And there is a moment
And for a second it all makes sense
And then it slips
And you end up chasing that something-or-other all your life
© 2021 threegoodwords
Moment
I did something once…
~ Sometimes Summer lasts all year. . . ~
I did something once and that was finish a story.
A story people who visited threegoodwords back then followed.
And followed.
And enjoyed.
I remember reading those first comments and how I was genuinely shocked: Look! I told those close to me. Look, they’re reading it! Can you believe it? THEY’RE READING WHAT I WROTE!
I was deeply touched. I really can’t thank you lovely people enough, you know who you are. For without those first readers I would never have continued, never even thought to think that this little story of mine, maybe, maybe, could be something more. But here they were, reading what I wrote, a few even asking for more…
That was the beginning, that was the story
That became a final draft
That turned into a galley.
And the galley was read. By friends and strangers, by people who had a vested interested in seeing my story turn into A Book. There were long conversations, honest, helpful. There were days of frustration. There was way more editing.
~Three Oaks was the only house down Redrock that had its own road sign.~
And finally, one day, the whole was The Sun Born Over. Suddenly it was out there. Suddenly it was something more.
The Sun Born Over is an ebook, available on Amazon, which is something I still find hard to believe at times. I am genuinely grateful for an experience I never expected, and a team that was marvelous, despite the ups and downs of (online) publishing. Really, it is quite something.
As to my readers who simply wanted to know more of what was going on with Those Two (you know who):
Thank you so much for reading, liking, and commenting, for simply being there and helping The Sun Born Over simply happen.
Really: Thank you.
j.d.
toxic
Â
I remember this anger
the slow-simmering boil
clenched tight just above the gut
that sleepless certainty of knowing
you have been wronged
on every scale.
‘Stupid is as stupid does’
But I’m no Forrest
I can see the trees for what they are
the beginning of a long Heart of Darkness
where everything is warped
and wrong and upside down
because even the mood is toxic
and suddenly I can trace the battle scars
fading into the foreground
like that tattoo you forgot about
or those combat boots out back
grown dusty in the shed
the ones that helped you cross
that violent overgrown desert.
And now it’s time
time to take down the gas-mask
and strap on the worn leather
find your trusted binoculars
the ones without the fancy bits
but excellent night vision
now it is time to get out the maps
the combat notes, the exit strategies
and scout almost-forgotten terrain
because you know this is no joke.
this is as real as it gets
this is the old and known
enemy.
Â
© 2017 threegoodwords
beanie’s beanery, II
Not PG rated
Sam was on page 52 when Greg turned up with the tea. ‘Don’t you look gorgeous today,’ he faux-gasped, a be-ringed hand on his chest, the other splayed neatly against his hip. Tall, model-slim Greg with the bright blue sleeves flashing underneath the cuffs of his black-striped shirt, Greg who looked far too cute in everything he wore.
‘Greg, you know I look awful right now,’ Sam rolled her eyes.
‘Awful shmawful, you know you’re always lovely, darling. Fab earrings you got there. They new?’
‘Yeah, got them last week,’ Sam smiled, somehow proud of having über-fashionista Greg acknowledge them at all.
‘Look at you, treatin’ yourself like a grown up,’ Greg smiled, and he meant that smile. ‘By the way, El Gringo thinks my pantaloons are too cute.’
‘Really?’ Sam asked, eyeing the super-tight purple fake leather Greg was sporting.
‘Nearly shit himself, the sod,’ Greg grinned nastily. ‘Probably thought I was about to infect him with some sex-lurgy. Next time I’ll throw some glitter on him just to see what happens.’
Sam couldn’t help laugh, shaking her head, ‘Greg, you’re too much.’
‘What? That phobic phobe of the phobes deserves everything he gets,’ Greg sniffed, looking like the poshboy he really was. ‘Anyway, just wanted to warn you if something epic happens.
‘You think it might?’
‘My goal is to make the boy cry,’ Greg sighed dreamily, before whispering, ‘Sob, mothafucka, sob.’
Greg flashed a devious grin, twirled a perfect 90° that showed just how professional his dancing once had been, and catwalked back to the counter like a prima donna, making those new to Beanie’s stare and the old crowd smile into their drinks.
*
Sam shook her head, smiling, Greg really was one of a kind, Greg who was actually Agregán, ‘cos mother was shagging some post-cubist madman or something. Nah, don’t ask me, Mater and Pater’re just mental,’ Greg who’s Dad was some double-named City banker, his Mum a minor ’80s socialite, and Greg their ‘super-duper-gay’ third son who co-owned Beanie’s. Only Sam knew about that, though, because Greg told her once when they were fabulously drunk at his brother’s birthday bash somewhere ridiculously expensive in Mayfair. Sam had been Greg’s date since ‘the family’ didn’t like witnessing Greg’s ‘habits and ways’, so he needed ‘a legit woman who looks good in a sparkly dress.’ So Sam it was, though Sam knew Sonia would have loved to come.
It was in that niche with the comfy cushions, sipping genuine champagne from the Champagne while Dr Dre’s samples thumped through the walls, it was there that Greg gave her the 411: he’d given Marion the money. He didn’t want it back, at all, ‘I wasn’t joking. Look, I have way too much of it already, so, y’know, if it helped sweet Mareyon, pourquois pas?’ So Marion got the money she needed to start her dream, all Greg wanted was for her to get Beanie’s up and running, but Marion refused to take it without giving something back, so Greg got some shares. ‘Thirty percent, that’s what. Marion said I can’t be trusted with more, and she’s right. Imagine me as a bossman.’ Greg burst out laughing before squishing a kiss against Sam’s cheek and sighing, ‘I love you, Sam-I-am, I love you so much,’ with tears in his eyes.
That was during the god-awful Weston time. Everyone in Beanie’s hated Weston, from the staff to the regulars to Aboyemi who brought the blends from St John Roast once a week. Weston was evil, Weston was wrong, Weston broke Greg’s heart really bad and it took way too long until Greg got away from him. Thank God Marion threw Weston out that time he attacked Greg in the middle of Beanie’s, punching Greg because Greg refused to give him more money, Greg who looked terrified and unable to flee, beautiful, salty Greg who suddenly looked so helpless. Marion raced around the counter, yelling, looking like a mother bear who just saw her cub get mauled, Marion who hit Weston over and over, shoving him across Beanie’s, yelling, ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!‘ Weston who didn’t know what hit him, he looked just as shocked as everyone else.
It happened so fast, suddenly Weston was just gone, Marion yelling down the street, ‘I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you piece o’ shit! Mothafucka! Yeah, run, before I cut your fuckin’ balls off! Run, mothafucka, run!’Â When she came back into Beanie’s, she looked furious, embarrassed, and defiant, gave their shocked faces one look and said, ‘What? Greg’s my baby, you know that.’ And that somehow broke the spell. They all smiled with relief, the emergency was over and Weston, who scared everybody, was finally gone.
It was Marion who threatened Weston with the police when he tried to come back a week later, because everyone knew Weston always had some coke on him. It was Marion who basically locked Greg into her flat down near Shepherd’s Bush to save him from himself, because Greg had started saying things like, ‘He didn’t really mean it that way, he was just upset’, Marion who finally talked some sense into Greg after they all had an intervention with muffins, coffee, and very many hugs, and about three weeks later the mess was finally over: 
Marion had called the police on Weston who somehow knew exactly where his stash was and that was the end of the evil bastard.
It still took about a year until Greg was back on track again, a year until Greg really started laughing again, a year until Greg stopped with the lines and started getting healthy again, though the vegan-thing only lasted six weeks, probably because Marion’s pancakes and waffles were to die for. Now he was smiling again, Greg who loved bamboozling Darren, Greg who flirted shamelessly with women, Greg who was currently seeing a Colin, fresh out of Oxbridge and working for some Attaché or something, and so part of Greg’s posh crowd, except that Colin was surprisingly the sweetest, shyest, and prettiest sweetheart Sam had ever seen. Everyone liked Colin. Everyone told Greg this was the best one yet, everyone agreed with Marion who spelled it out, ‘He’s cute. Don’t fuck it up. Y’know, just enjoy it for once.’ And by the look of it Greg was really trying to do just that.
*
© 2017 threegoodwords
Iris Moore, Part VII
The stationmaster’s office was a middle-sized room with a broad desk and a wide window facing the platform. There were charts and timetables on the walls and a shelf full of ledgers took up one side. The kettle was steaming on the small stove and a blue teapot stood next to an empty cup with a spoon in it, a light spray of sugar scattered about a milk jug. The huge bulk of the desk was littered with papers, letters and more ledgers, half hiding a few pens, an inkwell, and bright brass lamp.
Mr. Andrews, as the stationmaster introduced himself, pulled up a chair for Iris and asked her to please sit down. He took out a cup with a saucer from an open shelf and handed it to her with a small bow after wiping it briskly, looking oddly like a bedraggled butler. He poured out the tea and offered milk and sugar, asking Iris how her train ride was and if she liked the country so far. Iris answered accordingly, smiling politely when Mr. Andrews exclaimed, ‘Seven days! My, you must be glad to have arrived. Too bad you’re husband’s delayed.’ Yes, too bad indeed. Again the panicked thought that Christian O’Brian might have actually forgotten her tried to steal itself into Iris’ mind but she shut it out quickly. Once she let it in, all others would follow. It would not do to lose her head. It would be much better to drink tea instead. Iris took a sip and realized that the tea was actually fine.
‘I hope it’s not too strong, I’m still practicing making it,’ the stationmaster said a little anxiously, looking small behind his massive desk. Iris said it was perfect. Mr. Andrews smiled proudly and took a healthy gulp from his cup. He was about to ask another question when he suddenly turned to the window. Something must have caught his eye. He put down his cup and got up hastily, excusing himself before stepping out to the platform. Given dusk had fallen rather quickly and the stationmaster’s office was brightly lit, Iris could not see who Mr. Andrews was talking to, but she heard a male voice, younger and deeper than Mr. Andrew’s by the sound of it – her heart lept in her chest when Mr. Andrews said, ‘Of course, Mr. O’Brian. ’
Sitting as she was, holding her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other, Iris did not know what to do. Real nervousness was starting to spread. Iris carefully set down the cup and saucer and sat as straight and dignified as she could. She would simply wait until he entered. It was, after all, inevitable.
‘I just made some tea,’ she heard Mr. Andrews say, approaching. ‘I thought your wife wouldn’t mind a cup while she waited. Sad about the gates, though,’ Mr Andrews continued, ‘Callaghan should finally do something about them.’
Mr. Andrew’s was almost at the door by then, the sound of heavy boots following the stationmaster’s quick tread. Iris sat as still as she could, her heart racing.
‘Mrs. O’Brian?’ Mr. Andrews called. ‘I think your husband’s here.’
Seeing that she could not risk to look hesitant, let alone reluctant with the stationmaster watching, Iris rose calmly from her seat and turned to the door, just as Christian O’Brian stepped into the light.
He was taller than she expected. Iris registered a simple jacket, dark and clean, a white shirt without a tie, a buckled belt and denim. She finally looked at his face. He did not look half as severe as his photographic twin. He was not unsightly, which was a genuine relief. She had not known his hair color for the black and white of the photograph, but now she saw that it indeed was black after he removed his hat before stepping in. His eyes were hazel under two even eyebrows, eyes that looked back at her directly, as if he had always expected to see her in the stationmaster’s office.
‘Iris,’ he nodded and Iris remembered where she was and who was watching them. ‘Hello, Christian,’ she answered and, after a heartbeat of awkwardness, she stepped forward, offering her hand. He took it without hesitation and kissed its back as if he had always done this and this was not the very first time. He held her hand just long enough for it to look like a familiar greeting and then let go, stepping aside to let her pass through the door.
‘I’ll tell Jeremy to get your trunk then, Ma’am,’ Mr. Andrews said and hurried on past Iris into the dark, calling out for said Jeremy to hurry up and bring Mrs. O’Brian’s trunk up front, ‘get to it, lad!’ Iris stood between the light of Mr. Andrew’s office and the growing dark of dusk, fully aware of Christian O’Brian standing only a step away – he turned to her right then as he put on his hat again.
‘My apologies for being late,’ he said politely. ‘There was some trouble with the river again.’
‘Another flood?’ Iris asked. He nodded,
‘I had to wait till they could close the gates. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.’
He looked at her then, as directly as before. Iris shook her head, looking away, acutely aware of the simple ring on her finger. She was here now, married to this man, and the extent of what this meant was just beginning to dawn on her. It had all seemed far away as long as it was just letters and signatures and a long ride on the train. Now, however, what started with a bright morning reading Mr. Godfrey’s paper ended with her standing on Riverton Station’s platform next to an absolute stranger by the name of Christian O’Brian. She should probably start referring to him as Christian now, though it felt so strange to be so informal to someone she hardly knew.
Iris held her purse tightly and did her best not to look how she felt, which was a wild urge to run and hide. She could not say why, Christian O’Brian did not look menacing, but the urge was there to simply find a place where she could hide herself until she understood what was happening. Not that she didn’t know, and yet the shock was real: she was here. She was really, truly here. It was what made her jump when Christian O’Brian motioned for her to proceed towards the exit of the station once Jeremy appeared, carrying her trunk with Mr. Andrews’ help. She walked around the building to a lamp-lit street where an empty buggy was waiting, the dappled grey pawing the sand. Mr. Andrews and Jeremy made short thrift with her trunk, tying it to the back of the vehicle, Christian O’Brian – she would have to stop with the O’Brian – tipping Jeremy and shaking hands with Mr. Andrews, who asked if the gates were filling quickly again.
‘Fast enough, but not like last year,’ Christian O’Brian answered.
‘Well, that’s something then,’ Mr. Andrews nodded.
He tapped his cap to Iris with a ‘Ma’am’ and waited until Christian O’Brian was seated before he nodded to him as well. Iris, sitting in the far corner of the buggy, saw how Christian O’ – Christian flicked the reins and suddenly they were driving down into Riverton, the grey trotting easily on the sanded road, the turn of the wheels and the horse’s tread the only sounds in the silence.
*
Iris sat as still as possible, her hands folded over her purse in her lap, searching for something to break the silence, but all she could think of was that Christian O’ – no, he had kissed her hand as if it was the most natural thing, and now they sat in this buggy as if they were really a married couple, which they were, and that he was probably bringing her to his house (which she had seen with her inner eye for so many days, she wondered if the truth would shatter her dream), not to mention whether what she had done was sensible or if it was what she felt right then: complete and utter madness.
She did not know this man and yet she was bound to him by all legal actions and even before God, if the blessing of the curate counted as well. Iris watched the quiet, dark landscape pass by, disturbed every now and then by homesteads with brightly lit windows. She watched in silence, trying to tamp down a rising sensation of panic. No, it would not do to fret, let alone lose her head, she was here now and so far Christian O’Brian, no, Christian had been courteous if not a little reserved, but considering his letters that should not be a surprise. 
It was still difficult for Iris to equal the C. O’Brian she knew from the letters with the man sitting next to her who was guiding the grey down the road, past houses and gardens and other buggies and carriages, whose passengers, thank God, were obscured by darkness. Iris kept to the shadows as best as she could, not wanting to be seen, or worse, having someone stop and ask questions. She sat as still as possible, waiting for her heartbeat to settle, though she doubted it ever would again.
© 2016 threegoodwords
three good words 