He turned the corner and fell in love. Small breasts, open-necked shirt. Birkenstocks and cropped trousers. Short brown hair, just the right amount of bounce in her walk.
He could see the first date, faltering steps, half-gestures. Beer and tentative conversation, wine and arms about shoulders. Birthday presents, a toothbrush at sink, an afternoon spent in bed. Long car journeys together...
She turned her head and the sun sparked off her necklace. His heart broke as she crossed the road away from him. The clouds scuttled across the sky. He turned the corner and fell in love.
massacre at camber sands
He looked at the debris scattered over the beach. Cans, bottles, discarded and sprayed with red.
He'd found himself eye to eye with this lithe, brown-haired thing. She beckoned with her hips and swung away from him. He had followed, hypnotised, out of the heaving crowd.
He was cold. The clean dawn light spilled shadows under every turned head, ripped shirt, wrenched arm. An upturned box of beer cans glinted despite the cloud cover. The spectacle refused to register, his brain wouldn't to respond. He was still high, nerves scraping, eyes wide. He willed himself to react but couldn't drag from his mind the deafening euphoria.
He collided with her when she stopped just before the treeline. Pressed against him, swaying to the still audible music, his mind almost painfully focused on her body against his. She whispered sticky words to him and pulled him to the ground with her.
He'd heard screams. Unfamiliar, out of place. Sharp crashes followed by a thud, then terrifying silence.
She was standing before he was, both suddenly animal, wordless, instinctual. She sprang away, searching the sand-covered faces, back towards the town.
Who had she lost? There was a nugget of civilisation in him that wanted to smoke a joint, have a night's sleep and retreat. He dismissed this as impractical. Curiosity was a more immediate concern.
He'd found himself eye to eye with this lithe, brown-haired thing. She beckoned with her hips and swung away from him. He had followed, hypnotised, out of the heaving crowd.
He was cold. The clean dawn light spilled shadows under every turned head, ripped shirt, wrenched arm. An upturned box of beer cans glinted despite the cloud cover. The spectacle refused to register, his brain wouldn't to respond. He was still high, nerves scraping, eyes wide. He willed himself to react but couldn't drag from his mind the deafening euphoria.
He collided with her when she stopped just before the treeline. Pressed against him, swaying to the still audible music, his mind almost painfully focused on her body against his. She whispered sticky words to him and pulled him to the ground with her.
He'd heard screams. Unfamiliar, out of place. Sharp crashes followed by a thud, then terrifying silence.
She was standing before he was, both suddenly animal, wordless, instinctual. She sprang away, searching the sand-covered faces, back towards the town.
Who had she lost? There was a nugget of civilisation in him that wanted to smoke a joint, have a night's sleep and retreat. He dismissed this as impractical. Curiosity was a more immediate concern.
workday
Suspect number one: apparently sweet-natured, talkative. Buck-toothed and almost too innocent-looking for a woman of thirty years.
Suspect number two: soft-spoken, prone to outbursts without warning. history of family violence. Not many close friends.
Suspect number three: twitchy, small, sharp-eyed. Always looking over his shoulder...
She paused, and looked over her shoulder. The bustle continued. As long as her screen was filled with periodically expanding text, nothing was amiss. In reality, she hadn't worked for the best part of this month. She wasn't needed and took advantage of the chaos around her. An island of order and cleanliness in a dust storm. On really quiet days she would take her book and read in the little-used top floor lavatories.
The snapper turtle lurched from his glass-walled office, gurning and screeching. Legs jointed awkwardly to stiff hips and numb feet. Adjacent, the frog sits, sqaulid, dripping stagnant water onto the carpet and upholstery. His throat billows as he calls across the room.
Intent on the screen, glasses slipping down her nose. An escaped lock of hair dances in the breeze from an electric fan. She is motionless in a deserted room, quiet but for the tapping of fingertips against plastic.
Suspect number three is sleepless. He has attributed this to mythical 'nerves'. Pressing his face into the pillow, he breathes erratically and tries to stop thinking.
Suspect number two: soft-spoken, prone to outbursts without warning. history of family violence. Not many close friends.
Suspect number three: twitchy, small, sharp-eyed. Always looking over his shoulder...
She paused, and looked over her shoulder. The bustle continued. As long as her screen was filled with periodically expanding text, nothing was amiss. In reality, she hadn't worked for the best part of this month. She wasn't needed and took advantage of the chaos around her. An island of order and cleanliness in a dust storm. On really quiet days she would take her book and read in the little-used top floor lavatories.
The snapper turtle lurched from his glass-walled office, gurning and screeching. Legs jointed awkwardly to stiff hips and numb feet. Adjacent, the frog sits, sqaulid, dripping stagnant water onto the carpet and upholstery. His throat billows as he calls across the room.
Intent on the screen, glasses slipping down her nose. An escaped lock of hair dances in the breeze from an electric fan. She is motionless in a deserted room, quiet but for the tapping of fingertips against plastic.
Suspect number three is sleepless. He has attributed this to mythical 'nerves'. Pressing his face into the pillow, he breathes erratically and tries to stop thinking.
hair and nails
All the trouble started when her parents locked her in a third-storey room of their house. No castle, but it was pretty big. In her favour, she was a practically-minded girl, and didn't hesitate to utilise every available resource to solve the problem of her house-arrest.
He hadn't wanted to be in the horseback corps. He hadn't really wanted to join the king's army in the first place, but he couldn't think of anything better to do when he left school. He'd had no ambition beyond ground infantry, but for some reason he catapulted up and up. Before he knew it, he was a decorated peacetime Seargeant Major. Which meant full chain mail, plate suit and helmet.
In the winter, he could overcome his GMT (Genital Magnetic Tendencies) by wearing thick woollen under-drawers. They itched terribly, but it was better than getting cosy with chainmail while in the saddle...
Since birth, she had coped with endlessly ample body hair. In actual fact, it had never been a significant problem. It just meant she kept her leg hair in check with hair-cutting shears instead of a razor. And then there was that first date when she'd tried to carry off a sleeveless gown. But the boy was easily forgotten...
In the summer things became difficult. More often than not he would forego the chainmail, as that was frankly dangerous. He just gritted his teeth and cantered along, testicles clinging to the inside of his metal armour.
She first saw him standing behind a rhodedendron in the grounds behind her parent's house, not far from her window. He was naked from the waist down, urinating with audible relief. As he turned around she gasped, never having seen a naked man before. He looked up, saw her face in the high window and screamed, running to hide behind his horse nearby.
He asked why she was in that room, with a barred window. She explained she was condemned to be captive for the rest of her life. Hearing this, and being a gentleman, he was outraged. Inside he was boyishly excited. A damsel to rescue...here was his change for fame, glory! But then he realised he had no trousers on.
"How can i get up there?"
"There's no stairway, I think it's been blocked off at both ends"
"But there's...a drainpipe! I will climb up to you"
"No, i'm fine, really! Listen..."
"Fear not, damsel"
With that, he took a running leap at the drainpipe stretching from ground to gutter. His penis adhered to the cast iron with a resounding 'chunnngg'. He bit his lip till blood drew, and then locked his arms around the pipe. Slowly, amid protests shouted from above, he hauled himself skywards.
He didn't reach her windowsill till past nightfall. He was panting, dizzy with exhaustion and pain. She took him under the arms and pulled him into her room. The last thing he saw was her face above his, her lips moving without sound.
As he came to, he moaned sleepily and tried to turn over. Agony shot through his body and he lay tense and rigid, waiting for it to subside. His penis was so painful it made him dizzy every time he shifted his weight.
...But he had made it all the way up the drainpipe. Three storeys on determination and magnetism alone. Why did he do it? The girl. The girl...
She watched him stir, and cry out in pain. She'd bandaged him up as best she could, given her embarassment (and honest facination with the man.) She'd washed his face and body, dressed his wounded limbs and genitals and wrapped him in her own sheets. Stupid boy. The rope she'd made was strong enough for her, she knew, but what about him? Now she would have to figure out a way to get them both down to ground level...
He sat up in the weak morning sunlight to see her sitting on the floor with her skirt up around her knees, facing away from him. He cleared his throat quietly. She looked over her shoulder at him, and he wondered if feigning sleep was a good idea. But then she rose, the hem of her dress dropping to the floor. He tore his eyes from the swirl of shin and petticoat and met hers. She blushed furiously.
"Your dressings need changing. It's been a day"
"A day? How long have I been here?"
There was an awkward pause.
"My, uh, dressings?"
Suddenly she was at the side of the bed, her hands on his arm, grinning broadly.
"I feel like I should ask your permission, or something..."
The next four days passed comfortably and quickly. There was no lingering awkwardness between them, even after she'd explained that they were to escape using a rope knitted from her own abundant leg hair. Especially after he'd healed, and his bandages were removed. He'd leapt upon her, simply his way of making his reciprocal fascination clear.
The prospect of escape suddenly seemed one which could be ignored in the meantime...
He hadn't wanted to be in the horseback corps. He hadn't really wanted to join the king's army in the first place, but he couldn't think of anything better to do when he left school. He'd had no ambition beyond ground infantry, but for some reason he catapulted up and up. Before he knew it, he was a decorated peacetime Seargeant Major. Which meant full chain mail, plate suit and helmet.
In the winter, he could overcome his GMT (Genital Magnetic Tendencies) by wearing thick woollen under-drawers. They itched terribly, but it was better than getting cosy with chainmail while in the saddle...
Since birth, she had coped with endlessly ample body hair. In actual fact, it had never been a significant problem. It just meant she kept her leg hair in check with hair-cutting shears instead of a razor. And then there was that first date when she'd tried to carry off a sleeveless gown. But the boy was easily forgotten...
In the summer things became difficult. More often than not he would forego the chainmail, as that was frankly dangerous. He just gritted his teeth and cantered along, testicles clinging to the inside of his metal armour.
She first saw him standing behind a rhodedendron in the grounds behind her parent's house, not far from her window. He was naked from the waist down, urinating with audible relief. As he turned around she gasped, never having seen a naked man before. He looked up, saw her face in the high window and screamed, running to hide behind his horse nearby.
He asked why she was in that room, with a barred window. She explained she was condemned to be captive for the rest of her life. Hearing this, and being a gentleman, he was outraged. Inside he was boyishly excited. A damsel to rescue...here was his change for fame, glory! But then he realised he had no trousers on.
"How can i get up there?"
"There's no stairway, I think it's been blocked off at both ends"
"But there's...a drainpipe! I will climb up to you"
"No, i'm fine, really! Listen..."
"Fear not, damsel"
With that, he took a running leap at the drainpipe stretching from ground to gutter. His penis adhered to the cast iron with a resounding 'chunnngg'. He bit his lip till blood drew, and then locked his arms around the pipe. Slowly, amid protests shouted from above, he hauled himself skywards.
He didn't reach her windowsill till past nightfall. He was panting, dizzy with exhaustion and pain. She took him under the arms and pulled him into her room. The last thing he saw was her face above his, her lips moving without sound.
As he came to, he moaned sleepily and tried to turn over. Agony shot through his body and he lay tense and rigid, waiting for it to subside. His penis was so painful it made him dizzy every time he shifted his weight.
...But he had made it all the way up the drainpipe. Three storeys on determination and magnetism alone. Why did he do it? The girl. The girl...
She watched him stir, and cry out in pain. She'd bandaged him up as best she could, given her embarassment (and honest facination with the man.) She'd washed his face and body, dressed his wounded limbs and genitals and wrapped him in her own sheets. Stupid boy. The rope she'd made was strong enough for her, she knew, but what about him? Now she would have to figure out a way to get them both down to ground level...
He sat up in the weak morning sunlight to see her sitting on the floor with her skirt up around her knees, facing away from him. He cleared his throat quietly. She looked over her shoulder at him, and he wondered if feigning sleep was a good idea. But then she rose, the hem of her dress dropping to the floor. He tore his eyes from the swirl of shin and petticoat and met hers. She blushed furiously.
"Your dressings need changing. It's been a day"
"A day? How long have I been here?"
There was an awkward pause.
"My, uh, dressings?"
Suddenly she was at the side of the bed, her hands on his arm, grinning broadly.
"I feel like I should ask your permission, or something..."
The next four days passed comfortably and quickly. There was no lingering awkwardness between them, even after she'd explained that they were to escape using a rope knitted from her own abundant leg hair. Especially after he'd healed, and his bandages were removed. He'd leapt upon her, simply his way of making his reciprocal fascination clear.
The prospect of escape suddenly seemed one which could be ignored in the meantime...
fighting boredom in the workplace part II
continued collaboration with sookraj and ellie
#30. Starting with a birth certificate slowly steal a co-workers identity, supplying them with a second life as a gambling porn baron. After they have have had all their belongings repossessed, turn up at their court hearing to speak on behalf of the prosecution. They clearly have problems and you believe that prison will be the lesson to open their eyes.
#31. Put your hand in your pants (secretly). Now try to touch as many of your workmates possessions as you can. Allow yourself a smile when you see a colleague chewing on *that* pen.
#32. pour warm water onto people's swivel chairs when they're away from their desks
#33. get a pair of scissors, and crawl around the office slicing people's shoelaces. when questioned, tell them you are saving their souls.
#34. wear shorts to work. smear chocolate sauce all over your legs and lick at them throughout the day.
#35. throw your favourite mug into the air repeatedly, while singing 'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day'. make no attempt to catch the mug.
#36. Can-can.
#37. Send all memos in the form of paper aeroplanes, the more extravagant the better.
#38. Buy a megaphone.
#39. Tell co-workers that email is the root of all evil (by email).
#40. Become inappropriately touchy-feely all of a sudden. Blame your parents.
#41. Join as many internet special-interest forums as physically possible. Embroidery, toby-jug collecting and yodelling should be of special note.
#42. Sit at your desk not moving or touching anything. When people ask what you're doing, tell them you're making virtual phone-calls.
#43. Send someone else into work in place of you. The next day act like nothing happened. See who cracks first.
#44. Demand to be paid by the hour. Every hour. ON the hour. In cash. In coppers.
#45. Learn Swahili. Practice at every available opportunity. If questioned, say you are the new cultural relations spokesperson. Report them.
#46. Create a shrine to Boris Johnson underneath your desk. Complete with incense, candles and life-size cardboard cut-outs.
#47. Award yourself an Oscar. Dress appropriately and thank everyone in your office for everything they've done to help you achieve this great honour. Keep the statuette in the kitchen.
#48. Arrange the bisuits into intricate patterns, placing Jammy Dodgers in the exact centre and all Bourbons at right angles.
#49. Rustle mysteriously.
#50. Bring a gramophone to work, and instigate office tea dances.
#30. Starting with a birth certificate slowly steal a co-workers identity, supplying them with a second life as a gambling porn baron. After they have have had all their belongings repossessed, turn up at their court hearing to speak on behalf of the prosecution. They clearly have problems and you believe that prison will be the lesson to open their eyes.
#31. Put your hand in your pants (secretly). Now try to touch as many of your workmates possessions as you can. Allow yourself a smile when you see a colleague chewing on *that* pen.
#32. pour warm water onto people's swivel chairs when they're away from their desks
#33. get a pair of scissors, and crawl around the office slicing people's shoelaces. when questioned, tell them you are saving their souls.
#34. wear shorts to work. smear chocolate sauce all over your legs and lick at them throughout the day.
#35. throw your favourite mug into the air repeatedly, while singing 'I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day'. make no attempt to catch the mug.
#36. Can-can.
#37. Send all memos in the form of paper aeroplanes, the more extravagant the better.
#38. Buy a megaphone.
#39. Tell co-workers that email is the root of all evil (by email).
#40. Become inappropriately touchy-feely all of a sudden. Blame your parents.
#41. Join as many internet special-interest forums as physically possible. Embroidery, toby-jug collecting and yodelling should be of special note.
#42. Sit at your desk not moving or touching anything. When people ask what you're doing, tell them you're making virtual phone-calls.
#43. Send someone else into work in place of you. The next day act like nothing happened. See who cracks first.
#44. Demand to be paid by the hour. Every hour. ON the hour. In cash. In coppers.
#45. Learn Swahili. Practice at every available opportunity. If questioned, say you are the new cultural relations spokesperson. Report them.
#46. Create a shrine to Boris Johnson underneath your desk. Complete with incense, candles and life-size cardboard cut-outs.
#47. Award yourself an Oscar. Dress appropriately and thank everyone in your office for everything they've done to help you achieve this great honour. Keep the statuette in the kitchen.
#48. Arrange the bisuits into intricate patterns, placing Jammy Dodgers in the exact centre and all Bourbons at right angles.
#49. Rustle mysteriously.
#50. Bring a gramophone to work, and instigate office tea dances.
digging
this one's really, really old. i found it last night and removed half the commas. now it's good.
He sits alone on a park bench. Patiently, for hours he has waited.
The sun has wheeled around to nestle in other clouds. All his shadows would point east, but for the streetlights. Instead, they pool around his feet, dripping out from under his chin and from the space beneath his folded leg. He exhales loudly, watching his breath condense in the air. It billows white and then dissipates, drifting away like smoke. He curls a hand around his forearm. He feels the wind bite into his cheek, into his leg through the fabric of his trousers.
He is alone but he acts as if he is not. Occasionally he stretches out an arm to comfort the air on the bench next to him. He looks around him, unconcerned. There is nobody else in view. A fox creeps unnoticed across the path, dashing for cover under another rhododendron.
Clouds cover the moon and the light dims. Old memories are brought to mind. A fairy story, a goodnight rhyme, recited each night like clockwork. Flitting and flashing through his mind, leaving no impression. They have flitted before. Hurried on, driven away by more urgent thoughts. He is visibly focused.
He slowly extends an arm and glances at his watch. A silhouette rounds the crest of the hill.
He sits alone on a park bench. Patiently, for hours he has waited.
The sun has wheeled around to nestle in other clouds. All his shadows would point east, but for the streetlights. Instead, they pool around his feet, dripping out from under his chin and from the space beneath his folded leg. He exhales loudly, watching his breath condense in the air. It billows white and then dissipates, drifting away like smoke. He curls a hand around his forearm. He feels the wind bite into his cheek, into his leg through the fabric of his trousers.
He is alone but he acts as if he is not. Occasionally he stretches out an arm to comfort the air on the bench next to him. He looks around him, unconcerned. There is nobody else in view. A fox creeps unnoticed across the path, dashing for cover under another rhododendron.
Clouds cover the moon and the light dims. Old memories are brought to mind. A fairy story, a goodnight rhyme, recited each night like clockwork. Flitting and flashing through his mind, leaving no impression. They have flitted before. Hurried on, driven away by more urgent thoughts. He is visibly focused.
He slowly extends an arm and glances at his watch. A silhouette rounds the crest of the hill.
IV
As the days wore on, and once I had managed to exchange the first few words with him, we grew almost companionable.
Every morning I'd go downstairs to make coffee and say hi. He'd generally have been awake a while longer than me, as the hot water pipes are loud in the basement. Conversation was sometimes stilted. We knew nothing about each other. So, as is often the way with relative strangers, we talked about culture. And what was more appropriate than the books I had given him myself?
"...but the German word is actually more correctly translated as 'vermin', not as 'beetle'. If you read the story with 'vermin' instead, it puts a whole different light on it. It explains things that didn't quite follow on..."
We worked through whole bookshelves together. I loved how he thought, the way he pointed things out to me, unsure and knowledgable at the same time. The way he spoke made me want to like what he liked, read what he had read. It made me love him more.
Once, in the middle of the night, I felt guilty for keeping him all this time. Maybe there were people in the outside world to miss him, people he had never mentioned? But I knew I could never let him out. It was better this way. Much safer this way.
Every morning I'd go downstairs to make coffee and say hi. He'd generally have been awake a while longer than me, as the hot water pipes are loud in the basement. Conversation was sometimes stilted. We knew nothing about each other. So, as is often the way with relative strangers, we talked about culture. And what was more appropriate than the books I had given him myself?
"...but the German word is actually more correctly translated as 'vermin', not as 'beetle'. If you read the story with 'vermin' instead, it puts a whole different light on it. It explains things that didn't quite follow on..."
We worked through whole bookshelves together. I loved how he thought, the way he pointed things out to me, unsure and knowledgable at the same time. The way he spoke made me want to like what he liked, read what he had read. It made me love him more.
Once, in the middle of the night, I felt guilty for keeping him all this time. Maybe there were people in the outside world to miss him, people he had never mentioned? But I knew I could never let him out. It was better this way. Much safer this way.
III
The first week was difficult. He was noisy, and I found myself leaving the house for hours at a time to get some peace. When I realised what I was doing, I sat down to work out a solution. Of course, he was scared. Waking up in strange surroundings with no explanation... He needed me to engage with him. I realised I didn't even know his first name (his surname had been on the University of East London IdentiCard attached to his jeans pocket.)
So the next morning before he woke I placed a package at the bottom of the steps into the basement, locking the door behind me. I had wrapped a note from myself explaining that he was safe, along with a deck of cards and some of my favourite books in a tea-towel. How could a boy be bored in the company of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Patrick Suskind, Henry Miller, Salman Rushdie, Franz Kafka and James Joyce...? Then I left the house to buy apples, bread and pasta sauce, all of which I had run out of the previous day.
On my return the house was completely silent.
So the next morning before he woke I placed a package at the bottom of the steps into the basement, locking the door behind me. I had wrapped a note from myself explaining that he was safe, along with a deck of cards and some of my favourite books in a tea-towel. How could a boy be bored in the company of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Patrick Suskind, Henry Miller, Salman Rushdie, Franz Kafka and James Joyce...? Then I left the house to buy apples, bread and pasta sauce, all of which I had run out of the previous day.
On my return the house was completely silent.
II
As soon as I got him in the door, I started to worry. While fairly slim, I had no idea how tall he was. What if my basement wasn't big enough? Would he be warm down there? Would he get scared? Bored? To be on the safe side, I decided to sedate him. I laid him on the blankets I'd padded the floor with, and placed a bottle of water near him. Then I climbed the ladder, bolted the door and made coffee while I waited for him to come around.
dangerous I
It was a miracle I’d never met him before that, or maybe he was new in the area. But I’d seen him three times in as many days. On the way to work, at the station on the way to town, and then waiting in the queue at the Post Office. That was when I decided. Things were getting risky…what if I spotted him while out with a friend? They’d wonder why I stopped in my tracks. What if I ran into him with an armful of shopping? I’d drop it on the floor, without a doubt. What if I saw him while I was driving? It didn’t bear thinking about. I decided I would kidnap the strange boy who made me go weak at the knees.
It was much simpler than I’d imagined. I was part-way through drawing up elaborate plans, some involving extremist political action or the involvement of the Triads, when I collided with him at the top of the road I lived on. He smiled at me, and I knew I had to act fast. Knocking him unconscious was the easy part. Luckily there were no passers-by to observe me hauling him the 100 metres or so to my front door….
It was much simpler than I’d imagined. I was part-way through drawing up elaborate plans, some involving extremist political action or the involvement of the Triads, when I collided with him at the top of the road I lived on. He smiled at me, and I knew I had to act fast. Knocking him unconscious was the easy part. Luckily there were no passers-by to observe me hauling him the 100 metres or so to my front door….
a chill
Frozen puddles on the walk home, slippery sloped paving slabs. Frost glitters
with the falling lamp-light. Worn rubber soles slip, toes curl inside. The figure walking a dozen paces ahead seems to grow and shrink, as streetlights cast moving shadows.
The first time she saw frost, she was frightened. It wasn't her white breath hanging in the air. It wasn't the sting on her cheeks, but the ice. She stood perfectly still, observing, digesting. All the time ready to leap back through the door, stung. The world looked alien, almost as if it were coated in icing sugar. But there was a harshness that scared her. Unforgiving, and worse, uncaring.
with the falling lamp-light. Worn rubber soles slip, toes curl inside. The figure walking a dozen paces ahead seems to grow and shrink, as streetlights cast moving shadows.
The first time she saw frost, she was frightened. It wasn't her white breath hanging in the air. It wasn't the sting on her cheeks, but the ice. She stood perfectly still, observing, digesting. All the time ready to leap back through the door, stung. The world looked alien, almost as if it were coated in icing sugar. But there was a harshness that scared her. Unforgiving, and worse, uncaring.
soak
now in first-person, as originally written
Lying in the water, semi-dozing. I've just finished the book he sent me. At the end, I cried down the sides of my face.
Feeling the water swirl against my skin when I move. My knees and my breasts and my face above the water. Underwater. I can hear my pulse in my ears, like the rhythmic thrum of a generator.
I can feel my skin is waterlogged. Maybe if I lie here long enough, I will dissolve into the bath. Maybe if I lie here long enough, my skin will soak clean off my body. Suddenly I long to slough the soft shell of skin off, shed it like a snake. To emerge raw, and tender, and new.
So i stand in the bath and I scrub myself from head to foot. I can see swirls of soap bubbles on my side as I work my way up one arm, across my shoulder-blades and down to my other wrist.
Then lean back in the water, feel the too-hot sting and smart. I imagine hundreds of tiny abrasions on my skin. Thousands of nerve endings pricking, firing.
I have lain here so long I can't feel the difference between the water and the misty air. I lower my heel, trynig to guess when it hits the surface. I mis-judge, and open my eyes only after my toes are submerged. Then I watch ripples appear with the rise and fall of my stomach.
I cried a little into the water, my heart is still pounding in my throat.
Lying in the water, semi-dozing. I've just finished the book he sent me. At the end, I cried down the sides of my face.
Feeling the water swirl against my skin when I move. My knees and my breasts and my face above the water. Underwater. I can hear my pulse in my ears, like the rhythmic thrum of a generator.
I can feel my skin is waterlogged. Maybe if I lie here long enough, I will dissolve into the bath. Maybe if I lie here long enough, my skin will soak clean off my body. Suddenly I long to slough the soft shell of skin off, shed it like a snake. To emerge raw, and tender, and new.
So i stand in the bath and I scrub myself from head to foot. I can see swirls of soap bubbles on my side as I work my way up one arm, across my shoulder-blades and down to my other wrist.
Then lean back in the water, feel the too-hot sting and smart. I imagine hundreds of tiny abrasions on my skin. Thousands of nerve endings pricking, firing.
I have lain here so long I can't feel the difference between the water and the misty air. I lower my heel, trynig to guess when it hits the surface. I mis-judge, and open my eyes only after my toes are submerged. Then I watch ripples appear with the rise and fall of my stomach.
I cried a little into the water, my heart is still pounding in my throat.
nightlight
She looked around, checking the street was empty. Then with a practiced flick of the thumb, she popped the latch. Then ducked inside and closed the door behind her in one swift movement.
It never failed to amaze her how she managed to fit inside the street-light. It didn't make sense, she shouldn't be able to fit. But every night since the first time she heard his voice, she'd felt that wierd sensation of the doorway ballooning around her as she swung into the circular room.
The first time had been terrifying. A tinny, muffled voice called her name as she walked home from work one night. Possibilities scrolled through her head; had somebody followed he, was somebody behind her? When she realised it was coming from the street-light she had to stop, check herself. When she was much younger, she'd entertained the thought that each and every street-light was powered by a tiny person on an exercise-bike, living in the wide base of the post. And hearing that voice brought the childhood fantasy back to her abruptly. She steadied herself, and placed a cautious hand on the lamp door. She'd half expected it to smoothly swing open, but the hinges were rusty, and the fastening stuck.
"Turn it left"
Came the voice from the lamp. She jiggled the catch, but it refused to budge.
"Left, fahking left. Christ, it's not that difficult."
After a few noisy minutes, and the application of her door-keys for leverage, she'd managed to open the door a crack. Inside was, exactly as she'd imagined, a man on a bicycle, in a tiny circular bedsit.
And now here she sat, drinking strong, sweet tea from a mug she knew to be smaller than an eggcup, but filled her hands like one at home. The man looked up at her. He'd been stirring a pan on the stove. Was he even a man? She hesitated to call him an elf, a pixie, a faerie, a gnome, because he seemed so very real. And he swore like a bouncer.
"Fahkin 'ell. Can't believe I went an ran outa eggs the night you come rahnd. Yew must fink I'm a proper batchelor, innit? Can't take care of meself or naffink."
She'd taken to doing his washing up when she was there. It did tend to build up, and she felt better if her hands were busy. Conversation could get awkward when he was puffing away on the bike, and she curled up comfortably on the sofa.
It never failed to amaze her how she managed to fit inside the street-light. It didn't make sense, she shouldn't be able to fit. But every night since the first time she heard his voice, she'd felt that wierd sensation of the doorway ballooning around her as she swung into the circular room.
The first time had been terrifying. A tinny, muffled voice called her name as she walked home from work one night. Possibilities scrolled through her head; had somebody followed he, was somebody behind her? When she realised it was coming from the street-light she had to stop, check herself. When she was much younger, she'd entertained the thought that each and every street-light was powered by a tiny person on an exercise-bike, living in the wide base of the post. And hearing that voice brought the childhood fantasy back to her abruptly. She steadied herself, and placed a cautious hand on the lamp door. She'd half expected it to smoothly swing open, but the hinges were rusty, and the fastening stuck.
"Turn it left"
Came the voice from the lamp. She jiggled the catch, but it refused to budge.
"Left, fahking left. Christ, it's not that difficult."
After a few noisy minutes, and the application of her door-keys for leverage, she'd managed to open the door a crack. Inside was, exactly as she'd imagined, a man on a bicycle, in a tiny circular bedsit.
And now here she sat, drinking strong, sweet tea from a mug she knew to be smaller than an eggcup, but filled her hands like one at home. The man looked up at her. He'd been stirring a pan on the stove. Was he even a man? She hesitated to call him an elf, a pixie, a faerie, a gnome, because he seemed so very real. And he swore like a bouncer.
"Fahkin 'ell. Can't believe I went an ran outa eggs the night you come rahnd. Yew must fink I'm a proper batchelor, innit? Can't take care of meself or naffink."
She'd taken to doing his washing up when she was there. It did tend to build up, and she felt better if her hands were busy. Conversation could get awkward when he was puffing away on the bike, and she curled up comfortably on the sofa.
the untucked shirt
It was too big for him, the big white shirt. And it was a cold day. He liked being warm on cold, frosty days like that. So he wore the big white shirt and tucked it securely into his jeans. The comfortable overlap between his underwear and the shirt would keep his back warm even when he sat down.
Once upon a time, two lovers stood on a station platform. They were saying goodbye.
They kissed slowly, their breath clouding white under the strip-lights. She put her arm under his coat and slid it under his sweater, hoping to steal some heat from his back. Her hand was stopped by the big white shirt, and she looked at him. He smiled apologetically as she pulled a handful of the shirt out of his jeans, and felt a shiver along his spine with the cold air.
When her train had gone, and her on it, he climbed the stairs to his platform. Then he boarded his own train home, wandering down the aisle to a suitably empty square of seats. As he sat down he felt cold rise up his back, and immediately felt her phantom lips on his once more. Then he leaned forward to tuck his shirt in.
Once upon a time, two lovers stood on a station platform. They were saying goodbye.
They kissed slowly, their breath clouding white under the strip-lights. She put her arm under his coat and slid it under his sweater, hoping to steal some heat from his back. Her hand was stopped by the big white shirt, and she looked at him. He smiled apologetically as she pulled a handful of the shirt out of his jeans, and felt a shiver along his spine with the cold air.
When her train had gone, and her on it, he climbed the stairs to his platform. Then he boarded his own train home, wandering down the aisle to a suitably empty square of seats. As he sat down he felt cold rise up his back, and immediately felt her phantom lips on his once more. Then he leaned forward to tuck his shirt in.
chapter one
It began childishly, as so many of these things do. A record of the day-to-day angst. The blames, pointed fingers and whispered conversations of girls. Later, when she looked back on those few years, she would not remember the intensity of feeling. The awful indecision. She would only be embarassed at her inaccurate use of extravagant words. She kept none of the hardback notebooks she wrote in. They reminded her of the crippling self-consciousness of being 15.
As she grew older (and, as promised, it did get better as the years clicked by) she continued to write. But not in noteboks, on scraps of paper. The back of an old birthday card. Bus tickets, ragged handfuls of lined A4. She threw these away immediately. She had no desire to be reminded of yesterday's feelings.
The week after her 25th birthday she stopped writing. It was not a conscious decision. The words were pushed out of her head.
His relationship with words was uneasy at best. He spoke intelligently, but not eloquently. Secretly, he would like to be thought of as eloquent. But he could never bring himself to say the words aloud distinct, insufferable, unparalleled... the risk was what silenced him. He didn't want to stand out. He didn't want to be laughed at. He had a horrible feeling that the words lined up in his head would come out of his mouth somehow distorted distended, macabre, grotesque...
When they first met (casually, through a friend of his brother's) neither of them would have guessed these things of each other. He thought her cold and reserved. She thought him over-familiar and drunk. Neither suspected the depths they would glimpse over the subsequent months of courtship.
He, though sexually adventurous, was less experienced. He had slept with two women since he drunkenly lost his virginity at a stranger's new years party. One was his first proper girlfriend. Mentally, he salutes every time he thinks of her. They fucked infrequently and clumsily, and she left him the day after their final exams.
The second was a stunning and manipulative actress. The relationship lasted for two years, but should have ended before six months. It was unhealthy, and sex rose more from a cloying need for closeness than from physical desire.
He enjoyed being single, primarily because it meant he didn't have to shower daily.
She had been promiscuous as a teenager, but had never had a 'lover' in the idealised sense. She had never had the opportunity to enjoy sex. She didn't know it, but it occasionally kept her up at night.
So their relationship began tentatively, with as much reassurance as flirting. When eventually they did share a bed she wept afterwards, once he was asleep, because she thought she loved him.
He woke early, before she did, and crept into the kitchen to make coffee. In the dark he collided with a bin in the hallway, scattering paper, used tissues and food packaging over the floor. Then fumbling for a lightswitch, cramming handfuls of rubbish into the plastic bin, trying not to wake any of the irritable flatmates.
Sitting in the kitchen ten minutes later, coffee brewing, he realises he still has a scrap of handwritten notepaper in his hand. The fact that he reads it could reveal one of several things about him. It could show that he loves the thrill of invading secrecy. It could show that he deeply wants to know more about her, and anything in her handwriting draws him like a magnet. It could show that the coffee is still in the pot, and he's too tired to think before he reads it.
Still clutching the piece of paper, he walked into her bedroom and shut the door behind him. She stirred at the noise, and opened her eyes. As he kissed her, she put her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the bed. He dropped the paper to the floor, and they made love again by the thin light shining through the curtains.
Every day after that, he wrote page after page of his thoughts. She wrote none at all.
As she grew older (and, as promised, it did get better as the years clicked by) she continued to write. But not in noteboks, on scraps of paper. The back of an old birthday card. Bus tickets, ragged handfuls of lined A4. She threw these away immediately. She had no desire to be reminded of yesterday's feelings.
The week after her 25th birthday she stopped writing. It was not a conscious decision. The words were pushed out of her head.
His relationship with words was uneasy at best. He spoke intelligently, but not eloquently. Secretly, he would like to be thought of as eloquent. But he could never bring himself to say the words aloud distinct, insufferable, unparalleled... the risk was what silenced him. He didn't want to stand out. He didn't want to be laughed at. He had a horrible feeling that the words lined up in his head would come out of his mouth somehow distorted distended, macabre, grotesque...
When they first met (casually, through a friend of his brother's) neither of them would have guessed these things of each other. He thought her cold and reserved. She thought him over-familiar and drunk. Neither suspected the depths they would glimpse over the subsequent months of courtship.
He, though sexually adventurous, was less experienced. He had slept with two women since he drunkenly lost his virginity at a stranger's new years party. One was his first proper girlfriend. Mentally, he salutes every time he thinks of her. They fucked infrequently and clumsily, and she left him the day after their final exams.
The second was a stunning and manipulative actress. The relationship lasted for two years, but should have ended before six months. It was unhealthy, and sex rose more from a cloying need for closeness than from physical desire.
He enjoyed being single, primarily because it meant he didn't have to shower daily.
She had been promiscuous as a teenager, but had never had a 'lover' in the idealised sense. She had never had the opportunity to enjoy sex. She didn't know it, but it occasionally kept her up at night.
So their relationship began tentatively, with as much reassurance as flirting. When eventually they did share a bed she wept afterwards, once he was asleep, because she thought she loved him.
He woke early, before she did, and crept into the kitchen to make coffee. In the dark he collided with a bin in the hallway, scattering paper, used tissues and food packaging over the floor. Then fumbling for a lightswitch, cramming handfuls of rubbish into the plastic bin, trying not to wake any of the irritable flatmates.
Sitting in the kitchen ten minutes later, coffee brewing, he realises he still has a scrap of handwritten notepaper in his hand. The fact that he reads it could reveal one of several things about him. It could show that he loves the thrill of invading secrecy. It could show that he deeply wants to know more about her, and anything in her handwriting draws him like a magnet. It could show that the coffee is still in the pot, and he's too tired to think before he reads it.
Still clutching the piece of paper, he walked into her bedroom and shut the door behind him. She stirred at the noise, and opened her eyes. As he kissed her, she put her arms around his neck and pulled him onto the bed. He dropped the paper to the floor, and they made love again by the thin light shining through the curtains.
Every day after that, he wrote page after page of his thoughts. She wrote none at all.
awake
He shifted on the bed, the better to rest his cheek on her bare shoulder. She raised her hand and started tracing her fingertips along his jaw-line. Then he kissed her arm lightly, and broke the soft silence
"You were singing in your sleep last night."
"Was I? I thought I'd stopped doing that years ago."
"It was nice. Peaceful."
There was a pause.
He breathed, felt her skin warm on his face. Listened to her faintly audible heartbeat. She sighed once, a long, sleepy exhalation.
"What was I singing?"
"Talking Heads"
She gave a short bark of laughter
"Which album?"
"I don't have a fucking clue. You know I don't like Talking Heads."
She craned her neck around to kiss his forehead, and then sank back into the pillows.
"You were singing in your sleep last night."
"Was I? I thought I'd stopped doing that years ago."
"It was nice. Peaceful."
There was a pause.
He breathed, felt her skin warm on his face. Listened to her faintly audible heartbeat. She sighed once, a long, sleepy exhalation.
"What was I singing?"
"Talking Heads"
She gave a short bark of laughter
"Which album?"
"I don't have a fucking clue. You know I don't like Talking Heads."
She craned her neck around to kiss his forehead, and then sank back into the pillows.
fighting boredom in the workplace
a collaboration with sookraj
#01. Write a short, brutally honest description of each of your workmates.
#02. Wander round the office stapling everyone's description to their foreheads.
#03. Laugh maniacally .
#04. Barricade yourself in the copy room, shout a lot, ask for a negotiator.
#05. You've heard of dirty protests, right?
#06. Demand emotionally raw PJ Harvey albums, especially "Rid of Me".
#07. Go the copy room, get yourself a ream of paper, return to your desk and proceed to ball up sheets and throw them at your nearest co-worker until they snap and proceed through steps #01 to #06.
#8. Boil the kettle and walk around pouring water into people's processors when they're away from their desks.
#9. Take the head of the mop off and wear it like a wig.
#10. Belch loudly.
#11. Jump up and down on every piece of paper you are given.
#12. Go to the toilets and take comedy pictures of yourself.
#13. Walk with a pronounced gangsta limp.
#14. Talk to yourself, twitch (your workmates will LOVE this).
#15. Hide under your desk, time how long it takes for somebody to check you're ok. When they do, leap out and thank them for saving your life. Then ask for a glass of water.
#16. Chew the top off a biro, smear the ink all around your face. Act like everything is normal.
#17. Approach a randomly chosen co-worker, grip their shoulder, tell them not to worry (loud enough so your peers can hear).
#18. Go to the bathroom twenty times in an hour.
#19. Speak into you lapel, relay your co-workers every move to your CIA buddies. "Target is now moving the filing cabinet..."
#20. Lace the office coffee with Ketamine. Enjoy the ensuing slow-motion hilarity.
#21. Secrete a drum-n-bass playing walkman somewhere in the office. Make sure it is loud enough to be heard, but impossible to find. Watch as psychotic episodes unfold.
#22. Take advantage of the large amount of free floorspace to remember how to do a backwards roll.
#23. Do handstands against the door to the kitchen.
#24. Refuse to speak to anyone, conduct all communication via the art of mime.
#25. Sellotape a tabloid newspaper into one very long sheet of tat. Wrap yourself in it, head to toe.
#26. Make a round of tea, and put eight sugars in each. Dissolve biscuits into some of them.
#27. Turn the thermostat up to a tropical temperature. Leave the room.
#28. Pretend to fall asleep standing up, snoring loudly.
#29. Add more options to this list...
#01. Write a short, brutally honest description of each of your workmates.
#02. Wander round the office stapling everyone's description to their foreheads.
#03. Laugh maniacally .
#04. Barricade yourself in the copy room, shout a lot, ask for a negotiator.
#05. You've heard of dirty protests, right?
#06. Demand emotionally raw PJ Harvey albums, especially "Rid of Me".
#07. Go the copy room, get yourself a ream of paper, return to your desk and proceed to ball up sheets and throw them at your nearest co-worker until they snap and proceed through steps #01 to #06.
#8. Boil the kettle and walk around pouring water into people's processors when they're away from their desks.
#9. Take the head of the mop off and wear it like a wig.
#10. Belch loudly.
#11. Jump up and down on every piece of paper you are given.
#12. Go to the toilets and take comedy pictures of yourself.
#13. Walk with a pronounced gangsta limp.
#14. Talk to yourself, twitch (your workmates will LOVE this).
#15. Hide under your desk, time how long it takes for somebody to check you're ok. When they do, leap out and thank them for saving your life. Then ask for a glass of water.
#16. Chew the top off a biro, smear the ink all around your face. Act like everything is normal.
#17. Approach a randomly chosen co-worker, grip their shoulder, tell them not to worry (loud enough so your peers can hear).
#18. Go to the bathroom twenty times in an hour.
#19. Speak into you lapel, relay your co-workers every move to your CIA buddies. "Target is now moving the filing cabinet..."
#20. Lace the office coffee with Ketamine. Enjoy the ensuing slow-motion hilarity.
#21. Secrete a drum-n-bass playing walkman somewhere in the office. Make sure it is loud enough to be heard, but impossible to find. Watch as psychotic episodes unfold.
#22. Take advantage of the large amount of free floorspace to remember how to do a backwards roll.
#23. Do handstands against the door to the kitchen.
#24. Refuse to speak to anyone, conduct all communication via the art of mime.
#25. Sellotape a tabloid newspaper into one very long sheet of tat. Wrap yourself in it, head to toe.
#26. Make a round of tea, and put eight sugars in each. Dissolve biscuits into some of them.
#27. Turn the thermostat up to a tropical temperature. Leave the room.
#28. Pretend to fall asleep standing up, snoring loudly.
#29. Add more options to this list...
unfinished
3am. Untidy bedroom, clothes and empty plates on every surface. A man is slouched over a desk with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
I remember when we met.
I remember, the music too loud. Your shoes too small, you told me. And then you spent the rest of the evening with one hand resting on my shoulder, the other working its way deep into my chest. Making the little hole in my heart that aches so empty.
I remember the first time you followed me in through my front door. I was terrified you’d be gone when I turned around. But you straightened up from putting your bag on the sofa and said music?
I remember that morning, when you woke me up by coming back to bed. You pulled the sheets up to your shoulders and stroked your finger down my arm. Then you told me where you had to go, and how long you’d been thinking about it. And I think it was only last week, that morning. When she whipped her hand from the hole in my heart. Still raw and unhealed, still losing blood. Maybe it makes the time move slower.
Remembering every moment she was close to me. Sitting in a restaurant, her arm curled around mine. Her fingers stroking gently along my upper arm. Then touching the sleeve of my shirt and tucking into the fold of my elbow. Anywhere to be closer.
I remember when we met.
I remember, the music too loud. Your shoes too small, you told me. And then you spent the rest of the evening with one hand resting on my shoulder, the other working its way deep into my chest. Making the little hole in my heart that aches so empty.
I remember the first time you followed me in through my front door. I was terrified you’d be gone when I turned around. But you straightened up from putting your bag on the sofa and said music?
I remember that morning, when you woke me up by coming back to bed. You pulled the sheets up to your shoulders and stroked your finger down my arm. Then you told me where you had to go, and how long you’d been thinking about it. And I think it was only last week, that morning. When she whipped her hand from the hole in my heart. Still raw and unhealed, still losing blood. Maybe it makes the time move slower.
Remembering every moment she was close to me. Sitting in a restaurant, her arm curled around mine. Her fingers stroking gently along my upper arm. Then touching the sleeve of my shirt and tucking into the fold of my elbow. Anywhere to be closer.
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