authorship – Page 6 – three good words

August 8, 2014May 16, 2020

to all you lovely people

Here’s one for you lovely people who are actually following threegoodwords.
I’m really excited about that, by the way. Really excited. Hugs and kisses all around! – Unless you’re not into that kind of thing. Then I hope a firm handshake will do, a really sincere one too.

Thank you and Merci beaucoup!

So… here it goes.
And yeah, I have no idea where it’s going…
Suggestions are more than welcome :)

Small Things

In the woods, a long day’s journey into night is much ado about nothing. Cut wood furnishes a space of warmth where the Hunter lies sleeping on a woven rug. Water is crystal and cold reflecting stars in a pale of echoing iron. The next day, a Saturday, he will drive down into the Valley and restore himself as one of them, redeem his solitude with his silent presence. When the moon is high he joins other strangers in a wood-panelled room, watching flying spheres on a screen while others played geometry on the green. After a drink, he leaves, relieved, seclusion is his only solace, the Hunter does not disturb. The stars are bright and the High Plains empty, far from sight.

The man in the woods has a dog he calls Hunter. They live in a cabin with a furnace and no running water. Every Saturday, he drives down into the Valley and goes shopping in the general store, a few cans of dog food, meat, vegetables, canned fruits, fresh apples and a newspaper, nothing more. Once a month he goes to the local pub, orders a beer and listens to the gossip. He rarely looks neglected and is generally considered to carry the smell of the forest with him. His dog Hunter never leaves his side, a large beast with dark fur and light brown, vigilant eyes. Since no one knows the man’s actual name, he is called Mr. Hill. The woods run up the main hill before the High Plains. It is a name he has accepted, at least he has never complained. No one knows as he rarely talks, except to Mr. Hopkins who owns the general store and it is never more than a little small talk about the weather and the woods. When he is in the pub, he just sits at the counter and drinks his beer, or watches a game of pool. Nobody speaks to him and he doesn’t say anything. Some of the young boys in the valley like to dare each other to ride their bikes up to the cabin, as a kind of test to be allowed into one of the various neighbourhood cliques. The youngest of the Andrews even went so far as the porch, but then Hunter saw him and started barking which sent the boy in terror back down to the Valley. Since then he’s the coolest Andrews in town.

Few can say when exactly Mr. Hill came into the Valley. He came in a truck, a used but fairly new blue pickup truck. He was said to ask in the town hall about properties that could be sold and back then Mr. Jenson still had the plot up in the woods with an old cabin on it, which the newcomer bought in the end. For a long time Mr. Hill kept on buying supplies and if you took the main road up to the Peak, just before it turned into the Plains, you could hear sawing and hammering coming from the cabin. It all happened in one summer, or so Mr. Hopkins says. From the beginning, Hunter was with him, a faithful shadow with watchful eyes.

There are rumours about the man in the woods, that he is the son of a rich family, a criminal, a convict who managed to escape and now could use the money he had stolen. Others say he’s an artist in seclusion, a writer looking for his words. Or maybe he’s a monk from some secret order and practices odd rituals no man should see. There are many rumours about him, but even when they’re whispered from mouth to ear, everyone who hears them knows that they’re just stories told to keep things interesting, the truth was certainly, surely, truly, you had to believe it, it was something else entirely.

* * *

In a box on the mantelpiece, there is a memory he stores to keep forever out of the way. It is a memory of an apology, of a meeting in the middle of the night, of the most explicit ‘I’m sorry’ known to man. It is four pages long. He never sent it. By the time he came to the last stop, he lost his nerve. It wasn’t the apology that had kept him from sending, but what made it necessary and the consequences that it would carry, once it was pronounced, once it was read, once it was said. So he folded the sheets into an envelope and slipped that envelop into a pocket of the large backpack he had already packed. He whistled after stepping out onto the porch and Hunter came bounding down the lawn. They left that hour. He was sure never to see that street, that city or that house again.

When asleep worlds opened and he stepped into a room he never recognized but always knew was his own. She was already there, faceless yet with the same shape and smell, a scent close to cinnamon and other things part of a winter morning. She would lean back and stretch out on her back, he would hold her hips and descend. Slowly he would move within her, enveloped by heat until his head ached, the light broke and he woke up sweating. Usually it was early in the morning when he opened his eyes, the sun just peaking over the lower crest in the east. In the beginning it happened almost every night, but now days would pass before he stepped into that room again. He had stopped dreading sleep and somehow managed to accept it. Sometimes however, he would wake up, see the sun, close his eyes and be sucked in again, deeper and deeper until he reached the end and the heat became a painful point that stretched at the horizon where it flared and he woke up again and had to remove the shorts he was wearing.

* * *

Dana poured hot coffee into the cup and saw into the face in front of her. He hadn’t shaved for the past few days, and his hair was invisible under the tightly meshed scull cap. The fingertips of his gloves were cut off, his nails neatly trimmed. Dana noticed that his mouth was perfect, lips, tongue, teeth and all. His eyes were clear, but they never seemed to see her. Christie had called him ‘sweet’, but Dana felt there was nothing about him that had sugar in it. He had perfectly smooth dark skin, and high cheek bones. If she hadn’t seen the books she’d thought he was someone from the streets. After writing down the next order, she tried to get a glimpse of what he was reading. Babylon Revisited, she couldn’t see who the author was. He was sunk deep in his reading. Then, a bit suddenly, he sat up, pulled something small and blinking out of his pocket, gave her a small smile and said ‘’Lo’ into the phone. It was a slim silver piece that must have cost a lot of money. His voice was deep and smooth like the chocolate syrup she poured over the pancakes. She spilled some over her finger and licked it before thinking. Quickly, Dana looked around if anyone saw. Only he did, he was watching her, talking into the phone. He smiled again, a flash of white. Perfect. Dana wiped her finger clean on her apron and asked Christie to pass on the order. It was seven in the morning. She wanted to give him her number and ask him to see her at nine o’clock that night. But before she found the courage to hand him the slip of paper, he had already paid his bill and left through the door, books in his backpack and that slung over his shoulder.

* * *

‘You know that I love you, right?’ she says, and C. knew that tone, it meant they’d fuck in the next five minutes. She knew he needed to study, this exam was important, but that was Nisha for you. She thought he was fighting the inevitable, that there was no point in trying as the ‘real C.’ would get him in the end. ‘You street, babe, an’ street stays street, even if the pavement’s made o’ gold n’ diamonds.’

‘Nisha, I really need to do this.’
‘Oh, come on, take a break.’

She had her mouth at his ear while she stroked the back of his neck. C. pulled his head away to say,

‘Tanisha, please. This is important.’
‘Come on baby, you can’t study forever.’

He looked at her, she was wearing those panties and that t-shirt that showed her nipples even when it was hot. Fuck. Why’d she always have to look so good? He pushed back his chair, she pulled off her underwear and straddled him. Nisha was a hungry kisser, and hasty with her hands. There was no need to do anything, she knew what needed to be done. Everything was quick and easy, C. needed only to lean back and let it happen. He watched her, she removed her shirt and her tits bounced real nice, they’d get all huge when she had a kid. She never forgot the Trojan though, Nisha was a careful girl. She asked him if he was liking it, he said, ‘Yeah,’ coz, ‘I really need to study, Nisha,’ was not an option. C. came easily, Nisha chuckled after she was done, smiling, ‘That was good,’ kissing him all over. C. smiled and Nisha laughed again, nice. She got off him a while after, C. got up and pull off the T, pulled up his sweats, walked to the bathroom and threw everything away. He didn’t recognize the face in the mirror. He probably should shave again.

J. should be here. It’s snowing again. Course with all that happened… but he should be here. They say he’s up in the hills somewhere, locked up in the cabin going crazy with all those trees. Nisha said she heard it from Jackie who said Tori had it from Ed or somebody from that crowd, anyway he’s gone. I can’t read anymore. What time is it? Twelve thirty. Nisha should’ve left me the fuck alone. Fucking her always throws me off my flow. Now she’s out with her girls and I can’t finish up Fitzgerald for nothin’. Wonder if Dr. Michaelski knows how it is to read ‘Negro’ all the time and have everyone wail its ‘great literature’. It ain’t bad, mind, but still kind o’ crap too. Half o’ them wasted or depressed, but it’s not like any of those books are actually funny, and everyone’s always tryin’ to kill themselves or accidentally off themselves anyway. Weird people. Maybe it’s the money, makes you all twisted inside. And no one’s human unless you’re like them and even when they’re tryin’ to be funny they’re still being – snide, yeah that’s it. Except Shakespeare, he got it, Othello’s definitely my man. Shouldn’t have killed her though, but with some Iago all up in your face what’s a brother to do? He got it though, those old English usually do, it’s all about how people are really, like Wilde makin’ fun of everybody but all stealth, y’know, puttin’ ‘em down and makin’ ‘em laugh at the same time, smooth. They had the beat, they knew about style. The new ones kind o’ lost it though, too busy with themselves to actually start tryin’.

Still can’t work. Maybe some coffee’ll do. J. made some great espresso. He had this original Italian thing that nobody could work but him. He’s been writing to Aly they say, but that doesn’t sound like J. Then again, living in a cabin in the woods doesn’t sound like J. either. If he’d be here, we’d watch a game, drink some beer, get some pizza and maybe end up joining the others in some club downtown. Or we’d hang out in some place, check out the girls, and just talk like we used to. You can really talk to J. he hears you out, lets you go all the way down to that first thought, y’know, the one you started out with but couldn’t get to coz you had to explain the whole back story and so forgot why you started. You don’t need to explain things to J., he gets you straight. He doesn’t start laughin’ unless you’re bein’ really stupid. He’s easy, man, cool. And he’s good with the girls, he never said or went all 5.0 on you. He’d even help you pick out the right one if he was in the mood. He’s level, J. Yeah, he should be here. Wonder what he’s doing all up in those trees.

* * *

Dear Jake

Thank you for your letter. I’m doing fine. It’s been a bit busy these days, but it’s okay, I can cope. Work’s fine – everything’s fine really. It’s snowing again, so that’s nice. I hope you aren’t too cold up there. I don’t know if I could do that, all alone in the woods. Well, with Hunter, I guess you aren’t all alone, but still. I think I always need people around me. I really haven’t seen the others much though. I always feel odd when I’m around them, it’s like stepping back into a pair of shoes I’ve outgrown, if you know what I mean. I like them all, don’t get me wrong, I like them a lot, but in a way, it really doesn’t make sense to spend more time with them, you know? I think that’s over. It’s sad, but I guess these things happen. Life goes on, right? I’d like to see Carmine again though, but I hear he’s busy with his exams, so I’ll leave him alone, you know how he gets if you disturb him. Otherwise, there really isn’t much to say. I’m fine and it’s snowing, so that’s nice.
Thank you for writing, it was a real surprise, and a very nice one.
I hope hope you’re all right.

Alya

* * *

Reading, he can see her sitting at her desk under the window, the street full of cars and noise beneath her. Her lamp on, the desk stacked with books, magazines, papers, pens, make up and small bottles of nail polish, all scattered around her laptop. He can see it clearly, her right leg curled under her body, her left foot flat on the floor. At home she rarely wears socks, only jeans, a top and maybe a sweater if it’s cold and those slippers made of fake fur. She’s probably drinking something out of her huge mug she bought in a one of those stores, a big purple thing spotted with yellow flowers with white circles in the middle. It’s phenomenally ugly, but she loves it. It has a small chip at the side when it fell while she was doing the dishes. He’d already hoped it crashed, but she caught it in time. He can see how she holds her pen lightly, stopping every now and then, wondering what else she could say to him without saying too little. Every now and then she pulls back a strand of her hair she tied in a loose ponytail at the back of her head. Then when she’s finished she looks at the letter, reads it through, thinks about it and then signs it, folds it and puts it into an envelope. She won’t send it till the next day, she’ll think it over a little more before she actually puts a stamp on it and slips it into the mailbox.

The sky is a crisp blue when he walks out with Hunter. The trees are high and dark, the snow heavy and spotless white, silver and clear on the edges. His feet crunch the crystals, his footsteps echoing in the silence. Hunter races forward and bounds back, his red tongue hanging out of his open mouth like a sad flag on a windless day. Now and then he thinks of throwing a stick, but ends up keeping his hands in his pockets. When he reaches the cabin he will make himself hot coffee, heat up the soup he still had, fry the steak, bake the potatoes and use the rest of the cream for the sauce. No vegetables, he doesn’t feel like anything healthy, except maybe backed beans. He wants to grow fat. So fat that no one will recognize him, but with Hunter around that won’t work. The beard helps though. Everyone in the Valley thinks he’s at least thirty years old.

* * *

Dana smiles when she sees him walk in. He smiles back, quick and easy and orders coffee again. She asks if he wants anything more, the bagels are very fresh. He thinks about it and then says, ‘Yeah, why not.’ She does everything herself, grateful Christie is busy with the other customers. She pours the coffee and watches him add two sugars and some milk. She serves the bagel, and watches him cut it open, smile at the steam and spread it with butter. He takes a bite and smiles after he swallows, before turning to a stack of pages he brought with him. They are crisscrossed with written references, many lines highlighted with a neon marker. He looks very concentrated and Dana envies him his silence. More customers come in though, she has to focus on them. She can’t help a glance or two while she takes the orders, he’s still reading with that concentrated look, deep in the words in front of him, oblivious of the noise and the business around him. There’s a frown between his eyebrows and Dana wonders how it must be when he’s angry. He looks calm, and with such a deep voice she can’t imagine him getting loud. He would never raise his hand to a woman, of that she is certain. Dana turns back to the order she wrote down and blinks away a memory that welled up out of nowhere. She smiles at the customer in front of her, a business man who just wants a quick coffee to go. She gives him what he wants, he pays more than he needs to and says ‘Keep the change’ before hurrying out again. Dana looks back and sees that he’s stopped reading. He’s taking out the money he needs to pay. Christie is closer to him, and again, he gives her the money. He packs his things, shoulders his bag and hurries out, still deep in thought about something. Dana wants to say goodbye, but the next customer asks for her attention and she has to smile.

* * *

‘You look happy,’ is the first thing Nisha says when I walk in. Well, I guess I am happy. The exam wasn’t half as bad as I thought it would be. If I got all the answers I think I got, then it’ll probably be a B, if I’m good enough maybe I’ll scrape an A. That means I could apply for that grant, that’d really be some help and why the hell’s Nisha in the kitchen?

‘What’re you doing?’
‘Cooking?’
‘Cooking?’
‘Yeah, y’know, using pots and pans.’
‘Why?’
‘Aly’s comin’ over, so I thought I’d make something, y’know, special.’
‘What’re you making?’
‘Lasagne?’
‘Cool.’

Lasagne’s hard to fuck up, and if everything goes wrong there’s the pizza or Hong’s. So, my baby sister’s comin’ over. Probably didn’t tell due to the exam. Sweet. She’ll probably bring brownies or that chocolate cake, Aly’s a god with chocolate cake. Man, that’d be too awesome.

The doorbell rings, I open the door, and there’s my baby sister with her – ‘Yes!’ She laughs, I can’t help the grin, we hug, she’s my baby sister and I haven’t seen her in a bit too long. Probably should’ve checked up on her more, but after that talk I thought it’d be better to stay away for a while, she needed some time on her own. Now she’s back though and brought her chocolate cake, awesome. This day’s just level man, yeah.

* * *

‘Alya Bellamy?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Mrs Andrews from St. Martin’s Hospital.’
‘Mrs Andrews?’
‘Yes, I’m a nurse. I was asked to call you. Do you know someone by the name of Jake Mallory?’
‘Jake?’
‘Jake Mallory?’
‘Yes. What’s with Jake?’
‘Mr Mallory insisted that I call you.’
‘Yes, but why?’
‘He can tell you that himself. – She’s on the phone.’
‘ – Aly?’
‘Jake?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In St. Martin’s – ’
‘What happened?’
‘That’s not important. How are you?’
‘I’m fine Jake – why are you in a hospital?’
‘That’s not important. How are you? Is it still snowing?’
‘I’m fine Jake and it stopped snowing yesterday. Why are you in a hospital?’
‘I’m fine, Aly. I just wanted…’
‘What?’
‘I just wanted to…’
‘You wanted to what?’
‘I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all.’
‘But Jake – ’
‘Miss Bellamy?’
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Andrews again. I’m sorry, but I think that was enough for now.’
‘But – ’
‘Goodbye, Miss Bellamy.’
‘Jake?’

* * *

The dark had risen in the morning. Suddenly it all made sense. Nobody needed him. Worse, he had destroyed everything. A life, his life. Gone. There was no point left, it was just gone, forever. After that it was easy to peel out the razor blade. But for some reason Mr. Hopkins decided to bring him his shopping as he was on his way to the Plains. The old man had opened the door and seen him lying in a pool of blood. Fate seemed to like him. The next thing he knew, he was staring at Nurse Andrews stern face while she checked the drip. A doctor, female, pretty, came in every now and then. Then he remembered her and all he lived for was her voice. He still knew her number and had waited, eyes fixed on the phone while Nurse Andrews called. Now he had her voice in his head and he could sleep again. It was all they could do to help him overcome the darkness inside, absolute in its nothingness, perfect in its void, so overpowering that they had to let Hunter sleep on the floor next to him in the end otherwise he would have gone medieval on all their asses, really, what was the point?

They were on the snow, boards hard and glistening under their feet, the sun high and bright like a pinball in the sky. Carmine was grinning, telling him something about the bar he’d found the other day with girls that made your mouth water. He just smiled, turned and boarded down the slope, wide swings, feeling the wind and the cold with the sun covering everything in icy light. Carmine was right next to him and they were writing waves down the mountain. At the bottom he looked back up the slope and thought the patterns looked like a totem pole. When he turned around again, he was in a club and this young girl, blonde, was pressing her perfect body against his. She took his hand and pushed it between her legs and smiled when he felt how wet she was. He smelled her scent, it was filling his head, demanding he fit himself inside her, she promised to be impossibly – but the thought of feeling her made him nauseous and he turned and ran to the toilets where he puked into the washbasin and saw something small, round and twitching in the red broth. He pulled at the umbilical that was coming out of his mouth but it wouldn’t stop and he realized it was his tongue he was pulling out and woke up with a start when he felt someone cut it.

He put a hand to his mouth, his tongue was still there. He fell back into his pillow and stared at the ceiling, stark white in the morning light. He knew then that no matter what he did, she would never forgive him, and inside a thousand lights were blown out, wax sticking to the ashes, embers collapsing to piles, dust returning to dust.

* * *

Dana was tired, but she didn’t have anything left in her fridge. She walked into the next store, pulled out one of the baskets and quickly walked down the aisles. She saw him just before she reached the cashier. He was arguing with a young woman, the kind who knew she was sexy, spunky and just perfect for someone like him. His eyes were fixed on her, seeing nothing else but the perfect beauty in front of him. They were arguing quietly, he looked frustrated, she sounded angry, but in that pouting, four-year old way. It was obvious that she would eventually get her way. Finally, the woman leaned into him, kissed him, playfully and lovingly and he smiled, rolled his eyes, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. They turned a corner at the end of the aisle and were out of sight. Dana walked to the cashier, paid her groceries and walked home. She envied that woman’s entire life for the rest of the evening and couldn’t enjoy the pasta dinner she had been looking forward to all day.

Two days later Dana was still a little sullen, when, to her surprise, he walked in, in the middle of the day, and ordered the lunch menu, a coke and a cheeseburger with fries. He was carrying four books with him, they all looked very important. He smiled at her again, an open smile now, he looked relaxed. He even said, ‘Hi.’ Dana just smiled, and asked if she could take his order, and he picked out everything easily. He walked and talked like somebody who knew his place in the world. Dana couldn’t take her eyes off him, only to feel Christie nudge her side and grin when Dana looked at her. Blushing, Dana concentrated on the other customers, but was quick to bring him his order when it was done. He didn’t touch the books, but read a sports magazine which made Dana smile. She felt he’d taken a step towards the world she knew. She still read the book titles, one by one, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Shakespeare’s Plays, Book of Illusions, and something that started with Portrait. She couldn’t read the rest. Dana wondered how long it took him to read those books. The only one she recognized was Shakespeare’s Plays. She had been part of Romeo and Juliet in high school. She had been the mother, who didn’t have to say much but just look pretty. Dana had been pretty then, and she still was pretty, but rarely had time for make-up except some kohl, what with waking up at seven and coming home at nine, she rarely felt like going out during week days. She only dressed up on Saturday nights, when she went out with Samantha and Christie. They first went to a bar and then to a club, where either Sam or Christie found a guy they spent the rest of the night kissing and having sex with in their apartments. Dana rarely took someone home, she didn’t feel like that anymore. After Rick, she didn’t feel like that any more. He had killed every desire in her, all her willingness to let her guard down again, except maybe with him and his clear eyes, high cheekbones and really perfect skin.

In high school, there had been that football player, Dean D.J. Jackson, who looked just like him. Not the looks really, but they had the same feel to them. He always treated you nicely, D.J., he never called you names and always asked you how you were doing if he knew you. He was a gentleman D.J., even if he was deadly on the field. But in the halls, he didn’t care if you belonged to the crowd or not, as long as he knew you, and Dana had known him, since they were put together for a project in their science class. They’d met up for three afternoons in the labs and he’d been what Christie would have called him, ‘adorable’. Dana never forgot him, and here was another one who had just the same feel. She wished she knew his name, but before she could pluck up her nerve to say something meaningless and pleasant, someone asked for coffee and a salmon and cheese bagel. By the time Dana was finished with that order, a few more came up, and when she finally had enough time for a short chat, he was on the phone, quickly taking out some money, which, again, Christie took, tip and all. A moment later, he picked up his books and was gone, still talking on his phone. Dana sighed. Every time he left like that, she had the really strong feeling that she would never see him again. She really should have said something, but now he was gone.

* * *

August 6, 2014June 16, 2020

34 Willow Drive

34 Willow Drive was a very tidy place, with a neat front garden and perfectly cut grass in the back. You took off your shoes before stepping into the main house, and you took your plate to the kitchen after dinner. Prayers were said before you ate, and on Sundays the whole family dressed up smartly and went to church where there were other families with Sunday clothes on.

In the beginning the other parents were very curious about Caden, and asked Mr and Mrs Corrigan questions, giving Caden pitying looks after those conversations. The children were more forward, asking him if his Dad really almost beat him to death and wanted to see his bruises. The Willow Drive children were fascinated, and Caden was thought to be tough and dangerous since he had survived such violence. Matthew and Stephanie, (who liked to be called Steff, with two fs), liked to brag and show off with him as long as Caden was a novelty. In school they introduced him as a cousin from far away who had a dark past that made everyone curious, but after a few weeks the latest computer game came out and there was Christmas to think of and Caden was like everyone else.

Matthew and Stephanie, who, after the excitement of novelty had worn off, realised that Caden was not a guest, but had actually come to stay, Matt and Steff lost their benevolence and did their best to ignore him. They enjoyed calling him Rice or Riceboy when their parents weren’t listening, simply because Caden liked rice. He’d never eaten it outside the curry shop, and they only went if Aunt Vicky remembered to. When allowed to join in their games, Caden was responsible for all the menial jobs. He was always the servant, the worker, the villain. He enjoyed being the Red Indian most. Others might have thought Matt and Steff’s behaviour mean, but Caden, who had never lived a day in peace at home since Mother left, who never knew how it was to have siblings, who had never had the opportunity of regular meals, clean clothes and a bed that didn’t turn into a trap if someone came home drunk and violent, Caden did not feel the effects of their behaviour until much later. In the beginning he was just content with having another life. He often looked to the sky and wondered if his mother had seen how bad things were and finally found a way to save him. He didn’t know. He went to church and heard about God, but what the Vicar said didn’t really interest him. Caden said the prayers at dinner and made sure to tie his tie correctly before church, (Aunt Vicky had shown him, mumbling there was nothing sillier than a man who couldn’t tie his own shirt, her cigarette hopping up and down while she talked, ashes flying everywhere) but otherwise that part of life at the Corrigan’s remained closed to him. Caden preferred thinking that his mother was on a cloud somewhere, or that the Force actually existed. To Caden at ten, that made much more sense.

Mr and Mrs Corrigan were what people called ‘steady’. They treated Caden as one of their family and never favoured him to their own children, nor their children to him. They worked hard, had strict schedules and did not like being interrupted if they were busy unless it was serious. Every Wednesday, Mrs Corrigan went to her bridge evening and on Thursday nights Mr Corrigan liked to play darts with his friends. He always came home smelling of cigarettes. The Corrigans were not the kind of happy couple you saw on TV, the kind that always laughed and cuddled their kids, living in the big shiny houses. They smiled if you did something well or patted your head. Physical contact, as they called it, was rare in the Corrigans’ house, even between Mr and Mrs Corrigan. They did not hug or cuddle Matt and Steff either, and Caden, who had had too much physical contact for his first ten years, Caden was relieved that no one would be touching him constantly like Aunt Vicky liked to do.

Speaking of Aunt Vicky, she always came at least once a year to see Caden after he moved to the Corrigans’. In the beginning Caden thought it a little tedious to have her come, but in later years he came to enjoy Aunt Vicky’s chaotic visits that always lasted a whole weekend. In his teens he discovered her great talent of making people laugh. She was someone who didn’t expect anything from you except to enjoy yourself and have a good time. She smoked, she drank, she was loud and what Mrs Corrigan called ‘vulgar’, but she was also the kind of person you could ask anything, and Caden took advantage of that when it came to those questions he would never ask the Corrigans. To them, the world was made up of fixed facts of good and bad, order and chaos, enemies and friends, and for a teen like Caden who knew how twisted and out of sync things could be, their answers were always lacking.

At least Aunt Vicky heard you out, maybe asking a few questions in this direction or that. Caden never fully understood them, but at least she asked. And she tended to let him come to his own conclusions. If it was good she smiled and nodded, if she thought it could do with some improvement, she would purse her lips like Mrs Corrigan and continue whatever she was doing. Another thing Caden enjoyed about Aunt Vicky was how she irritated Matt and Steff. They never knew how to take her. She wasn’t fashionable, but she was fun. She wasn’t posh, but she was funny. And she made Caden feel normal again. Having Aunt Vicky come visit always felt like a holiday, a three-day holiday outside his usual life in 34 Willow Drive and by the time Caden passed his GCSEs her visits weren’t something he would have wanted to miss.

August 4, 2014October 9, 2014

(a)wait

It’s so quiet. So quiet. So…
This waiting is killing me, this quiet, silent, waiting that never ends

For something to happen
categories of emptiness

I have no idea what I’m talking about
We sing and swing and live without light

Inside

Out – you go, no, don’t stay, go go go,

Gogo dancers, do they ever get cold?

Inhibition, intuition, into something, into other

me, you, us, them, everybody, anybody,
any body
arms, legs, feet, head,
everything in between
that place that says now now here here
me me me
whereverwhateverwhenever

that part that wants to shout in the street
at 3:30 in the a.m.
I don’t give a damn

fuck it just do it

damn damn damn

damn it go on just do it
all in, all win, all those sins
committed
original

that’s SO original
authentic, real
anyway, every day, all time any damn
and here’s me waiting to

stay stay stay

away, a ray of sunshine
when it’s gone
and it’s all so quiet
a swan, song;

through dawn and day
into the night, bright stars shining
and then lying on a bed in rome, lying, crying

sighing into the night

wishing waiting that maybe, possibly,
somebody just might
get lucky
happy
not frontin’
coz she wants to move

he just wants ta love ya baby
but he’s a hustler too
it ain’t where he been
but where he ’bout to – get back here when the lights come on
I don’t give one damn about Tyrone!
You gonna be back here when the lights come on

come on come on come on

oh come ON!

You did NOT just say that!
Yes I did
Yes I said it.
Yeah I did

And I really, really, really meant it

So take that big
bad wolf that’s howling at the
Put your pants back on! Gross!
Flicking back long blonde hair
Nails all polished
Eyes set on glare

Stare
Stair
way to go
It was heaven
Ya make me wanna
scream and shout

It’s 3 in the fuckin’ a.m. you crazy?
Come back here!

Don’t you dare.

August 4, 2014October 6, 2016

Ellen

It was almost ridiculous where they met again. Ellen was shopping at the deli for a dinner she’d promised her friends. She already had everything at home and now was looking for two or three fine cheeses to round off the dinner. She heard a woman’s voice right then, the kind of self-assured voice wealthy women had, and Ellen looked up to observe this particular specimen. The woman was a tall blonde, with perfectly done hair. She was beyond forty by a few years, maybe more, but she’d kept herself wonderfully well. She was stunning even now. Her makeup was perfect, her clothes of the best quality. The jewellery flashing at her ears, around her neck and on her fingers was beautiful, and her handbag was that particular kind where you did not ask for the price. She was beautiful, rich and powerful, it came off her like expensive perfume, and Ellen saw how others glanced at her admiringly and the shop assistants behind the counter stood to attention, smiling brightly.

‘Honey, what do you say? A little Beluga or would Salmon be enough?’ The woman asked this with a confident turn of her head and Ellen at first didn’t see who she was talking to. He was tall and had the kind of dark hair you knew was expertly taken care of. He was in a suit and there was something in the way he moved that made Ellen look again. She expected the man to be older, his hair dyed but his face betraying his real age – she saw a young, strong neck that had to be at least fifteen years younger than the blonde’s, if not more. Then again, you could never tell with these people. She could have been fifty already, but she did look marvellous, her breasts round (possibly with the help of some surgery, Ellen thought a little viciously) and her figure slender and firm. Ellen was sure she went jogging daily or had a personal trainer or something like that. And what was so bad about that, really? She had the means to keep herself very well, so why not use them? And she really did look good. Was it all that surprising then that she was with someone far younger than herself? Men did it all the time, and now women were catching up too, so why not? Ellen decided it was all rather nice in fact.

There was a short discussion between the blonde and her companion, too low for Ellen to hear and she anyway had to choose, the shop assistant was asking if she could help her. Ellen picked out the cheeses she wanted, hearing how the rich woman chose Beluga after all, enough to pay a fortune for it, but then, what was a fortune to Ellen was probably just peanuts for that beautiful woman. The young assistant packed up the cheeses in perfect wraps of brown paper and string, and Ellen couldn’t help think that the rich blonde would have been able to buy a piece of everything, but Ellen wasn’t her. She had a good life too, though. It just wasn’t as richly expensive, as glitteringly affluent as the blonde’s. Then again, wasn’t it nice to see that a woman at her age had such money and power? Everything about her told Ellen that she had worked hard to get where she was now, that she owed nothing to others and all to herself. It was in a way reassuring. The possibility, at least, was there.

Ellen smiled a thank you at the shop assistant and took the parcel of cheeses. Due to the sudden crowding at the counter, Ellen had to walk the other way, past the rich blonde and whoever-it-was with her. She said ‘Excuse me’ and ‘Pardon’ and moved past the people as best as she could, avoiding the stacked wheels of Gouda, the slim glasses of black olives and the exotic olive oils. She passed close by the rich blonde and her partner, and maybe it was curiosity, but Ellen did take a closer look. It was only a glance, a glimpse of his face, just as they too turned to leave. Ellen could not say if he saw her, but she saw him as he turned. By then she was beyond the shelves and walking without thinking. Her heart was racing so fast, she could feel it in her throat. She finally stopped at a shelf full of chutneys and breathed in deeply. Maybe she had seen wrong. Yes, maybe she had seen wrong. It was a reassuring thought. Yes, she had probably seen wrong. It would be ridiculous to meet in a place like this, especially if he was with that blonde. And who would she be anyway? But she had called him Honey. Maybe she was his mother, but Ellen knew that was wrong. The blonde wasn’t that old yet. Fifteen years at best, maybe twenty if she’d kept herself really well.

Ellen shook her head. No, she must have seen wrong. It was probably a trick of the light and it was really only a glimpse. Anyone could look like anything in a second. Yes, exactly. Ellen exhaled once more and went to pay her cheeses and the baguettes, feeling a bit like a mademoiselle. She had to wait in line and couldn’t help it, she looked along the other two queues. They were there. She was in her expensive skirt and jacket combination and he was in that perfect suit. She was talking to him and he was nodding. Ellen recognized the gesture immediately. It was in the shoulders and the turn of his head. It was in the way his hair fell and the angle of his face, showing a profile she could never forget. Just as the blonde turned to pay with her card he turned and their eyes met. Ellen felt everything inside clutch sharply, snatching at her breath. It was him. It was him. It was him. And he knew it was her, she could see it. ‘Miss?’ the young man at the cashier asked. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Ellen said, flustered, blushing. She paid her cheeses and the baguettes. They walked past her just as she was done. He did not look at her. They stepped through the sliding doors and were gone. Ellen saw that her hands were not steady when she took her card. She thanked the young man at the cashier and walked out into the rest of her evening.

It was him, there was no denying it. She had seen. He was not a figment of her imagination as she had come to believe over the past year, ok, seven months. Six and half. Those days had been too perfect, those weeks had been too wonderful to be real. She must have read it or seen it somewhere. It could not have happened. It could not have happened if she woke up alone that Monday and it was as if nothing had ever happened. Ellen had come to believe that, since it made it easier. She could think about it without wanting to cry if she believed it was a dream, a hallucination, a figment of her imagination, a vision in a dream. Where did she read that? Probably a blurb or magazine somewhere. Anyway, that was how she could bear it, by believing that it really never happened, it actually never took place. Now, that was impossible. It was him. She would have recognized that face anywhere.

Ellen arrived home quicker than she expected. She climbed the stairs to her front door and dreaded opening it, but she was in for a surprise. Her friend Tara was waiting with bags of shopping, grinning, ‘I got bored waiting and decided you need some help.’ Ellen smiled gratefully, and pushed back the sudden tears. She would not cry, definitely not now. No, she would not. And anyway, she had seen wrong. If she wanted to enjoy the evening, if she wanted to keep her smile, if she simply wanted to live in peace, she had to believe that. It wasn’t him. It was someone cruelly like him, but it wasn’t him. There was no one like him. He did not exist. And with that, Ellen opened the door to her apartment, stepped back into her life and started preparing the dinner, laughing with Tara who had new outrageous stories to tell, she really was a great friend, she somehow always knew when to turn up in time and make Ellen smile again.

A week later, Ellen came home from work feeling exhausted. The whole week had been draining. She had managed her dinner quite well, what with Tara making her laugh the whole time, and once Anne, Leon and the others joined, everything was great again anyway. But even after they left the memory was there, waiting like a bear-trap under dried leaves, snapping closed the moment Ellen walked into her bedroom. The tears were back, but she refused. She would not. No. She would not cry. She absolutely would not. She refused to. It would not happen. No tear would pearl and slide, she would not reach for any Kleenex, she would simply brush her teeth, change for bed and sleep. And Ellen managed very well until she was in bed, and turned on the TV and found a rom-com on one of the channels, one of those sticky-sweet movies with that young woman who had that face like a sweet young puppy and just got kicked like one by the bastard friend she had, shouting gleefully ‘He’s just not that into you!’ or something like that, really relishing it. Ellen saw the tears slide down the pretty face on-screen and clenched her teeth. She would not. She would not. But she did. Awfully. She cleaned out her whole box of Kleenex, she just couldn’t stop.

Somehow Ellen fell asleep. When she woke up she saw the massacre of Kleenex on her bed and floor. That was the beginning of the end. Saturday was… not good. It was so bad, she called Tara, but Tara was busy with her own life and never took her calls. Sunday turned up, and it got marginally better. Tara came over with coffee, cake and bottles of wine, and watched all kinds of nonsense with Ellen, one rom-com after the other, the worse the better, until they ended up watching Audrey Hepburn movies and singing drunkenly while draining their glasses and pouring out more wine. Tara really was the best friend Ellen had ever had, she always turned up with her emergency kit of sugar, caffeine and alcohol, coffee, cakes and wine, and didn’t care how long it took or what time it was, she stayed until Ellen stopped crying.

Monday showed up without asking and Ellen had a headache, a bad one, but she felt more like herself again. Tara had already gone home by the time her alarm went off. She had taped a post-it to Ellen’s forehead, Tara liked to do things like that. It was hugs and kisses and Need to talk? Call me!, which made Ellen smile a real smile. Tara was the best, she really was. Ellen crawled out of bed, showered, dressed and went to work, lying that she felt a bit chill when someone asked her what was wrong. It was snowing outside so they believed her.

Even so, every day was a trial. By Thursday, Ellen was exhausted all over again. She didn’t want to think anymore. She didn’t want to remember anymore. She was starting to feel that anger she loved, that anger that she had met him, that she had been so foolish to ask, and listen and answer and actually believe it meant something, that she had been stupid enough to talk to him, to give herself away like that as if she had no brain in her head.

Ellen loved that anger, it brought her back into the life she knew, that life that was hers again. By Friday evening Ellen detected the beginnings of normalcy. That anger was growing and soon, very soon, she would spend her hours and days furiously living her own life, with her own thoughts, her own feelings, her own peace of mind. Maybe she would call David and agree to meet him again, her evenings and nights with him were always very nice and he really was a good man. Yes, she would do that. She would go home and ask David if he would like to come over for some pasta, Ellen was very good with pasta, everyone liked her pasta, people even asked her to make it again. Yes, she would call David and ask him if he would like some pasta and wine, she was sure he wouldn’t mind a few hours to relax and unwind.

July 31, 2014October 20, 2014

honeymoon

Not PG rated.

He was the last of the line, and she had the money. That was it really. He was the last of an old line, and she, or rather her father, had the money. She would get the name, her children would be highborn. He would get the money. It was a fair deal as these deals went. Others read novels of dashing young gentlemen fighting rogues for love, but she boarded a train so that he got the money and her father’s grandchildren would be called Sir.

Georgie had little illusions about what was expected of her. There was the ceremony and the toast and the dance. Then they were to take the train to the coast and from there cross over. Her father had already booked and paid everything, they would be travelling for three months. She was told to write and enjoy herself, maybe even take pictures. Nothing would change, save the fact that she was married and respectable, and that half the Continent would fawn over her. After the three months they would return and then she could start cleaning up the manor, putting money into it, getting it back to its old glory. It was all part of the deal, and Georgie knew her part in it.

He didn’t approach her until they were on the boat. They hardly talked on the train, except when he asked her if she was comfortable. She felt, rather than knew, that he disliked this arrangement, that he too felt sold somehow. He was the last of his line, but unlike most of his kind he didn’t look like the runt of the litter. The family had taken care to keep fresh blood coming in, so he was in fact quite decent looking. He was tall, which was nice, she reached him to his chin. His shoulders were broad like a butcher, probably there was a butcher’s boy somewhere in his blood line, you never knew what these families did to make sure the line didn’t go stale. He had dark eyes, black almost, with dark brown hair. His nose was patrician, a clean line, slightly curved but not hooked. He had very nice lips, soft and clearly defined, as if someone had taken them from one of those statues. Otherwise she saw long legs, and a very good taste in suits. He was, for the lack of a better word, a good-looking man, not pretty but attractive. He didn’t look like someone who indulged in silliness, though she could see him dead drunk on scotch and wine. She would wait and see how his habits were once they were back, people were always a bit nicer in foreign countries. Maybe because you had to stick together otherwise you got lost.

He approached her on deck. She was smoking a cigarette, the sea was calm. He stopped next to her, lit his own and exhaled, sliding one hand into his pockets. Georgie waited, but he said nothing. They stayed like that until the bell rang for tea, and he motioned if they should go back in together. Georgie nodded, they went back in. Inside, they sat across each other and she saw him order coffee instead of tea, he wanted none of the cake or sandwiches. She had one sandwich and a cake, she had hardly eaten any luncheon. He started talking then, asking her what she had seen of the country. She answered and that was how they started talking. It was pleasant, every now and then he flashed a smile. He had a nice smile, a little unsettling maybe, Georgie couldn’t say why. They talked well, he lit her cigarette for her, and once they reached port he helped her into her coat and waited for her.

They took the train to the capital and checked in at the George V, taking the suite her father had reserved for them. They went out for dinner, he said he knew a place she might like. It was nice, very French, but the food was delicious and she enjoyed every bit of it. On their drive back however, she began getting fidgety, but did her best not to show it. They were married after all, this was part of the deal. She had to get pregnant at some point, the sooner the better. Her parents half expected her to be showing by the time she returned.

In the suite, Georgie took her time to change. In the bathroom she looked at her reflection, the chestnut hair, the wide, violet eyes. She wasn’t beautiful. She wished she was, but something was off with the symmetry. Her lips weren’t too thin, nor was her nose hooked, but she was plain. Her face was round rather than sleekly thin. She looked like a cherub rather than one of those cat-like creatures. If she had at least something dramatic, something that caught your eye, but all she had in that line were her eyes. They were very pretty. Oh, and her bust. She had large breasts for her frame, and child-bearing hips. She wasn’t ugly, but she wasn’t beautiful. She had that pleasant look that most men liked since it wouldn’t get others interested. She’d heard that from someone once, a teacher in school. It had hurt then, but now Georgie didn’t fight it. She would never look like one of those beautiful creatures on the silver screen. But her face was pleasant, and she had very good teeth.

Finally, Georgie was in her nightgown and wrapper. She kept herself from smoking another cigarette, downed the glass of whisky she poured herself and went out. He was standing at the open window, holding a tumbler, watching something by the look of it. He turned when she closed the door. He closed the window, crushing the cigarette she hadn’t seen in an ashtray. He drank one last sip from his scotch and put that down as well. He was in pyjamas and a house gown. Georgie didn’t know what to do. She had been told, Annabelle had been very explicit, married as she was herself, and Katie had giggled all through it, Georgie staring at her sisters, mouth shut, eyes wide. Yet, it was going to be done. His family expected an heir as soon as possible, and there was only one way to get one.

They were on the bed, under the sheets. He had already removed his shirt, but he still had his trousers on. He had removed her nightdress. Georgie was completely naked, staring at the ceiling. He had kissed her, but Tommy Chingham had already kissed her behind the shed, so she knew how that was. He was better than Tommy Chingham, at least he didn’t fill her mouth with his tongue and kept his hands to himself. He really had nice lips. He kept on pressing them gently against her cheek and neck and the back of her ear. The second time he started talking, asking, ‘Have you done anything like this before?’ Mystified, Georgie asked, ‘Like what?’ ‘Have you ever been with a man before,’ he asked, and Georgie blushed.

Peter Saunders had touched her breasts and slipped his hand between her thighs, brushing her silkies. He’d gone a bit further at that party, pushing two in, kissing her and doing things that opened something inside her and made him remove his hand in horror. He thought those days had started and only after they were in the light did Georgie realize what poured out of her wasn’t blood, but something else. Somehow worse. Georgie had been so ashamed after that she couldn’t face him again and avoided all the places she could meet him. But that was as far as she knew, so she shook her head. He nodded then, saying ‘I’ll be careful.’ Georgie didn’t know what to make of that and so just waited.

He touched her everywhere. He was kissing her and touching her everywhere, her shoulders and arms, her breasts, both, her sides and middle, her thighs, inside and out, her knees and calves, even her feet. He touched her everywhere and Georgie lay as she was, clutching the sheets. At one point he took her arms and wrapped them around his neck, that was before he moved over her, spread her legs and moved over her, kissing her more. She could feel what was there, Katie said penis to it, but Annabelle, naughty girl, she said cock. It was there, hard and hot, pressed against her, ready to do it. He stopped kissing her and then said ‘Ready?’ and she nodded because it didn’t really matter whether now or later, it would hurt anyway. She felt it first, broader, thicker than anything she expected. She was sure it would never fit and grabbed his shoulders, unable to say it. He said ‘Hold on’ and suddenly he was in and Georgie screamed. She tried not to, but the tears came and she couldn’t stop them. She heard ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Don’t cry’ but she couldn’t stop it, it just hurt too much. ‘Should I stop?’ he asked and Georgie nodded because she couldn’t bear to feel that again. She couldn’t stop the cry when he removed it, but at least he was gone and Georgie turned away, curled up, so completely in pain there was nothing she could do to stop the tears from falling.

He tried twice more that night, but each time was as bad as the last until he understood that he could do nothing to make it better. Every time he entered her it hurt so much Georgie was in tears. He got up after the last time, got up and poured her a glass, at least she thought so, but he drank a large gulp first, before he filled it up more and brought it to her. She couldn’t sit, but she leaned on her arm and drank, feeling the scotch burn her throat and warm her stomach. She drained almost the whole glass after which the room quickly turned hazy. She didn’t remember much of what happened next, but it soon didn’t matter since she fell asleep anyway.

They were at the sea. The house was beautiful and the staff was taking very good care of them. They had separate bedrooms, which was nice, since that way there wouldn’t be that unspoken thing between them. They were very friendly towards each other during the day, doing their best to be as civil as possible. Anyone watching them, anyone hearing them, anyone seeing them even, would never have guessed what agonies Georgie endured every night for the first two weeks. He tried every other night, or if it was very bad, then he left her to herself for three days. But he always came back, and Georgie prayed that he would finally realize that it would not get better. She tried everything, whisky and a long bath, she even tried those meditations Katie had talked of that were supposed to help, apparently it was supposed to help relax her. She could not pray though, but she did try what she could to calm herself, to relax herself, to just do something so that it wouldn’t hurt so much again, but nothing worked. At night all there was, was pain, and Georgie could see that he was getting impatient. If this continued for three months their marriage would be unpleasant. He was still willing to believe that she could not change it. Georgie didn’t want to think of what would happen if he started believing otherwise.

They were at the sea, and it was beautiful. It was evening, and Georgie was walking down the beach, it wasn’t too dark yet. As always, two things occupied her mind. The day as it was, and the night as it was about to come. The days were always pleasant. Eduard, she had finally come to call him by his name, even in her head, Eduard was a gentleman. He took care of her. He could be a bit rough in the way he treated the staff, but never mean spirited. He just expected them to do their work well. He took her for drives and they visited so many of his friends that Georgie was starting to lose track. They went swimming and sightseeing, they drank coffee in beautiful cafés and ate in wonderful restaurants. The days, the days were wonderful, but the nights… Georgie stopped and looked to the water. How did other women do it? How did they endure it? How by all the heavens did brothels work? And yet there had been that time with Peter Saunders where he pushed his fingers in and they both thought she had her period. That had never happened again and Georgie was starting to wonder if that didn’t have something to do with what she had to endure every other night. She hadn’t allowed another to touch her ever since Peter, too mortified that would happen again. She had read so much in these past two, no three weeks, on her condition, sneaking pamphlets and books into her room and hiding them between her clothes so no one could see them. She read so much that she slowly felt like a psychologist herself. The doctor had said there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was young and healthy and ready to have children. He said it sometimes took time to relax, but it wasn’t as if she was anxious with Eduard. Not during the day at least. At night however… Georgie walked on. How on earth was she to change this? How was she to make it happen?