprised, as I was, by the size of the lake that had spread out across the tiles: This is only a fascination to the uninitiated. Rather they will study the form and shape that the lake has taken, and from this conclude which blows led to which spillages, and in which order they fell. They will make rational the irrational and make impersonal and analytic the impassioned.
Their eyes will see the dropped and discarded length of metal, naked and separated from its compatriots, and realise that this is the only object that is out of place in the kitchen. At the moment it is closer to me than it is to you, but they will not see this. They will see only eight inches of stainless steel, turned and polished and proud of its quality, now lying stark and forlorn against the stone. They will see the globules of sticky, red liquid as they cling to the five inches of ground and sharpened steel. They will see the smeared stains which have taken their shape and appearance from my skin and have impressed themselves on the handle. But they will see no further. The stains will cry out to their audience like tell-tale children, expecting no greater reward than recognition of themselves, and to be smiled upon. They will see all of this and they will know. They will know all of this, and know all that they need to know, but still they will not make me out to be the monster that you made me.
But for now I will leave you. I will let my weary feet take me from the kitchen, from our final encounter, and lead me over warm wooden boards towards the staircase. For a moment I will pause, but I will not turn my head-there is no longer the hold to draw me back-and then I shall slowly climb the stairs, with each one savouring the silence, until at last I reach our room. I will open the door onto the emptiness, step beyond the naked frame and stretch out my hand towards the bed. With a deliberate hand I will carefully draw back the black, patterned quilt which sleeps so easily against the smooth cotton of the freshly pressed sheet, and slide inside. I will lie on my back in our bed and stare into the darkness, and I will enjoy the stillness. Beneath the quilt I will be enveloped in tranquility: My body will finally be at rest from your demands, and I will be sore no more. I will not feel the presence of your body, its insistence, its pressure and its determined persistence. I will not hear the emotionally charged sounds that your mouth makes as both you and I lie in silence, in separate rooms now, only yards apart, but still connected. I will lie here in the bed that you once shared with her, and you will lie with no-one. I will lie and in my own time close my eyes against the darkness. I will lie in the stillness that surrounds us both and have a good night’s sleep for once: And you will lie and have a good night’s sleep for evermore.

Crow Catcher

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creative, fiction, short stories, short story, story, writing

          Infestation is an unusual word to be used in connection with birds. Unusual, yes, yet most definitely the word to be used when the involvement of Taras Morovic was required. A more general and accepted usage of the word would be in relation to animals more often considered to be pests, animals such as cockroaches, wasps, locusts or rats, but on this particular occasion the word ‘infestation’ most definitely referred to birds. This was not just a random collection of birds either, nor was it an over-inflated influx of migratory animals which had discovered it to be lost and was taking stock of its surroundings and therefore its options before moving on. No this was an infestation of a more serious, permanent and menacing variety, for, over the course of many preceding months, months which themselves may have swollen into years, the village had, without notification or warning, become overrun by crows. Even the crows that now filled the skies and lined the streets did not appear to conform to the expected dimensions of their breed: they were larger, blacker, bore more sturdy grey beaks and brandished more ferocious and deadly talons than any crows that any human could recall.

          No one who resided in the village could accurately put a time scale as to when the birds had begun to appear. Some argued that the birds had steadily been building in numbers over the course of many years; others protested that they had all appeared at the same moment, flooding the sky like a thunder storm. What everyone did agree upon, however, was that one day it was a lonely murder that sat atop a tree adjacent to the road which led people to and from their houses, and then the next the flock had swollen to proportions that were barely conceivable, let alone numberable. At first, although somewhat perplexed, the majority of the villagers accepted the situation, after all the birds seemed content to live off carrion and scraps, and, apart from the occasional cawing in-fights, caused no-one any undue alarm. Things, however, had rapidly begun to change. People had started to notice that the crows had become bolder and more invasive in their behaviour. Now they no longer seemed content to live off the scraps and hand outs from their human neighbours – now they had taken to flying, at first individually, and later in twos and threes, directly into houses and shops. Here they casually and confidently took what ever they felt that they wanted or needed, regardless of any human intervention. Once again many of the villagers, at least at first, thought this behaviour charming if, at times, a little intimidating, but when the novelty began to wear off they found it impossible to deter the birds. In fact the crows now deemed it their right to take what ever they wanted and at a time which suited them and their attitude shifted from one of confidence to one of pure aggression. Within days reports from across the village of vicious bird attacks began to circulate: people had received cuts and scratches, bruises and lacerations which had reached the bone. Everyone spoke with one voice – the time for action had come.

          By the end of the week the village leaders had gathered themselves together and formulated their plan of action. Every form of discouragement from scarecrows to rattling tin, from cats to guns had been tried, and all to no avail. There were no further options open to them: the message was sent out, and the mysterious Taras was summoned.

          Taras Morovic was by no means a large figure. His small, squat frame, almost cunningly designed to disguise his strength, gave him the look of a strangely deformed and stunted man. His head was somewhat square, surmounted by a thick, unkempt shock of black hair, loose curled and dense. Barely visible beneath its cover his eyes were deep-set, intense and dark; his mouth, small and thin. No-one who had ever met him could remember his smile. Taras spoke rarely, and when he did he kept his words brief, succinct and to the point – he was not a man to waste his breath unnecessarily. The one and only thing that he liked, it seemed, was his work, and at this he was expert. No infestation had ever managed to defeat the skills that Taras Morovic possessed and the crows he now faced would prove no exception.

          When Taras arrived in the village he was greeted with both warmth and courtesy. Many of the villagers lined the streets which led to the centre of the village and the Council Hall. Some villagers shouted their welcome whilst others displayed a more restrained reverence – but the stranger in their midst was ambivalent to everything around him. Behind closed doors discussions were held between concerned and worried villagers as to whether or not this odd character who had descended upon them was up to the job, and whether or not they would be freed from the plague that blighted them. As the villager elders stepped out of their hall the crowd hushed in excited anticipation. Without a word they led Taras through the open doors. Once inside the councillors talked, outlining their requirements and expectations. Taras listened attentively, occasionally scribbling something into the small, black notebook which was his constant companion. Only when they had completely finished did he speak. He told them of his fee, and, without hesitation, the councillors agreed. Money exchanged hands, and the deal was done. Taras stipulated only one more thing and that was that the streets of the village be empty by midnight. The councillors acceded to such a simple request.

          Had anyone been watching as the hands of the town clock swept past twelve they would have seen a small, squat figure, clad entirely in a black hooded cloak drift soundlessly through the streets. They would have seen the figure’s arms make gentle, undulating motions as he passed each house, and the most sensitive of ears might just have heard the strange mutterings that he made. Had anyone been watching they would have caught the last glimpse of the strange, ethereal figure as it floated out of the village and away from their lives forever. But, of course, no-one was.

          Nobody knew exactly how it had happened, what weird and mysterious events had unfolded during the course of the night, but, as one by one they awoke, each person in the village became aware of the change that had taken place. The crows had gone, most certainly, disappearing as dramatically as they had once arrived. The only sign that they had ever dominated the village lay in the nests, already, it appeared, crumbling in the tops of the trees which surrounded the village. No-one understood what had happened, and no-one asked for explanation – they were merely content in the fact that their problems had vanished. As the days became clearer people started to wonder what kind of magic or slaughter had taken place – but the man who had come and gone within a day had left no trace of his presence, and not even a feather remained of the crows. As days passed into weeks and weeks into months all talk of the crows and mystery faded, vanishing into the sky as once their troubles had. The village returned to a life which it once had known as if nothing had ever changed.

          Deep in the forest, hidden from even the most curious and perceptive of eyes, Taras Morovic sat, rocking rhythmically backwards and forwards in his chair. He sat outside his compact, wooden cottage, which itself was nestled in the safety of a well guarded clearing, eyes closed, lost in thought. Around him a large number of enormous black birds pecked calmly at the many carcasses which lay on the ground. Occasionally they would stop, raise their heads, and talk to one another, their language strange and unfathomable, but soft and succinct. Taras opened his eyes and surveyed his kingdom: the trees were lined with paper-like nests, filled the harmonious hum of a million wasps; around their trunks countless cockroaches rummaged, re-organising the undergrowth like a well rehearsed army. In the bushes a large colony of rats worked tirelessly, designing and redesigning their living quarters, searching for perfection. In which ever direction Taras looked his eyes were met with the rewards of his labours; in every direction he saw harmony. He closed his eyes once more, and pondered his next collection.

 

More Than Words

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Communication, creative, fiction, short stories, short story, stories, story, writing

A short story of…

It was a glorious day. The early Summer Sun had risen clear of the horizon, and spilled its rays across the Earth. I held my face high to the sky, and breathed deeply, allowing the air to seep through my body. As I felt my senses awaken I knew that this would be a day to surpass all others.

I climbed into the car, and wound down both your and my windows, wishing only that the car was a convertible, and that we would both be able to feel the freedom of the wind rushing through our hair. The engine eased itself to life, its voice sounding almost as expectant as mine. It whispered to me in hushed tones as we moved off, a shimmering ray of hope across the blackness, striking out determinedly on our journey. I sang myself to your door, caressing each tune with my voice, as I soon would your mind, body and soul. When, at last, I stepped from the car; you were waiting, a vision of smiles and beauty, and a vision that had flown into my life, like an unexpected windfall, a victory unforeseen.

“Hello, you.” Your voice sounded out, as clear as a crystalline mountain stream.

“Hello, you,” I could only reply, stunned to silence by your presence, before my body reached yours and we embraced. As I stepped back from you the sunlight glinted, like a winking friend in the diamond on your finger. It smiled at me giving me a sign, a silent portent of fortune to come. I smiled back.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! You bet I am! I’ve been up for hours, checking and rechecking everything, making sure that I have packed all that I need. If I haven’t got it now, then it’s not worth taking!”

I laughed then, stretching forward to lift your bulging cases. You tried to help to lift them, but I beckoned you back. This was the beginning of our life together, a life where two souls would become one, and I wanted everything to be just perfect. When I returned from packing the car, your parents had joined you. Your mother was crying, her tears a mixture of sadness at her loss and joy at the prospect of your future. Your father held his usual reserve. His one arm was wrapped around your mother’s shoulders, whilst his other rested casually in his trouser pocket, as if it were an appendage that he did not know what to do with.

“Now then. Kay,” He began, “You take care of yourself, and remember that we will always be here for you, for both of you, and we will never be too far away. And Jonathan,” He said, shifting his gaze from his daughter, “I hope that you will look after our Kay for us. And make sure that you invite us down to stay soon. The sea air would do wonders for Margaret.”

Your mother looked up at her husband, and, as the tears came again, flung her arms around you. She whispered into your ear, before your father eased her from you.

“Now then, Margaret, Kay and Jonathan will want to be making a start now, I’m sure. They’ve got a long journey ahead, and some settling in to do too. I’m sure that we will see them both very soon, won’t we.” But his voice was already beginning to falter.

It was mid-afternoon when we finally arrived at our new home, our first home. We sat awhile, hand in hand, gazing up from the car at the blue and white board, across which was now emblazoned the near magical word ‘Sold’.

“It’s no good looking at that, my love, it’s been bought already.” The voice had shaken us from our reverie, and we noticed the woman who had drifted into our line of vision. She looked slowly from the house to us and then back again. “Bought by someone from the city, no doubt. You mark my words, my dears, there will be no room left for us locals soon. No room at all.”

With her words still ringing in our ears we watched her move off, dragging her two dwarf-like dogs along behind her. Their bemoaning yelps disappeared into the distance, falling beneath our laughter. I can still see every inch of the flat in my mind as clearly as if it was yesterday. Its high bare white walls seemed to rise endlessly towards the ceiling, and you talked endlessly about your canvass. Your eyes had pictured each surface, and I was in awe of your vision, your touch and your sense of colour. But then I always was, and am to this day, and, after all, wasn’t this just one of the many qualities you possessed which had attracted me to you in the first place? I was swept along by your drive and your sense of purpose, and in the end it was always you who guided me through my life. I can always hear your voice, and your enthusiasm carries me to remember your words.

“And here we will have the bed, in the centre of the room, a table at each side. And candles. We could have candles across the old mantle, even a mosquito net, suspended over the bed, like a canopy. We could stay, cocooned here forever, entwined together like one soul.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh with your passion, or to cry with joy, so I held you, feeling your heart beat in time with mine. I kissed your lips, your face, and your eyes. I could not find the words to express the depth of my feelings for you. I don’t think that I ever could, or can even now, I always hoped that you could read something in my eyes that was only meant for you, an emotion that only you could sense. Sometimes, when I looked into your eyes, I could see myself reflected in them, and I knew that you felt everything that I myself did.

That first night was truly magical. We watched the moon grow fat as it rose slowly across the ocean, its silver light dancing across our naked floorboards. The sound of the waves lapping gently towards the beach echoed in our ears as we toasted our happiness. The salt tasted of the sea and the tang of the vinegar smacked our lips as we shared our first meal, real fish and chips, washed down with welcoming wine.  The hum of the distant town centre began to fade, and I watched you glide across the floor to close the window to the cooling air.

“Are you happy?” I asked you.

“I couldn’t be more so,” You had replied. “You have made me the happiest woman alive. Just being with you makes me come to life. I feel like I have grown so much in the last few months since we met each other, and now this, to be here in our own home, beginning our own life together. I can barely believe that this is real. My life is so complete, so full. So filled with you.”

I remember the joy on your face, and felt that if your emotions were running as high as mine were, then what we had started was truly magical, and important to an almost universal level. I had kissed you then, before lifting you from the floor, and leading you from the room.

As we lay down on the mattress, the sheets spilled across the boards, and we held each other as if it was for the first time. Your body was warm; your fire always burned from deep within, and was always enough to ignite my passion. Your touch was soft, gentle yet insistent, and I knew that this moment would stay with me forever. We had the rest of our lives to live, and right now, as you lay in my arms, our future stretched out before us as an open road, crossing the expanse of a blank page. We cuddled together, our love enough to keep us both warm, and drifted into deep sleep.

And now, as I stand on this windswept hill, cold and alone, I am once again together with my thoughts. There is no one else here but me, and I am back, with you, on our first night together. You were always more than a part of me, and no matter how carefully the epitaph had been chosen, it could never reflect my true feelings for you. I stared at the marble and stone. I wanted to talk to you, explain the torrent of emotions that were racing through me, but knew that I couldn’t. You and I and our love were always, and always will be, more than words.

Charlotte’s Imaginary Dream

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creative, dream, fantasy, fiction, short stories, story, writing

A short story – hope you enjoy it.

 

Sunlight blistered through the twisted floating faces. Shadows danced across the taut steel and glass, and, at a window , Charlotte’s reflection scanned her .

Charlotte’s home was the countryside. She was free in the hills, absorbed by the hues of greens, reds and browns. It was welcome release from her days. The car would take her there like a sympathetic friend, and wait, patient and observant as she played.

Charlotte’s closed eyes were opened with the first breath of air , clean and cool. She spread herself, allowed her body to become embraced, and sank, trance like into the heather. Now she was floating, levitating above the moor. She soared higher, until the
purples merged with browns and greys. Now there were mountains, high peaked pyramids, topped with ice. Charlotte closed her wide glazed eyes.

She was running, racing naked with the deer. Trees flashed by like matchsticks, characters in a painting. The ground was soft beneath her feet ; she ran on sponge, her footsteps light, leaving no trace. Her parting breath expelled warmth into the air, her flesh was clammy with perspiration , but , oh , how it felt good . She crouched; the water tasted sharp, invigorating, breathing life into her.
Now she was still. Clear warmth bathed her body. Her skin glowed – Yellow, gold, bronze. She fused, was one with invisible rays; she was the Sun. She was still. She was alone. She was life.

Daylight was cold; it drew a crisp sheet across Charlotte’s waking eyes. She left the closeting walls of the building she dubbed home, and slipped with silent acceptance
into her shiny metal box.
Her working day enveloped her with almost predictable ease, swallowing her like an over-bearing relative. She closed herself to her surroundings. Conversation became functional, actions driven by autopilot. Her well rehearsed routine served her well – She was not here, her physical form stayed, her brain clicked through pages and screens, but her soul, her essence lived in dreamtime.

In slow motion, half life time, the door closed. Charlotte sank back into the comfort of her chair. Cushions swept around her. She felt as if she were falling, sliding.
Down, down, down she fell. Her descent was supported by a thousand hands, as soft as velvet, as firm as girder. Through myriad passageways she travelled each one more complex to navigate than the last. Faces, names and places blurred; flash of
colours, shades and hues. Her past, present and future became one – An unrecognisable blend of colour and sound. She burnt through doorway after doorway , feeling no pain, no lasting pleasure , simply an exhilarating rush of emotion and peace . Her pace slowed , and she began to absorb the warmth and light of her passage . For the briefest of moments she was held, as if her journey was caught on video tape, trapped on pause . Her mind became aware of her surroundings, the edge of her paradise , the confine of her pleasure, the doorway to her dreamtime. Dramatically now, like an explosive climax , she was forced through the final doorway , one she perceived as golden and ornate, yet temptingly translucent. She was clear. She was free. She was in her dreamtime.

Charlotte was floating. She felt clouds both above and below her. Nothing could touch her now; she was totally alone, and yet felt complete . She wanted no more, and could live with no less. In her real world she abandoned relationships; people fell away like discarded Autumn leaves , falling used and lifeless to the ground to be trampled under foot.Charlotte felt no attachment , no recourse to her actions, nor those of others. She was beyond the material , one with the ether, obsessed with her self-importance and yet also with the minuteness of her being within the cosmos . Charlotte floated on a sea of air; breath entering her body, flushing through it, cleansing it. She was whole.

The forest was dark. Shafts of brilliance sliced through the canopy like arrows, shooting to the ground and exploding in flashes of elaborate colour . Clouds scudded
by , hurrying to whispered destinations , shifting shapes across the carpeted floor . Silent creatures scurried , their presence noted only by changing hues as leaves and bracken wavered in their wake . The forest was dark , but Charlotte walked unafraid , confident in her step . She neither had , nor needed any written map to illuminate or illustrate her pathway . Somewhere , buried deep within her subconscious , lay a map, a dream map which took her , sightless through utopia. Her footfalls led her through beauty she could hardly begin to comprehend . This was not purely a physical beauty: No, what envelopd Charlotte lay deeper than any wistful appreciation of nature. What lay around Charlotte was her. Her soul became the forest, each leaf, branch and twig .
The greenness of every frond played within her. The moisture of the moss rose within her to encompass her being. She was the light: She was each movement and sound:
She was one.
And, at that instant, she heard it.

Charlotte lived alone. In her heart and soul she had always lived alone, always lived in isolation. Her solitary life had been built through choice. Relationships arrived, stayed, and then departed, with the regularity of commuter trains. Stops and halts were visited, but there was no hurtling unrestrained towards some unknown and intriguing distant destination. No-one ushered her blindfold onwards – Charlotte’s eyes were always open. Friends and lovers came and went, but the confines of Charlotte’s
sanctum stood solid, like invisible force fields repelling boarders : Her dreamtime guarded by silent strong statues of desire.
Within this sanctuary Charlotte had fine – honed her senses. Sights became magnified
as every detail was enhanced and scrutinised. Every sound was intensified and internalised as Charlotte built a mental library, complete in every detail of all she encountered.
This was how she knew. As she stood, in static watchfulness, ears focused, she knew.
The sound , emanating from the cover of distant trees , was one with which she was familiar. She recognised the footfall, the breath, the motion, slight and slow. She was no longer alone. In her paradise, in her dreamtime, in the place where she was her
truth, she was not alone.

The sounds were human; the breathing male. She was motionless, soundless; her senses alert. Attentively she tracked each action, each whispered sound. Her will was focused, her awareness, her very being, intense. Messages spread like grasping tentacles throughout her body, emanating from an unknown place deep within her. She was entranced, in meditative calm. The sounds quietened, in accordance with her will. The
intruder, the invader of her world, slumped, became silent and slept .
And now she saw him. A wave of attraction, one she had not experienced before, caressed her, and plucked at her nerve endings, and then, as unexpectedly as it had touched her, it ceased. This being, this man, was a stranger, an alien. Somehow he had broken her dreamtime, defiled her world, shattered her peace . She felt violated, open and vulnerable in her nakedness.
The rock felt smooth and solid, a heavy and hard friend nestling in the soft skin of her palm.

Charlotte awoke, naked and moist. The sound of the door was her second intrusion. She struggled to rise, fighting drained emotions, as the crimson dried slowly to brown.

Traffic

Tags

creative, fiction, short stories, short story, stories, story, writing

A tiny diamond caught the afternoon sunshine, as it lay naked in the road. I could see it,abandoned and lonely, through the shattered windscreen. It held my gaze, keeping it safefrom the distorted and twisted figure, which lay beside it. I was aware of the trickle of blood, which entered my vision, and its redness brought my anger back.

 “But I love you!” I was crying. And so was she as she framed her reply.“I’m sorry. I love you too, but I can’t marry you.”

“But Trina….”

“Shush…Let it go.”

I began to wish that I had, or that I could, but I had already gone too far for that.

 The day had begun so brightly, the sunshine echoing my mood as I washed and groomed myself carefully. I felt my nerves tingle as I drove through the crowded streets into the city. At the last moment I left the heaving throng and headed towards the town’s jewelery quarter. I parked the car and sat back in my seat, breathing heavily, composing myself. I locked the door, and the voice inside my head reiterated my promise to myself,

‘Look…Think…Buy.’ I deliberately took my time walking the streets, gazing into each window, carefully assessing the merits of each tray. Should it be diamonds, emeralds or sapphires? Perhaps a solitaire, or maybe a cluster. Deep down I already knew the style of ring that I would buy. Simple, plain gold, a solitary diamond set in a clasp, brilliant and strong, but never showy, a true reflection of our love. As I strode the streets allowing myself a respectable amount of time before my purchase, I watched the people go by. Young couples hugged each other, as if trying to prove their love to the outside world by becoming one. They stopped and gazed at trays of diamonds and then into each other’s eyes. When one spoke their partner mirrored their words, agreement followed agreement, and in their giggling, they were gone. Occasionally an older couple passed by, their conservative dress reflecting a lifetime together. They paused to consider a necklace or brooch. When one arm snaked into another then the time for purchase had arrived. I had made my choice. I entered the jeweler’s shop and selected the tray, which contained the ring that I wanted.

“And the lady’s ring size, Sir?”

I held out my left hand. “May I try it on my little finger?” He looked at me, reassessing my sexuality. He held out the ring towards me, rather than placing it on my finger.

“A perfect fit,” I said, examining the ring as it sat on my finger. “This will look beautiful on my girlfriend’s hand.”

I could sense the relief on the jeweler’s face, and he smiled. “Of course, Sir. Are you certain of the fit? Because we offer a comprehensive adjustment service if it were necessary.”

“No, thank you. This is just fine. I’ll take it, please.”

He looked happy at the sale, but I felt happier at the thought of Katrina’s face when I gave her the ring. I clutched it tight in its box in my pocket as I walked excitedly back to the car. There were still two hours to kill before I met her for lunch. I turned my car around and headed for home.

 Time felt like a weight around my shoulders. I drank coffee and tried to read but I simply couldn’t settle. I decided to have a bath but even the warmth of the water could not ease my nervousness. The razor glided over my face, for the second time that day, but took nothing with it. I polished each tooth a dozen times, but still the clock’s hands refused to move at a pace quicker than a crawl. And, of course, when I finally had outpaced my tension, it was time to leave, time to meet my fiancée to be. I checked my jacket – ring, keys, ring. I was ready. The drive to the restaurant was short, but the weight of the traffic made every mile drag, and, when I finally arrived, I was torn by the idea that I may even have picked the wrong day. I parked up, and left my worries in the car as I saw Katrina’s face behind the glass door.

“Hi,” she smiled.

“Hi, you. Sorry I’m a bit late, the traffic is murder.”

“That’s okay. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.”

We ate and talked, talked and ate, and all the while I was trying to pick my moment,  trying to catch a pause in our conversation that would allow my change of direction, allow my proposal, and her acceptance.

“God, is that the time?” Katrina glanced from her watch to me. “I’ll have to be getting back to work in a minute, I never realised we’d been here so long. Talking to you seems to make the time just disappear – Don’t let’s ever stop!”

“Listen, Trina, I’ve been thinking. You’re right, and I’ve never felt anything like this before either. With you life is so natural, so easy. I never want to lose what we’ve got, and I don’t want us to change, so I wanted to ask you….”

She looked into my eyes. It was one of those intense looks that sucked the words from deep within you. I reached into my pocket.

“Will you marry me? I love you.”

“I know. I love you too. But I can’t marry you.”

“But I love you.”

“It’s getting late. Will you give me a lift back to work, please? We’ll talk later.”

I could see that her eyes were as full as mine as we left the restaurant. I hoped that the car would be warmer, but it offered no comfort. I placed the ring, in its open box, on the dashboard, between Katrina and myself.

 As I hit the road my eyes were damp with sorrow, fear and anger. Shapes became blurs, as I seemed to move with ease through the clamoring traffic, cutting through the swathes

of metal and flesh. As I drove I became consumed with one thought, one word, ‘Why?” Buildings merged together, and signs became lines on the horizon as I drove to try to escape myself; to escape my thoughts. By the time my vision had returned to reason, it was already too late. The car approaching me had not stopped, and neither had I. Metal tore into metal. Glass shattered, and flesh and bone collided with cold, hard asphalt.

 I was staring at her now, cold and lifeless against the blackness. The hand on my shoulder felt firm, reassuring.

“Excuse me, Sir, Do you know the lady?”

I looked through my tears, and thought of Katrina, as I had left her, waving to me outside her office.

“No,” I muttered through bitter tears. “I’m sorry. No.” 

Dancing at the Funeral Party

Tags

creative, fiction, short stories, story, writing

          Her mane long dress unfurled like a swelling, over-full tide as she moved in a silent rhythm to the tune that echoed within her head. In peaks and troughs it swept across the room, the enormity of its blackness brushing shadows from distant corners, washing words from mouths, and gathering them as they fell soundlessly to the floor. It carried her gently, tenderly, like a huge, nurturing palm, in safety and perfect isolation past the laden table, the sofa, the age-worn armchairs and the arrangement of stools and kitchen chairs which had collected themselves with random precision, but remained static, forlorn, still unsure of their role in the ceremony. Aged bodies sat, neither slumped nor erect, cocooned by the beckoning arms of the chairs grown comfortable through the years, as they sought  to wrap themselves within their protection; the chairs themselves surrendering to duty and obligation. Other figures huddled together like a nervous herd across the expanse of sofa, as if the solidarity of oneness would bring them closer to acceptance, whilst their watchful eyes darted and scanned the room, desperate to avoid catching the glance or stare of another. Their were younger bodies too, perched like birds, flocking on the edges of chairs and stools, ready always to make good their escape, eyeing all available exits nervously. The youngest of the group moved between the quietened figures as they stood resembling living statues, awaiting the moment in which to make their move, unsure as to how their actions would be perceived, unsure as to the nature of the gathering; unsure as to the reaction of those around them.

          Against the wall the table seemed to be crying out for attention, yearning for the first motion towards it to be made, hoping desperately that relief would soon come. Platters of sandwiches, chilled from the night before, had begun to lose their posture and sagged against one another, as if for support – ham, cheese, chicken, fish paste; freshly laid salad providing a now limp and lifeless garnish, its frame serving only to emphasise the plight of the offerings. Row upon row of bottles – clear, green and brown hues of glass, nestled one another, their clinking conversations intermittent as the occasional hand stretched out as if to comfort them: whisky, gin, rum; beer, sherry and half-empty bottles of liqours, bought in less tense times, and treasured as mementoes; orange, blackcurrant and lemonade.

          Her aching black dress moved wordlessly, acting on orders only it could receive; dancing to a past only it could remember. She swayed to memories from childhoods lost, performing a story whose enhancement lay in dreams, a story that could not be spoken – not now, not ever. She drifted noiselessly between the bodies for which she had no recollection, no attachment, no empathy; bodies that had no role in her story. No longer did she feel age or sadness – the ache had gone, lost now to another world; like a different past it lay fading and lifeless, a receding stain on a ground she had once passed over. Her hand reached out, emerging from a darkened sleeve, fingers, thinned by age, tendon tautened, a frail, whitened wrist. Her hand reached out, and, as no eyes saw, was met by all she sought.

          Her long dress unfurled like a swelling tide as she moved in silent rhythm to the tune that echoed within her head, as slowly she danced.

Making Knots

Tags

boats, creative, fiction, sea, short stories, story, writing

A short story about…

I hope you enjoy it.          

 

 I cannot sleep. Circadian rhythms have deserted me, and when I lie, I lie in a conscious silence, punctuated only by muffled sobs. My ears are chocked with water; tortured gurgles seeping deep into the furthest recesses of my mind, forcing out the last pockets of air. Bubbles burst. The hollow gasping, clutching at life, succumbs to gagging, a realisation of release. Then silence once more. The waves are still, like a broken pocket watch, its inert hands handing limply, and I am, momentarily, stranded in time, no longer active but a passive spectator. Although I am motionless, I am aware of the figures. Two become four become eight. Then they are innumerable, a mob, drifting before me, clearly with a sense of purpose, but no obvious destination.  Their cadaverous faces stare blindly towards me, empty sockets sucking my thoughts from deep within my mind. Behind them enormous doors fashioned from heavy timbers and corroded metal swing slowly open. There is a glint of light, silver then golden, a glimpse of something beyond. Maybe this is a promise; perhaps a walkway to paradise. Maybe a release. I motion to move forward, through the heavy water towards the door, but as I do it pushes against me with a greater force than I had imagined. Again I try to move, and once more the water holds me back, resisting each strain of my tissue, each will of my sinew. I look imploringly at the empty faces, in that instant both desperate for their help and distraught by their inaction, but though I plead their denial is unilateral. Now they turn, in slow deliberate movement away from me. The water, which resisted me with such determination and might, seems to carry each motion they make, and now their backs are turned to me, and beyond them the light begins to disappear. I am desperate now to reach the door, but with struggle I am forced to retreat. Again and again me weary legs attempt to push forward, me arms battling against the invisible tide. Again I am forced to retreat and now, despite my will, I can feel my muscles begin their journey to resignation; I am forced to accept my defeat. The mob is receding now. Eight becomes four becomes two, and then just silt disturbed and swirling with random ambiguity beneath the waves. I am not dead and I cannot leave. And, as I lie catatonic, the muffled sobs come once more.

 

            The sea was calm, the outlook good, and clear with a moderate south-westerly. The perfect conditions for sailing, even more so for bridge-building. I had collected Matt early, earlier than his mother had perhaps anticipated, let alone wanted, but I felt that this would signal good intentions to her on my part, intentions that I had all too often been unable to communicate recently. She had been courteous, almost verging on polite, when she opened the door, but still harboured enough bitterness to make me wait on the step whilst she retired to collect my son. When she returned, after, what I felt had been, a rather excessive period, Matt seemed fully prepared for the day. He seemed expectant, excited and obviously geared up for the day. Ellie looked into his eyes, and momentarily I was stung by the warmth of their bond.

            “You have a great day, Mattie,” She said, warmly. “Enjoy yourself on the boat, but do take care. See you tonight, sweetheart. And remember, listen to your father.”

Her tone dropped and became acid as she looked into my face.

            “Watch what you’re doing out there; and look after my son.”

I wanted to come back at her, but knew that too much had already passed between us, and besides the moment had been lost as Ellie was already hugging Matt and kissing him lightly on the cheek.

As we climbed into the Land Rover I watched her warm wave to Mat, but felt her cold eyes settle for the briefest of seconds on me.

            “So, Matt,” I began, attempting to break the pregnant silence which was beginning to spread its roots between us, “What you been up to then?”

            “Nothing much,” came his reply, his eyes still fixed steadily in front of him. “You know, just the same old same old.”

            “How’s school?” I asked, but as I pinned the question I could already feel the straw slipping between my fingers. The scene was replayed a thousand times behind my eyes. How could it be that every meeting between us became like the first; two strangers struggling to find some common ground on which to stand, grasping for a life-line of conversation which would pull us from the brink of isolation?

            “O.K.,” Matthew replied. “Gotta trial for the district next week.”

            “Excellent! What do you think your chances are?”

            “Pretty good, I reckon. I know one or two of the other lads from matches, so….”

We had reached the open road, and as the stillness of the countryside flashed past by us the air of separation began to seep through the cars vents. I glanced once more at Matthew. His gaze had moved from me to the road and then on to the fields which flew past him like detritus on the breeze as he leaned into the window. I broached the next subject carefully, still treading on egg shells.

            “So, how’s your Mum?”

His attention caught, he turned from the magnetism of the scenery passing before him. His voice broke its reluctant tone, and began to grow animated, even, I felt, a little enthusiastic. A bitterness rose from within my stomach, burning through my gullet like vomit; the taste of envy, jealousy and hatred.

            “She’s fine,” he replied. “Seeing a lot of her new boyfriend. He’s quite cool actually.”

My mind struggled to comprehend the tone in his voice, but the rational part of my brain kicked in, speaking calmly within my head – This was just a comment, a simple statement, and not a judgement. A teenager coming to terms with the wrecked foundations of his life. But my heart screamed at the injustice of his words. I was being usurped in his affections by a man I didn’t know, by a rival who was set to steal my crown. Matt’s words came, but the injustice now coursing through my veins like a flow of magma made only jumbled sense of their meaning: A faster car, a fatter wallet, a bigger house – and this cut even deeper; my son had been to his house. Yes here was an all round ‘Fun Guy’. I nodded and hmm’d in all the right places, but kept my eyes fixed firmly ahead, as if the road too was demanding my attention, concentrating hard only to kill the pain.

 

            The wind had begun to turn, the South-Westerly becoming sharper, more brisk, cutting in from the West. We headed up and Matt, showing all that he had learned over the years, trimmed our sails finely as we cut through the wind. I watched him as he we held our course, working with me to control the flutter as the sails began to huff. The determination set into his face reminded me again of Ellie: Ellie at sea controlling the boat as she had controlled the course of our life, setting her own course with me behind. I had always liked to think of myself as her keel, helping to keep her course both steady and true, lifting her when seas were rough. But now it had become apparent that I had become little more than ballast to her, as she had sailed on without me, leaving me a beached wreck, little more than salvage in the brine. Ellie, now as Matt, to the fore, always looking to be the one in charge.

I called Matt’s name, and he turned, a further reminder of his mother.

            “Let’s head south.”

Without speaking we worked together to bring the boat across the wind. The sails began to fill out as we adjusted the trim, until they billowed, as full as my life had ever been, and the boat began to beam.

 

            The Sun flitted in and out between the clouds, shifting in an instant from a cutting glare to golden lining. The breeze had begun to chill as it rattled my waterproofs, but this was why I sailed. This was why we sailed. In my mind I could still see the joy in Ellie’s face when we bought our first boat; the sweat we both gave on hot summer’s nights as we scraped and painted, and the ecstasy when we sailed. Our life had purpose, a single, shared goal, one that we saw both independently and together. There was a rhyme and a reason to our life, and when we returned, exhausted from our weekly work, there was the freedom of our life: The open sea, the elements to challenge us, the unpredictability of experience. This was life. And then came Matt. Not that I ever complained, for he was as much the result of me as he was Ellie. We had always talked of a child, children, and then here we were with a son, a boy to inspire and enjoy; and yet somehow, inexplicably, things had changed. His arrival had moved us in a direction that we could not have predicted or foreseen, and suddenly our true and steady vessel had begun to list beyond our control.

Ellie started to change too. Perhaps she was beginning to realise her own weaknesses, her own inability to dominate her surroundings. Perhaps she could sense my fear at no longer being able to reach out and touch my own ideal of freedom. Which ever may have been true, Matt had pushed us on to a new course, and even then I knew that his wind was driving us on to the rocks.

 

            I had lost concentration, but it was Matt’s tone of voice that brought me back to the here and now. He was sharp, caustic, his voice slicing through me in the same way that Ellie’s had learned to do these days. It was the same voice that had destroyed me with blame and guilt when she had left. The same accusational tone that had bled me and left me scarred and feeling worthless. And now it was coming from Matt, without whom the events of my life would have taken their more natural course, who was using it on me.

            “Dad! Dad! Get a grip; you’re letting us run! What’s up with you?”

I had shuffled back in my reverie, and allowed the boat, and with it us, to drift with the wind, and now, encased in my raging mind, I felt unable to move.

            “Oh, for God’s sake is no one capable of doing anything except me.” The words were Ellie’s, but it was Matt’s eye that cut me dead. It needed two of us to turn the boat around now, and as I wasn’t moving, Matt clambered back and we took on a full run.

            “Mum’s right. You have lost it.” Matt’s words swept into the swell.

A sudden sharp increase in the wind smacked into our sail, and I felt the boat begin to heel. Instinctively Matt swung himself upwind in an attempt to pull us around.

            “Sheet out, Dad, sheet out!” he kept yelling, over and over again at me. I knew that for a lone sails man avoiding a roll would take skill beyond Matt’s years, but before me the scene was being played out in slow motion, and, after all, this was all of his own making. Without him I would be talking the waves with Ellie, in a partnership that had blossomed with love, respect and friendship. We would be righting ourselves and forging onwards, defeating each challenge as we always had. I felt the rope slip slowly through my moistened palm. The boat rolled almost to a list, and gybed uneasily. Mat saw the boom as it lurched heavily towards him, and he flung himself prostrate to the deck.

 

            Over, loop, through, loop. I tugged hard, checking each knot thoroughly, meticulously ensuring that there was no free movement. Again and again I repeated my work, pulling hard against the force of my knee, my arms straining, my palms burning from the friction of the hemp rope. The thoughts within my head were continual, smashing from side to side like a pinball, repeating the same words over and over and over again: “It’s all his fault, it’s all his fault.” My conviction could not have been stronger, and I could not have been more sure of my actions. I needed no ratification, no outward justification, I was set on a course that I knew was true, a course that would lead me once more to where I knew I belonged. I felt no uncertainty as I reached down into the hold and hauled up a sack of ballast. Its weight seemed more marked, more intense, as I dragged it closer, as if it, at least, was displaying some reluctance. I forced it down beneath the ropes, its rough sacking tearing at my bleeding hands and the soft material beneath them. With renewed determination I knotted it and then wrapped and tied it tighter and tighter. I was done, but not yet sated.. I knelt back on the deck of the drifting boat, and for a moment we became little more than flotsam, aimlessly bobbing like the last apple at Halloween.

Matt’s body was secure, trussed securely like some over-sized turkey, hanging inert from the butcher’s pole, ready to be plucked and stuffed. The cut in his forehead had stopped bleeding now, and the red-brown trail across his cheek seemed to be reaching out for a lifeline. I could hear no wind now. The sails were wrapped, but even if I had left them full, I would have been unable to detect their motion. Matt appeared to stir slightly, then there came a groan, gentle at first, then with greater vigour as his eyes began to open, and he struggled for movement. For the briefest of moments his brain seemed unable to register his plight, then, as the current burned into him, his eyes shot open, desperately trying top make sense of his surroundings. He fought against the ropes, but I had become an expert. As his body strained his eyes met the hollow shells that mine had become. I barely recognised them as they flashed from confusion, to fear to imploring. The blood pulsing through my brain kept on repeating, “It’s all his fault, it’s all his fault,” yet I could feel the salt water sting my eyes as I eased his body over the side of the boat: By the time I had blinked them free, the water had stilled.

 

            I would bring the boat around and sail north for some twenty miles before I reached for the radio. The coastguard’s fruitless search began and ended in becalmed waters. I was cold and wet, but fear no longer collected in shivers down my spine. I was alone, but, for the first time in a long while, alive with anticipation.