The Wait

A room. A chair within the room. A young woman sits on the chair within the room. Hands folded neatly into her nap. She is well dressed in a pair of dark jeans and an oversized shirt. She is surprised the room looks like this. She had expected something else but unsure what. She was just certain that she had expected something different. There is nothing special about the room, nothing extraordinary except its complete mundaneness. It is medium sized the walls are a dirty cream colour. Once upon a time it may have been a bright pleasant room but now the dust had settled and stained the walls brown. There are no windows just one light- electric and dull.

She sits.

She had expected something different. Unsure what. Certain it was meant to be different. She looks around slowly and stares blankly at the walls. She looks at the brown stains. They always use the colour black, she thought. To describe this. It’s always black. Never brown, shades of brown. Shades of dullness. Shades of decay and wretchedness. She moves her hands from her lap and stands slowly. Her legs feel weak and heavy at the same time, her knees like tired cogs too old to carry the weight. The light dims slightly and she looks up. The bulb looks the same but the room is darker. Her head turns slowly to face a wall. A shape slowly begins to emerge, she blinks rapidly. The walls were blank a moment ago but now she is sure there is a shape. She closes her eyes tightly and opens them. The shape is still there. She walks forwards and looks closely. A solid edge is now in the wall. Her eyes follow upwards and the shape of a door is present. She runs her fingers tentatively around the edges and takes a step back. Something twinges inside her and she turns her head looking at the other walls. They are now covered with doors of all sizes. Something pulls at her, an invisible rope pulling at her stomach leading her. She takes a deep breath and walks towards a door on the opposite wall. The room darkens and her steps feel slower. She looks down at her feet and notices a sticky residue on her shoes. They squelch as she moves cementing her gradually with every step she takes. She looks up at the door determined to reach it. The room expands before her. The door is further away and smaller but she continues onwards. Her shoes rip at the edges as she forces her feet to move forward defying the glue, challenging it to make her stand still. She struggles towards the door putting all her strength in taking one step at a time. The glue is thicker and stronger but she pushes forward. Her breath is ragged. The muscles in her legs pull agonisingly against themselves. Levers and pulleys groaning against the burden of the task. She reaches the door and touches the handle. Sweat covers her face dripping onto her clothes. Patches of sweat have formed into stains on her shirt. She breathes evenly and twists the handle. It crumbles in her hand and she thinks she can hear the sound as her mind cracks slightly. Her heart squeezes against itself.

Her eyes search the ground looking for the glue. She sees wooden planks on the ground. Her shoes are now free of the glue and she follows the slats which form into a small bridge. Slightly rotten and damp it squeaks when she puts a hesitant foot upon it. It bares her weight and she walks slowly her hands grasping at the rails, a heavy pressure in her chest. She feels nervous. She walks forward into the different shades of darkness. Around her dust swirls into large circles building into a tunnel of shades of black and brown. It swirls around her surrounding her with its claustrophobic colour its lack if air. She can’t breathe and yet she continues. The dust blows into her eyes and mouth and her skin feels cold goose bumps building across the surface. Her hands pull her back and she forces them across the wooden rails splinters digging deep into her skin. Flesh wincing and breaking against the force of her resolve. She is on the edge of the abyss and looks down. The tunnel leads into a limitless void of precious nothingness. She craves it and yet knows that the step will be final. Finality that can never be undone. Her foot dangles cautiously over the edge and she tries to remember something. A quicksand like grip tightens around her ankle. It pulls her forward. Her face is wet without her realising and she allows her body to become lax. The fingers of the grip thank her and pulls her closer. She watches as her ankle is now under the dark black and her leg is pulled in deeper. As she watches herself sink the smallest of lights appears in her peripheral vision. A slight light easily missed but it glimmers and wills her to look at it. She turns her eyes, left, and there it is. A small fire fly. Its bottom twinkling making her smile. She looks at it hovering near her face. It seems the tiny creature is waiting for her, beckoning her. She steps back, the grip loosens willingly and the firefly flies away. She runs after it the wooden slats merging into ground. Her shoes have disappeared and she is now wearing a skirt and a vest. She has flowers in her hair and her feet are bare. The fire fly lingers above her head, the room is still dark but the firefly points or so it seems to point behind her. She glances behind her and there is a flickering on the dark walls as though a projector was loading up. An image forms and there she is. Laughing. A long time ago, sitting on the grass with old faces she hasn’t seen in years. Faces that belong to new strangers and old friends.

The crush begins. It starts in her head and spreads across her face and her chest pressing against her lungs tightening around her waist crushing her thighs wrenching at her bones. Nostalgia wraps its strong arms around her and squeezes. She tries to scream and nothing happens. Her throat is dry and the room is filled with the sound of her silent sobs and her pained laughter. And she remembers, finally. The feeling. The firefly watches her, hovering slightly above her eye line. She watches the film of herself and stares at herself. The colours are in a dreamlike 70’s overcompensating vintage brightness. The edges are slightly blurred the frames a tad slow. A film made by unknown hands with amateur zoom in’s and unrealistic tableaus. The grass is too bright. She cries as she sees the yellowness of the daises, the green stems crowning her head. The polished nails the pedicured feet. Bare. She tumbles to the ground content and full of laughter. She remembers that feeling that word; that she was happy. Once. She wants to go back to that time. That was the time. The firefly watches her. She is not seeing, he thinks. She continues to stare willing herself to remember clearly and fails to see the details. The colours begin to change gradually. The green grass is not too bright, the daisies slightly wilted. Her feel are sandaled and there are grass stains on her skirt. She was happy she decides. She poses for a photo with her friends smiling showing off her white teeth at the camera. She doesn’t see the tiny crisscross pattern across her wrists. A brown a shade darker than her own skin colour. The firefly watches her. She looks up at it blinking its light at her. She doesn’t want to see. She looks at the screen and the colours have faded and now she notices the details. The bags under her eyes, the marks on her arms, the label on a box popping out from her handbag, the twitch in her smile, the hesitancy of her eyes. She looks up once more at the firefly and tries to run. The firefly hovers and flies away. She can’t run, she is stuck. There are more fireflies; they are everywhere, twinkling in the dark room. She closes her eyes and sobs pleading with them to leave. They fill the room with her memories distorted over the years. The colours are sharp and dull. She runs after them, swatting at them to leave her. But they mean no harm. They mean nothing. She stands in the middle of the room and looks at herself. She sees the years flashing past slowly revealing the details. The walls begin to whisper filling the room with unfinished sentences and hissed words. Her head is full with empty sound and her cries are silent. The fireflies continue their watch. They cannot leave her. Not yet. The room floods with the sounds of her sobs and the sounds in her mind. The walls close in, inch by inch. She falls to her knees and clasps her hands to her chest.

The room brightens slowly and the images die away. She looks up to the ceiling and her heart screams out in rage. She is on her knees, her head bowed before an empty room and she begs. Every part of her screams into silence, help me. Reward my faith. Help me.

The room darkens once more and the images appear once again. They are random. Appearing and disappearing in no particular pattern. The chair is now there once again. The wooden slats are before her. The voices begin their malevolent harmony and dust blows into her eyes. The doors appear and disappear, the abyss calls to her enticingly. She sits down neatly and looks around her. Nothing is real, reality was distorted from the moment it began.

Someone is asking her a question. She faces familiar eyes. It is dark outside and she can hear distant tides moving towards the moon. The wind blows warmly through her hair. She looks at the face. ‘I’m fine’, she replies. She receives a kiss on her forehead. A squeeze on her hand.

A small flickering catches her eye. A small twinkling.

A tiny flying creature twinkling at her. Waiting for her. A firefly hovering above her eye line. It makes her smile.

Annie: A star in the Making

Following on from The Story of Alex,we now have the back story for Annie. A short record of the childhood of a very imaginative little girl... I hope you all enjoy it xx

Annie: A Star in the Making

Annie was born to be a star.

She discovered her destiny on a non-specific day at age six. Sat cross legged on the floor, small hands tucked underneath her knees, face inches away from the TV, pupils shrinking and dilating as dancing images were absorbed by her subconscious- cementing her fate. With the absolute certainty that can only exist in a child’s un-faltering faith in themselves and the Universe she decided to change her name in preparation for a life enveloped in the flashes of lights, camera and big dreams.

Formerly known as Anheela Shabnam Sharma, she upon realising her destiny decided she did indeed hate her name. It caused her great stress and she was fed up of forcing herself to laugh when the boys called her inhaler. She was growing even more tired of the parents that really did believe that was her name and shrugged at the ways of the strange brown people. Anheela Shabnam Sharma. It didn’t really bother her that her initials spelt ASS; this could be modified later on. She could drop her middle name or better still use it as a small section in her autobiography under the section of Early Childhood Trauma. She grinned, and decided that yes, her new name would be Annie. Modelled on the heroine of her all-time favourite film.

Whilst the children around her perfected the cartwheel and tried to score as many goals as possible into imaginary goal posts, Annie perfected the kind of haughtiness she assumed was the trademark of all divas. Training to be a star was hard work. She slowly memorised the inflections of well-to-do accents in order to have perfect articulation and spent hours in front of the mirror trying to smoulder after reading a magazine piece on the ability of all great starlets to execute this trait flawlessly. She quickly realised she looked angry and constipated and maybe smouldering was something she could work on later. In the meantime she had to come up with a ten minute presentation in order to convince her parents why they should spend X amount on ‘Little Stars’ after school club. She had already been harassing them all winter but it was yet to pay off. Her Father unable to comprehend how his daughter had turned into a little madam overnight and for some absurd reason kept insisting they throw dinner parties. He had become fed up and offered her an ultimatum. She had ten minutes to present her case in any way she chose BUT she had to be able to answer the five questions he would propose to her after the ten minutes. Correctly answering those questions would determine whether or not she would: ‘begin a journey lighted with big dreams….Little Stars’ Annie had work to do. Her Father’s love for riddles and puzzles meant he was infamous for asking questions which were mind bogglingly impossible to answer. Her presentation would have to knock his socks off and distract him from his stupid questions which he always asked with a smirk on his face. She would have to render him speechless. Lying on her stomach on her bedroom floor with colouring pencils and paper scattered everywhere she began to hatch a plan.

Downstairs in the kitchen Mr and Mrs Sharma began one of their whispered ‘discussions’. Mr Sharma sat opposite his wife and watched mesmerised as she shelled peas. Fifteen years of marriage and not once had he ever witnessed such a thing. He did not think that he had actually ever seen peas in a pod. Such trying thoughts began to fill his head as he began to wonder what other vegetable he had probably never seen in their naked state when a pea without its pod bounced off his forehead indicating that his beloved wife must have been talking at him for quite some time. He smiled at her sheepishly, she glowered at him.

‘I just don’t know what to do,’ she said. He sighed. This was an old but recent conversation.

‘She’s definitely determined,’ he said and sighed again. This time he rubbed his face to add affect. Truth was he liked his odd little daughter. She was certainly different and had developed a funny accent but she was the most interesting out of his three offspring. He didn’t worry like his wife who always seemed to have a frown on her face these days. He didn’t understand his child but he wasn’t worried about her; this one would be fine no matter what. Nonetheless the Sharma’s continued their whispered ‘discussion’ and came to the conclusion, that yes, of course, with no doubt in their minds they were good parents. Of course they were. And their children were all fine – Annie was a little strange and this whole ‘Little Stars’ business was definitely curious. Why they would pay for movement classes- what in God’s name was a movement class- was beyond them. It was a tricky situation and neither of them in all honesty could afford it. And so they did what any good parent with a strange child and her and her strange wish would do- they chose to ignore it.

Annie was furious. She had been told by her hateful Father that the presentation was not necessary as they couldn’t afford anything extra -curricular at the moment. Covered in tinsel and glitter dust Annie listened to her parents silently and tallied up all the injustices they had done to her. First naming her such a silly name and not even thinking about the initials and now murdering her dreams. This situation would definitely get a mention in her autobiography under the title: Horrible Childhood. She watched her parents destroy her childhood and quietly just like a true classy lady, closed her bedroom door, fell onto her bed and cried giant silent sobs.

Her Father stood on the other side of the closed door, his heart breaking and wondering what on earth his glitter and tinsel covered daughters presentation would have been like,

Fast forward a few years and Annie was now in secondary school with all her big dreams mostly intact. Her arrogance was executed to perfection and her ideas of grandeur prevailed. Many would think her sense of entitlement and arrogance would repel those around her- but there was something about Annie that was magnetic. People were drawn to her like a writer to a cliché. It was never anything she did or said it was simply who she was. Her energy was intoxicating, her attention to detail dizzying, her focus on you, just you mesmerising. The Universe had promised Annie great things and thus, her talent: the ability to convince anyone of anything. So it never did bother Annie that she did not make ‘Little Stars’. It didn’t bother her that to date she had been kicked out of choir three times, drama club five times and had failed every possible dance audition on the basis of lacking any talent. It didn’t bother her that her parents were working class and said Fanks instead of thanks, and couldn’t hear the difference when she corrected them. It didn’t bother her that the only two books that were worth reading on her English syllabus were Educating Rita and Death of a Salesman, Shakespeare was useless – dumbed down into bite sized chunks. She was smart, she was bright and let’s face it a looker. Annie was born to be a star and even without any real talent she would do it.

Years later as she sat in her childhood bedroom for the final time – suitcases all packed and ready to go she allowed the sounds of flashing bulbs and the cheer from the crowds from her childhood dreams to overtake her. With eyes closed she thought briefly about her life. With the skill set acquired from watching film after film she had charmed her way into getting as much free education as possible knowing it was her ticket out. She had received offers of full scholarships to every University she applied to and still remembered the surprise of the Ofsted inspector who had never thought such grades were possible from an establishment offering such little education. She had never let go of the promise she had felt in her bones that morning aged six watching Annie from the Universe: a whisper that her life would be much bigger than anyone else. Sitting on the edge of the bed she felt that strange feeling again starting in her toes and spreading like pins and needles all across her body. Her senses tingled and she felt as though she should sing. Quickly remembering how painful that sound was even to her own ears she decided not to sing and quietly enjoyed the fast beat of her heart pulsing through every pore. It was destiny, and it was awaiting her impatiently.

The next day in the foyer of the Grand Hall she fiddled with her notebook and pen and observed all the new students milling around waiting for the welcome lecture to begin. Past a throng of people she noticed him. The good looks were undeniable and obvious. The height, the hair, the body all resembled an Adonis and he easily had the attention of all the girls, some walking past shyly others openly gawking. But Annie noticed something else. The little too tight grip on his plastic cup half full of cheap wine, the fidgetiness, the constant looking around but not for anyone or anything. The general nervousness. She looked at the name badge: Alexander J.F. Jones. 

Smiling, she walked towards him.

.

The Story of Alex

There are somethings that happen in life that is plain weird and uncanny. For example all the Alex's I have ever met have been ridiculously good looking and also (not in a bad way) aware of their beauty. And this got me thinking. What if, this Alex, this character in my script is developed where he is an Adonis but really has no clue. Growing up a true minger like his creator (me) he craves the sort of attention available to heroes in books but rarely available in real life. What if this Alex is a tragic tragic character as his looks do not make up for his obvious geekiness? 

I love this character, he is my faveourite so far. And as the title suggests, this is his story. His background, and how he has been formed into what he is today.

Enjoy xx

The Story of Alex

Once upon a time, long, long ago as the stars burned brightly in the sky a lady screamed and pushed, moaned and groaned and a baby was born. He arrived into the world head first, slipped from the nurses’ arms and fell almost in slow motion onto the floor. A horrified silence ensued as the Mother and Father of the unfortunate infant stared at the nurse wide eyed and open mouthed. The Nurse stared back, a mirror reflection and then as though a secret hand was controlling a remote, everything speeded up. The Mother screamed a little more, digging her nails deeper into her husband’s hand, who, let’s face it, had to take it. It was, after all, his fault she had gone through all this, his fault that she had a 48hour labour and ultimately his fault that the baby had been dropped. The Nurse quickly bent down on all fours and scooped the baby up into her arms and started to wipe him off as though the 3 second rule applied to brand new babies as well as food dropped onto the floor. The Mother continued her screaming the Father held in the searing pain, the medical team ran around pointlessly and just as suddenly as everything had speeded up it all stopped. The invisible hand pressed down once again on the remote as the tiny creature let out a loud wail and began to cry. In slow motion the Nurse, beaming, covered the baby with a fresh white towel and looking at the other beaming staff handed the precious cargo to the Mother. Arms outstretched, sweat covering her forehead she took the baby and held him close, smelling him. Slowly she looked up at her husband, who was also beaming as he now had his hand back, albeit slightly bleeding. The Mother slowly moved the baby pressed against her chest onto her forearm so she could get a good look at her little prince.

Now, this is where it goes a little wrong. Well a little more wrong. You see, unlike other children who solicit happy smiles and tears of joy from brand new parents this baby facing his parents for the first time stared into their disgusted faces. They looked at each other knowing God had played a cruel cruel and the proverbial shit had indeed hit the fan. Poor baby, he was so ugly his parents treated him like a slave as he grew up, forcing him to live alone in the attic and in true Victorian style sweep all day long. The child was neglected and unloved; surviving on the scraps he could find in the kitchen as his parents happily forgot his existence. Dressed in his scrappy hand-me-downs from God knows where he sat beside his window, looked out onto the sprawling garden and wiped fresh tears from his cheeks. It was a Cinderella story, only without the happy ending.

ONLY KIDDING!

Alexander Jeramiah Frederick Jones (yes, that really is his name), was born on December 25^th 1985 to Francesca Frederick (yes, really) and Jonanthan Jones (God really does have a sense of humour). Although little Alex’s arrival into the world was a bumpy beginning he was the apple of his parents eye. Their only child they spoilt him rotten and Alex loved all the attention. He enjoyed a good few normal years of his childhood, looking normal. But one day as the seasons changed and the weather man warned people to watch out for thunderstorms a strange thing happened. Alex looking in the mirror whilst brushing his teeth for bedtime noticed quite a few physical changes. The moon shone coldly, pleased with its fullness as Alex, brush in mouth peered closely at his face. Where there were once two clearly defined eyebrows, now there was one. His new adult teeth were growing crooked and had large gaps. Thickish hair sprouted out of his ears and pulsing spots covered his spots. He was as ugly as a sunset is beautiful.

His parents pretended not to notice, they loved him dearly and unconditionally like in all good stories and films. Alex however, noticed. No one wanted to play with him, he was revolting. He would walk the halls of his school alone, sad and as lonely and tragic as tumbleweed in the desert. Girls would cup their hands over their mouths and whisper as he drifted by, stink lines emitting from his body; he had become The Last Man on Earth. Kissing a rabid dog, according to one game, was far more appealing than kissing him. Craving friends he tried to join in with his fellow rejects, the kids with the bottle glasses and nasty drool on the sides of their faces. They told him he was bringing them all down and as they had a reputation to protect he had to sod off. Poor Alex. But as destiny would have it with not a friend in the world he turned to books. Sitting knees up beside the kind of heater that is illegal these days he would read and read and read. Imitating the characters he would curl up in a blanket with a hot chocolate and completely disappear into the magical world of words and colours. Where animals spoke, and frogs turned to princes. Where young friends solved mysteries and sisters plodded together. A place where good overcame bad and every story had a moral. Alex became adept at mastering long hard quotes until they formed a part of his memories. He began to believe in his stories, in happy endings and prayed to the invisible hand which had manipulated the remote control of time at his birth that his prayers come true.

Then one day, as poor unloved Alexander Jeremiah Frederick Jones now sixteen and still as ugly as sin got dressed for bed he sent his usual prayer to the heavens, and for the first time Alex felt truly happy. As he looked out his bedroom window at the falling snow and the Christmas lights that decorated his neighbourhood indicating that his birthday and the celebration of another famous persons’ birthday was close, he felt light and for some reason delighted. He had never felt this rush before and pulled back the duvet on his bed excited to sleep and start the next day. It was a strange feeling as though something was going to happen. Something exciting and Alex knew as he was in on the secret. He fell asleep and when he awoke the next day, a miracle happened.

The snow had settled over everything like a thick coat of icing, covering the cars and the forgotten bicycles in the neighbours’ garden. Alex breathed a cold cloud onto the glass, wrote his name with his index finger as was his morning ritual and walked to the bathroom. Putting toothpaste onto brush and inserting it into his mouth it quickly fell out and landed toothpaste first onto the floor as Alex screamed as loudly as he could on seeing his reflection. Something had happened. Even to his own eyes he was a changed young man. The nasty puffy beard that looked like an accumulation of belly button fluff which had covered his face in tragic blotches had thickened overnight and looked like a soft manly beard. His eyebrows agreeing it was time to let go had decided to part ways after all these years and he could definitely see the changes in his teeth beneath the train tracks. The comic stink lines were no more, and as Alex raised one arm after the other to smell his pits he smiled knowing, finally he did not stink anymore. His hair was not the unruly fro of his younger days but for some reason has softened into loose, manageable waves. He stared open mouthed; unintentionally impersonating the look of horror his parents and the Nurse had all those years ago as he slipped, ugly slime ball onto the floor with a thud. Alex touched his face, pinched his arm and ran downstairs screaming that his Mum take him to the orthodontist right now, right this instance.

Alex was now a full on hottie, he was an Adonis, girls wanted to be with him and boys wanted to be him. His looks constantly generated third glances, women stopped and stared and men glowered. God was pleased with Alex. He rewarded him for all his years of suffering with the kind of attention Alex had coveted his entire life. But poor Alex, unused to having anyone in his life had no clue what to do. The people he felt closest too, with his intimate knowledge and love of literature were the geeks. They however, unused to having anyone with straight set of teeth hanging out with them told him what they told him all those years ago: Sod off Alex. Poor Alex really did have a bad time with friends. He just didn’t know what to do. The girls that once rejected him now threw themselves at him, but Alex was even worse with girls. An only child, absolutely no friends or anyone to talk to, he did what came naturally; he turned to the written word. Buying as many women’s magazines as was possible with his pocket money he began to read them like Holy Scripture. He subscribed to as many as possible and followed through on everything he could hoping he would be more appealing to the ladies. The ladies however, attracted to his good looks soon got bored of what they perceived as his moody broody character, branded him spineless and or gay (mainly because he never made the first move) and moved onto the kind of bad boys that most girls at that age want. 

So Alex was in a weird in between place. He had the looks he always wanted, he had the physical attention he always wanted but he was still as alone as he had ever been. He stared longingly at the tight circles of friends and just like when he was younger he walked the halls of his school alone. He turned, once again, to his old books, engrossing himself with the stories befriending new characters as his own. Now a young man and one with modelesque features he sat on the edge of his bed, lonely and pained and once again prayed to the Invisible. The usual, simple prayer of his childhood.      

  

  

The End

I'm stood pressed against the glass doors on the tube holding onto the railing knowing it is me who is causing that smell. I work in a restaurant so instead of bringing my work back home with me, I only bring back the stink. I'm trying not to make eye contact as those standing very close to me look at me questioningly and then avoid my gaze making me feel like the homeless man whom everyone avoids on the bus. Man do I stink. With much bravery I start to look around and notice couples here and there, some merely standing next to each other talking, others holding onto each other, and one half of a couple tragically and embarrassingly way more into him than need be. The guy is deliberately being nonchalant whilst she is desperately trying to engage him in conversation. Poor thing. It makes me wonder when it is you know.... I mean know when something is on or just totally off? When do you know it's over? So here goes, yet again my favourite topic..... Love.

The End

'Table for two,' he says to the waitress who smiles and beckons for us to follow. His hand instead of holding onto mine brushes it lightly as he passes ahead of me not looking back to see if I'm following. We are seated and the waitress takes my coat and scarf with one hand and places the menus down with the other. She leaves and we both look at each other and smile. I begin to say something but he is already studying the menu. I look down at mine, quickly browse through all the fancy descriptions, nothing really catching my eye.

The waitress returns and he orders my favourite wine attuned to my tastes with no need for prior questions. He looks at me and smiles a big open smile, his eyes crease at the sides and his lips look fuller. He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I let him, allowing his fingers to trace a pattern on my palm unconsciously, an old habit of his. He looks around the room, his chin resting against his other hand, his arm upright resting against the edge of the table. The small smile on his face never leaves as he continues to look around. I slowly pull my hand away and he instinctively calls the waitress over and orders on my behalf. The food arrives shortly and without being asked he passes me the salt.

Our movements are synchronised. We perform the dance of old friendship and love. We know each other. There is nothing new to discover nor to learn. His kindness and his knowledge of me is stifling. The routine of our lives, the everyday occurrences and anecdotes are of no interest. The constant pining for more is exhausting. We're both weighed down by our friendship, our love. The words that begin to flow from his lips hold the melody of his accent, the intonation of the music I was so familiar with. He chuckles lightly and a part of an old memory comes back slowly, filtering through to the surface. The first time I heard his voice and the curiosity it aroused in me. Where was he from? I wondered. His voice was the collection of all the countries he had travelled to throughout his life, all the stories he had heard and all the cultures he had adopted as his own. A strange scale of notes resulting in the most unique sound I had ever heard. He had told me mine was laughably generic, that no matter where I went I could possibly not hide where I was from. Where my roots were. I had told him I had nothing to hide from and he looked at me straight in the eye and after a moment smiled and said quietly, are you sure?

Spontaneous trips abroad, drunken nights in and out, spilling red wine over my mothers very expensive white rug, panicking, more panic until we decided to go out and buy a knock off a fact that she was not aware of even till this day, the screaming matches, the eventual make up, the multiple doubts, the reassurance, the packing, the moving, the three words which made me want to scream, more packing, more moving, the music, the food, his music, his voice, the secret smiles, the pressure of his hand as he held onto mine, getting squashed on the tube, never losing eye contact, the phone calls, the emails, the dancing, the falling out of clubs and bars and cabs, the photos, the letters, the packing, the moving in together, the screams...the shouts...the whispers.

The silence.

I look at him and see his smile. It's different now, it's tinged with something alien. Not sadness, nor happiness. Something different or something missing? We had moulded into each other without realising. We had taken each other away from ourselves, his voice wasn't music anymore. It was just a familiar tune.

We both look at each other, both of us running our right index finger over the rim of our wine glasses. A mirror image. He looks at me, 'I love you,' he says simply, sadly. I hesitate, I smile. 'I love you too,' I respond, brightly. He strokes my hand and gazes at me, slowly he pulls his hand away.

We both lean back into our chairs.

We both know its over. It's finally over.

Seeing Nothing

The reason I went to uni was to study English Literature. Excited about actually being able to be creative, I found out upon registration (a fun day of getting lost - students had deliberately changed all the signs) that I had to wait until my final year to do creative writing. Seriously what the actual fuck. Nonetheless, I am a stubborn -input analogy here- so I put up with the kind of experience my mind has blocked out and refuses to allow me any entry. So four long years later I enter my final year, get accepted onto creative writing only to find out that this course comprises of my lecturer, I kid you not, reading us stories.... Like in nursery. I spent the next half year dozing until he read out one of the most amazing pieces of writing I have ever heard. I paraphrase:

A woman is sent on a study to a small village with a 10000 word assignment. There she engages with the community and really gets involved in everything and starts to write about them not only from an anthropological viewpoint but from a personal. She spends 10 years with then and She writes and she writes until the 10000 becomes 100,000 and her publishers ask her to cut it down because it is too long. And so she does, but when editing she can't stop. So 100,000 become 50,000, the. 20,000 then 10,000 and her publishers let her go because the content isn't good anymore. And so she cuts it even more to 5,000 and submits it into research journals and is rejected, then the 5,000 becomes 1,000 and short story competitions reject her. Then even more cutting and editing and its rejected as a poem until there is nothing left except for a line and its on the back of a postcard sold in the local shop. And now she faces the daily cruelty of children she once wrote about, the police brutality she once satirised, the inevitable ostracism from the local community she predicted.......

It was a beautiful story. It was painful to hear a story which captured that feeling of loss of such great scale, the fact that ten years were basically wasted. The ultimate rejection from the people she cared so deeply about. It influenced this next story; and yes I did submit it to my storyteller lecturer. He loved it.

Seeing Nothing

The key slid into the lock with a slight click and turned smoothly for the first time in a long while. Nicely surprised the owner of the key smiled a small smile, pushed the door open with the bottom of her palm and entered the house. The hallway was dark and the morning’s mail had not yet been picked up. She slowly lowered herself to the ground by bending her knees as the doctor had instructed to ease the pain in her lower back and quickly glanced over the envelopes. The envelopes held tickets to a better more rich life, junk mail from people that urged you to believe in the power of magical numbers. She stood up slowly careful not to strain her back and dropped the envelopes into the small wicker basket she used for paper recycling which sat on top of the hallway dresser – an antique inherited from her late aunt – and entered the front room.

The curtains were closed, blocking out the fading sunshine she had just come in from but the windows were still open allowing air to circulate in the stuffy room. Dishes and crisp packets littered the low table which normally held an array of carefully laid out coffee table reads such as: a book on fashion illustration, a book about uses of light in photography beneficial for both still and moving camera, a thin volume of Indian art and sari patterns and a few back copies of Private Eye. Carefully laid out so those that came to visit could look through them without any difficulty and the choices, she thought, shed so much light on her personality. But now they were scattered on the rug under the table uncared for, unloved.

She looked sadly around the rest of the room. There were damp clothes hanging on the backs of the chairs she had hand painted herself. Other clothes littered the floor. A pair of jeans sat beside the kitchen door as though the owner had only moments ago stepped out of them. Dust swirled and danced in the slits of light that forced itself in from under the doors and above the curtains. The air held a smell of a mixture of sweet and sour, attractive yet equally repulsive. She put her bag down onto the soft faded pink charity shop armchair and continued to stand absolutely still. Minutes or hours could have passed; it was the sound of a soft shuffle which aroused her from her thoughts. A dark shadow appeared in the part of the hallway she could see from the open door of the front room. It grew until a body accompanied it. A tall, uncouth man stepped towards her wearing a scruffy t-shirt and a pair of union jack boxer shorts. Her boyfriend. He stared at her bleary eyed and smiled a tight smile. She refused to return the forced acknowledgement and instead remained standing still as possible. Trying not to engage with her he side stepped her and headed towards the sofa pushing crisp packets onto the floor as he sat down. He put the TV on which had been purposefully left on standby and flicked through the channels jabbing the remote control with his thumb. Out of respect to her he kept the volume on mute knowing no other person who could create so much tension in a room when they wanted to speak. He glanced at her sideways and saw her gulp. She would speak now. He breathed deeply.

​‘I heard something today,’ she said and then paused. He looked at her now, squarely. She looked in his direction but was busy looking through him so he studied her carefully. Her face looked thinner than he remembered, some would say gaunt. Her long hair had been left uncut for many months – a fact he knew because he noticed all those small changes. Her long caramel coat was buttoned up tightly although the weather had been unusually warm and her scarf did not match properly- indication of her recent distraction. He looked at her eyes- they bored him with their show of lifelessness. He turned his face back towards the TV but his eyes as though on their own accord began shifting from crisp packet to dish, absorbing the mess. The rug needed a good vacuum, he thought, I should do that. I’ll do that.

​‘It was a story,’ she said suddenly breaking the silence as though she hadn’t paused. ‘A beautifully tragic story.’ He looked at her once more. She had said these last words in a dramatic whisper as though demanding his attention and although he knew that was not her intent he felt angry. Her eyes only moments ago so dull began to fill with colour as though an imaginary syringe was injecting a myriad of warmth in her. Tears glistened on her bottom lashes, some latching onto the top. Her mouth was slowly but firmly shaping words but the accompanying sounds went unheard. He was simply looking at her, for the first time through eyes of a stranger. He wanted to hit her. She was so large. So full of everything that this room dwarfed her. The dishes and the crisp packets, even him sitting around in his union jack boxer shorts were too small for her. Her lips moved slowly into what looked like a smile but then snapped back into nothingness.

​‘She spent ten years writing about them. That is a whole decade, an entire memorable childhood. She spent it all on them. About their ways, about their lives.’ The words were difficult to get out in the same way she had heard them earlier that day. They sat in her throat refusing to come out seeming detached, thus she appeared as though close to tears.

​‘But it was too long and she began to cut the story down, but she could not stop. And then it was rejected and more rejection followed. All that time, all those ten years cut down to a mere single sentence on a postcard. She lost everything and she had so much to share.’ Her voice broke, she stopped fighting the tears and let them fall.

​‘Don’t you see?’ she asked into the room. ‘Don’t you see, that kind of nothingness is everything. She spent ten years only to be forgotten, what is her name? I heard this story and the pain just… it just stretched across everything. Don’t you see? That is us. All of us are this woman. This infinite sadness or whatever – that is her and it is us. Don’t you see?’ She was sobbing now, openly. Her shoulders hiccupped to her sobs, a strange way her body kept in time with itself. She did not wipe the tears away just let them drop ugly onto her coat making the fabric darker.

He stared at her open display. She never did this, she never reacted to anything. A part of him wanted to comfort her but another relished in watching her pain. He looked down at the dishes and wanted to scream. Don’t you see, he screamed silently looking at her, don’t you see? This pain? This! You never see anything. He scratched his nose and stood up. She was still crying. He slowly began to move towards her careful not to break eye contact with her bent head, betting his entire life on not blinking.

​‘Sometimes with pity, but almost always with awe,’ she said, gulping to get the words out so they seemed distorted and unrelated. Her eyes began to blur and at that moment she saw the front room in both past and present state. She saw herself the way she stood now crying over nothing and everything and tried to look back and remember something, anything in particular and failed. Instead the room faded slowly into a park. The sofa became the park bench and the crisp packets were dandelions determined to grow through cracks in the paving. Upon the bench sat a lady often referred to by the children as bag lady or a witch depending on what game they were playing. She sat there silent, unmoving head slightly bent. On top of her head sat the present with its deep despair and inexplicable grief: a lead weight. In her lap sat her past, childlike looking up at her reminding her of what she had, just moments ago. The children’s screams of laughter and cruel taunts go unheard – her pain comes from the postcard which sits beside her.

He stands watching her stare at the sofa softly crying and moves beside her. He looks at the sofa and reminds himself of what she had said and tries in vain to look through her eyes. His gaze begins to soften with unshed tears and he breathes deeply. She stands as though a statue. He looks at her and moves towards the door. Quietly he dresses himself in the bedroom in a pair of jeans and a clean enough t-shirt. He pulls on socks and slips his feet into much loved trainers. He looks around the bedroom and sees nothing. Surprising himself he picks up her eye pencil and scribbles down a near illegible note and leaves it deliberately on the dresser. Slowly he moves towards the hallway.

She blinked and wiped her face but the tears had long dried leaving dry track marks on her cheeks. She looked around the front room – now dark - at the dishes, the crisp packets and the clothes littered on the floor and hanging on the backs of chairs. There was an eerie feeling as though time had stood still and was now moving faster to catch up. She looked around, her vision sharp and unfocused at the same time. Time hit her with full force and she suddenly knew what had happened. Slowly she walked into the bedroom and without looking for it saw the note placed on top of the dresser. She picked it up and absorbed the rough marks of the eye liner pencil. His writing resembled a doctor’s, only special people could read it. She always had been able to. She slowly took in the words:

​​​Neither of us saw and neither of us will ever see.

​​​I’m sorry.

​​​​​X

She smiled a small smile and replaced the note back onto the dresser and walked back into the front room. In the darkness she picked up every crisp packet and dish and took them into the kitchen. She put the crisp packets into the recycling box for plastic and put the dishes into the small bucket in the sink which she filled with warm water from the tap letting them soak for the night ready for the morning. She picked up all the clothes that littered the floor and folded them carefully into a large bin bag ready for the charity shop. She closed the window and locked the front door. She walked back into the bedroom and unbuttoned her coat throwing it onto a French style armchair. She sat on the edge of her bed and slowly undressed letting the clothes slip onto the floor. She quietly got under the duvet, pulled it up to her chin and lay flat on her back. She tried to remember where they had met and realised she had forgotten. She had forgotten what she had first thought of him and why she liked him. She tried to remember the last time they had kissed. Nothing. She thought of the last line in the story: sometimes with pity, almost always with awe.

She slept.

A start....

Upon waking this morning I sat upright in bed for a while and listened to my housemates doing their stuff in the bathroom. I live in a shared house with six bedrooms and one working bathroom (the shower room to my knowledge has never worked or been used) and I am lucky enough to have direct access to the main bathroom from my bedroom. Not.
When viewing the room I rented it out on the fun fact that I had direct access to the bathroom, opinion of which changed immediately. I now have very intimate knowledge of my housemates bowel movements and habits for example what kind of sounds they make when sitting on the shitter. It is easily the most disgusting thing I have ever had to go through... and am still going through.
So sitting there, just gazing into space and a story came into my mind. I was meant to be job hunting but anyone who writes knows the delicious intoxicating feeling when a story comes to you and you just have to revel in it for a bit before putting pen to paper. Yes Pen to Paper, I am a traditional girl I do things the old fashioned and time consuming way. 

It's about the one thing I love writing about, love....

The First Time

I remember the first time I saw her...I mean really saw her. Until then she was always there... always. In the background smiling her sarcastic small smile; the stink of superiority clinging to her and following her everywhere; her eyes lighting up when given the chance for subtle humiliation; her monotonous tone and the 'plateau, darling' which she always spoke of. But regardless of all her annoying quirks she still managed to blend in effortlessly, unnoticed. So when I did notice her, sitting across from me with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other smiling her crooked little smile, a mischievous glint flickering in her eyes, looking directly at me, into me... I had to take the hit.

And now I lie next to her. Her hair covering her face. The duvet wrapped tightly across her chest moving slowly with her breathing. I listen carefully. She has uneven ragged breaths which steadies momentarily but then resumes its uneven harmony. She frowns and mutters something and drags a hand across her face. I twine a few strands of her hair around my fingers and she moves towards me. I try and remember everything. The whirlwind obsession that followed. The need to see her, the curiosity she brought out in me, the constant questions - no answers. The nagging voice in my head which I ignored as I kissed her for the first time. The voice, louder as I placed my hands over her body and watched with pleasure as she moved under them.

I look around the room - full of her things. The small mementos she collects, the clothes strewn around the furniture and the floor. Several books all open resting in various 'reading spots.' A chaotic mess she describes as her world. She wakes up and smiles and it's a different kind of smile. There is nothing nasty behind that smile it's just for me. She's still tired so I stroke her face and she whispers that she loves me and I smile and I kiss her and I tell her that I am madly and completely in love with her. 

I drive home. It's dark and it is raining. The wipers squeak, clearing the windscreen of fat blobs of water as they crash down. The sound is soothing today. Headlights race past and my head is full of her. Her words, her touch, her morning kisses, the empty wine bottles, the endless cups of coffee. Her lips against my skin, the pressure of her fingers as they trace the side of my body gently leaving a trail of goosebumps. But the voice is getting louder in my head and the colours are blurring. Her face is frozen in my head... unmoving.

I walk into the house. It's dark. I notice her coat and put mine besides it carefully. She doesn't like mess. I read the note that has been left on the coffee table next to the small pile of coasters. 'I waited up.' I place my keys besides it and look up at the dark stairs leading up to nowhere, up to my life. I climb them slowly. 

She's already in bed, fast asleep. I undress quietly and slip into the bed, our backs touch. I listen to her breathing. It's regular and even. She doesn't mutter. My eyes grow heavy and I feel her turn towards me. She puts her arm around me and nestles into my back. I turn to face her and take her into my arms. She smiles and her eyes are still closed and I remember the first time I saw her. I remember the first time I kissed her. The first time I fell in love with her. I study her face and notice the small lines of change. The face I've known for all these years. Does she know, I wonder. I stroke her face and she opens her eyes briefly. She whispers those three words and voice inside my head sounds like steel drums. I kiss her forehead. 'I love you too,' I say, I lie. The voice in my head is silenced. The silence of heavy judgement. I grow tired, her face filling my mind as I fall asleep.