Out in the Dark

Our English Prep: to write a piece entitled Out in the Dark. I don't think the story speaks for itself, but I actually had to do some research for my writing. Came as a shock!

Out in the Dark

Rhyming couplets are complete: they stand together yet apart from other words. If you hear them you can spot them, distinct and obvious.

Eyebrows sit above the eyes, meeting centrally then branching out. We always see them together; we never think anything of it, until one of them is missing.

Twins start to play with each other at fourteen weeks. Ultrasounds have proven that they touch each other more then they do themselves. Wombs are dark places, and we know we’re both there. I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

I was born at 12.47, Molly at 12.51 that makes me the oldest. Molly came out quickly to be with me didn’t want me to experience a single thing without her; Georgie and Charlie came out two hours apart from one another because they’re not like us.

When we were born Granny almost fainted, as mummy hadn’t told her she was having twins, she wanted it to be a surprise and mummy said she got one. We were dressed in baby blue suits. We were meant to go home that night but mummy had to stay so the nurses could look after her. Molly and I looked after each other until the morning.

The average weight for twin is 5lbs and 5oz, I weighed 5lbs and 8oz, Molly weighed 5lbs and 3oz; daddy always says I stole some of her sugar bags.

Derek the dog didn’t really like us: we would always pull his ears.

Daddy’s favorite book to read us was about Bears, all the different types of bears in the world: the Asiatic Black Bear, the Brown Bear, and the Panda bear. Mummy is like a Polar Bear as they always give birth to twins. I don’t think she could have managed triplets.

Uncle Stan sometimes came round, he would bring his little girl Rosie. Rosie couldn’t understand why we dressed the same or what we would say to each other. I think I liked Rosie, but Molly didn’t, I’m still not sure about her.

Once, during one of Uncle Stan’s visits we were all on the trampoline. It sat in front of our pine trees; we were all bouncing when Derek started running round us like he usually does. Derek started barking loudly, growling and showing his teeth; Molly and I were scared so Rosie bravely went to get Dad. You see Molly she’s not too bad.

Molly and I are in the 40% of twins that create their own language.

When we started school we refused to be in different teaching groups. I think that upset some people, but school’s a scary place for twins: lots of kids want to play with you and just you. And you realise that you’re both good at different things, I’m good at science and Molly at music and maths, she also drawers birds. Once she told me that she wished she could fly.

Fly over our pines to the grey skies beyond.

There was this one boy who liked Molly he was called Frank Turner. He tried to kiss Molly behind the gym so I hit him in the nose. It only bled a little but mummy made me go to bed without supper; she doesn’t know that Molly brought me some chocolate pudding.

Some people call a twins connection ESP.

At one party we gave the birthday girl, Sally, a massive fluffy Polar Bear as her mum was pregnant with twins. Her tummy was so big through her tight frilly pink dress. When we were eating cake I asked her if she could eat three slices as she was feeding three people. Sally’s mum only laughed, saying ‘she wouldn’t be eating any cake if she wanted to get rid of the baby weight’. You have to run to get rid of baby weight.

If she gives birth to fraternal twins she’s three times more likely to give birth to another set.

Being a twin girl I have twice the chance of giving birth to twins. I will never get a big tummy that shows through a frilly pink dress: humans are fragile but twins are the most delicate of us all.

Twins share the same DNA but do not have the same figure print, sometimes we share things but only once may carry it on. Like drawing birds.

TTT’s, also known as: Twin-to-Twin transfusion syndrome; fetal transfusion syndrome or fetofetal transfusion syndrome is a rare disease in the placenta, where during the development of identical twins they share the same blood vessels meaning the blood can flow unevenly. One twin takes the others blood. It didn’t hurt my heart.

In the other twin, in Molly, it can cause severe anemia as they are giving all their blood to their sibling. Anemia is easy to hide in a twin, when I can be Molly in gym, or I can finish her chocolate pudding.                 

I only noticed her heart beat quicken in the moon; everyone noticed it stop.

Uncle Stan called us in for fish fingers, Derek ran off chasing a bird and daddy him, trying to save the bird and mummy complained that our carrots were getting cold whilst also trying to save the bird. Rosie jumped from the trampoline and ran into the house. I told Molly she should hurry up and jumped from the ladder. The bird got away, Uncle Stan had cooked the chips and Derek was inside. Everyone was inside. I started running back to the trampoline.

“Molly!” Her red coat fell and bounced.

Uncle Stan was getting coffee; Derek was at the neighbors; mummy and daddy were trying to save a different bird. Rosie was holding my hand whilst I hid in Molly’s coat.

All the machines, all the doctors, all the drugs were trying to save her; but Molly had already told me she was leaving.

You’d already told me that birds and grey skies were closer then we thought.

Experts say that genetics account for 60% of the occurrences of disease, whilst other factors, such as infections or exposure to toxins are responsible for the remaining 40%.

Molly, I didn’t know I was stealing your moonshine, please come back, I’m lost. One star can’t shine alone.

Talk to Me

We had to write dedicative stories at school. This is unlike my usual style as it is more narrative based, but still dark. I am thinking of turning it into a radio play, our next assignment.



“So you killed him?”

“No I just found the man that did.”

*

The smell of ethanol was intoxicating, it was evidently more concentrated on certain parts of the body: a few fragments of singed hair remaining, yet exposed bone cooled in the night. The sound of police sirens whined in the background as he snapped up the needed photos, printing them on the scene. Little faces watched him from a silenced bar; he took his last mental image of the blackened corpse; the final ashes of a man.

Images of the scene littered the room, pinned to hanging string, and hiding forgotten furniture. A dying bulb flickered off stained windows, unopened, for the fumes of rancid food to clog the air. He sat at his only table examining the particular image of a burnt chest occasionally munching on his charcoal toast.

Dusk illuminated the pictures.

Early sun shimmered through the dirt.

Midday issued an uncomfortable heat.

Light afternoon sun drew back on the day.

Darkness entailed.

His suspicions habituated, like the passing of a day.

*

“What are your main interests? Apart from the obvious?”

“I’ve always liked to play with fire.”

*

He’d seen her a couple of times: people generally stay to their known neighbourhoods of San Francisco. She was Spanish, slender, brunette.  An actress or a dancer, he presumed. It made sense having a boyfriend who wished for a career in Directing, not so helpful now he’s in a grave.

Her daily activity had been altered by the death; she no longer came to collect her milk at 8.05 or her Marie Claire magazine at 8.40. In fact she no longer left the house.

Time to pay a visit.

Milk deliveries made it hard to reach the door. “Isabel Alvarez?”

“What do you want?” She emerged like an animal from hibernation.

“I was hoping to ask you some questions?”

“Who are you? I answered all the questions the cops had.”

“I do not work for the Cops Isabel Alvarez.”

“How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“Sam Simpson.”

“Well get away from here.” She tried to close the door but his foot stopped her.

“Please I only have a few questions, I’m a professional detective.” Her grip lightened on the door but only just, this was enough to tell him he could stay. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

“It’s cold.”

“I’m warm.”

“I see. “ He watched her for a moment, her fragile features changing through emotions: trying to decipher him.

“Well what do you wanna ask?”

“Did you and your boyfriend get on?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I was just wondering if there were any domestic arguments.”

“We were fine.”

“Not a massive fight that made him storm out to the bar. About careers possibly? Priorities?”

Another slight relaxation on the door, she said nothing for a moment, gathered her thoughts and answered directly.

“Every couple have their arguments, it means nothing.”

“It means something if a murder entails an argument.”

“How do you know we argued that night?” Her grip hardens on the door once more.

“I heard the shouting, saw the vase smash against the window.”

“You live in the building opposite?”

A light wind caught her brown hair blowing it across her eyes whilst his remained stark and unmoved.

“No.”

“Then how did you, how did you- don’t come back here, you’re not to come back here. I’ll call the cops if you do.” The door slams in his face sending milk across his feet.

*

“Why fire?”

“Because it causes beautiful, dazzling destruction.”

“Beautiful destruction? A bit of a contradiction don’t you think?”

“No: ‘cause it’s beautiful when the flames dance and devour their victim but the forsaken ash then reminds you of flames ability to destruct.”

*

He stayed by her house for the rest of the morning, sitting on the steps of the opposite building. There was little movement from within the flat, he found this annoying. As though he’d expected her to pack up and flee the country on his departure, but not all cases are that simple. He only glanced her occasionally when she peaked at him through her white lace curtains. Despite her remaining he still held suspicions over her. She would not get off that lightly.

His day of interviews was not yet done.

The bar is one that has been overused over the years but has managed to obtain its original charm. Large windows at the front and back give it an airy feeling during the day and mysterious during the night. Some people like it, some don’t, the thought that someone’s watching you. The front windows look onto the neighbourhood’s high street, the back a cobbled street.

The bar had been closed for the night whilst the cops did their thing but the owner was keen to get it back up and running as soon as possible. In the hope that Saturday’s murder wouldn’t tarnish his reputation too much.

“What are you doing back here?” Dan Edgeways, the owner, looked up from filling the beer pump.

“I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“Well we’re not open so you can’t”

“But you’re always open for lunch. You fill up you beer pump, check the chefs ready, write the specials on the board and open the doors for lunch.” Dan eyed him slowly placing the beer down.

“Who are you?”

“Sam Simpson, the professional.”

“Professional what? Stalker?”

“Detective.” The chef now came out from the kitchen after fiinishing a conversation with someone, he leaned against the doorway.

“I don’t believe you. Get out.”

“Excuse me Dan Edgeways but if you don’t agree to answer my questions I’m going to have to take actions into my own hands.”

“Who is this guy Dan?” The chef spoke in a low monotone.

“Just leaving.”

“Dan Edgeways I will not leave until you answer my questions.”

“Mine first, how do you know everything I do in such detail, how do you know my name and why the hell were you here taken pictures of that murdered man and not even bothering to wait for the cops after.”

“I’m a detective, it’s my job to know who you are and what you do. “

The chef moved away from the doorway next to his boss. He was whispering to Dan.

When Dan spoke he was careful with his words, “If I answer your questions will you leave, no harm done.”

“That’s all I want. Did you know Lee Johnston?”

“Not personally, he’d come here a couple of times.”

“And was he known for having fights?”

“Not really, he was pretty pissed the last night he was in here. The two guys that fought were, well, both angry drunks.” The two men watched Sam has he moved across the bar, their gaze didn’t falter.

“And what was the fight about?”

“I dunno, I think they were both trying to pull the same girl or somin’”

“And can you describe the fight?”

“I was round the back when it started. I heard a glass smash so came round to tell them to take it out the back if they wanted at each other.”

“And this was the last of Lee Johnston you saw?”

“Yeah cause then… then…”, the Chef’s voice was low as though debating weather to say something, bottling anger. Dan nudged him in the rib.

“That’s the last we saw of him, yeah.” Dan was keen to cut him off.

“And what about the other man? Did he come back?”

“Ran off somewhere.”

“Did you hear anything before he ran off.”

“A cry.”

“Thank you Dan Edgeways, if you don’t mind I’ll take a look at the scene again.” With this he headed out the back door.

*

“When they are unhelpful, fail or are unwilling to answer questions it always raises my suspicions.”

“But lots of us our hiding things.”

“Ah, but not all of us our murderers.”

*

The day was during to a close. He stood in the centre of the murder trying to relive the scene: two drunken men stumble out the back door, they try to get at each other when one throws the ethanol over Lee, he then sets him alight with his lighter.

The two drunken men stumble out the bar beginning to fight. After a couple of punches have been thrown Isabel Alvarez storms out the bar ethanol and lighter in hand. She screams at Lee, livid, throws the ethanol over him, she the sets him alight with her lighter.

They stand back watching his flame torn body fall to the ground. Convulsing in agony as amber sparks twist and curl around his ethanol soaked clothes; disintegrating the material then igniting upon his cremating flesh.

The bar falls silent as they watch the show. Someone from within screams, there’s the light cry and the cops are called. Everyone is watching one tall, thin man, pale of skin and black of eyes. White hair plastered to a cracked face.

Sam Simpson smiled: intoxicated with pleasure.

*

“But not all of us are truthful. Are we Sam Simpson?”

“I only lie when I need to. Little white lies.”

“Have you ever touched white ash?”

“Yes, it’s hot.”

“So white lies aren’t as innocent as they seem are they? Especially when they involve a death.”

“What? His death gave me a game, just like I used to play.”

“Who did you used to play with?”

“The odd animal. But you see now I’m professional.”

“A professional?”

“Detective, a professional detective.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because flames can’t reduce things to ash and then wonder if it was the rain.”

Sea Burnt Lovers

This is a poem about two lovers, well past lovers, who are now on the same ship; one has become so outraged and love crazy with the other that they have set fire to the cruse ship they're on. The italics are the couples past. I explain the poem as it doesn't make too much sense as the lines are taken from picking random words from a book. Which amazes me that it can actually create such beautiful and understandable verse.

Sea Burnt Lovers

They no longer cared for themselves

Heart beating faintly; twisted in the deep shadows

Silently, slowly: he smiled

Flame flickering like beating drums

Rhythm, music, fire

A flame that burnt the picture into the hearts and minds;

Blessed oblivion

Dusk

The lights drawn in bed

Softly, eyes lying between them

Clear: what was to become of the inevitable

Even in half light a pleasant open- face

‘I can’t resist leaving you’

You were right: there is no magic

Music, dancing, dance all day

Months living high

Seas living free

We are of the same blood

Not time

We are of the same time

Not blood

We shall live reasonably

‘So eggs split wide open, starving souls’

Well, not for you

In any scheme all you need is courage

The end of a bad dream

To grin and say, so what?

The beginning of what lies in store for you

Night, midnight

The darkness beaming, great moon faces

Feeding their guns and squeezing their triggers

Too close, too powerful

Incandescent brilliance, dazzling, magnificent

Fiercely inevitable

Alight with joy

You, you, me

Hope

Lost contact

Am continuing search

“Lost contact!”

The sea was on fire

Flat, calm

A vast carpet of licking, twisting flames

Heart stopping

For flames devour all life

He’s drowning:

Grave, lips

She fought

In a bad dream

Bit of time: get clear

The pain

The night

Your hands

I’m afraid

A low voice

Splutter

Heavy

Sinking

Through the Eyes

I recently watched the film Anna Karenina and adored the way it was all filmed in a theatre to represent the way rich people of the time were seen to be acting. With this idea playing on my mind I visited an exhibition at my school and a small box caught my eye: you had to look through two eye pieces which revealed a room with a nose as the table, lips as a sofa and two paintings as the eyes. It also had stage curtains before it.

These two ideas are where this piece comes from, I wanted to make it elaborate and written in the style of a play script. 

Enjoy....

Through the Eyes

Let us pretend we’re tiny little dolls

Made out of china and lace

Let us imagine we play in a room:

We lounge in a chair of lips

And drink from a nose of a table

My two paintings make up its eyes;

They really are my favourite

Act one: The face room

“Mariella!” The shrill rolling voice chimes around the sky blue corridors followed by an endless rhythm of fast little high-heeled feet. The irritating tapping draws ever closer to the slumbers of Mariella.

Fling, tap, tip, tap, tip, groan, fling! Bright sun dances with the curtain dust, which had just been so rudely interrupted. Sunshine spotlights a serene girl spread lavishly upon red lips, the silk and lace of her dress seeming to float about her. “Miss Juliana, really.” Suddenly awake she flings an open gesture towards a pursed maid.

“It is eleven o’clock Mariella and you really aught to be up.” Her voice rises and falls like a swooping swallow, but has an edge to it stuck like nails on black boards.

“Oh but really, isn’t it just lovely in here? Don’t you just want to stay here all day?” Mariella gracefully flings herself back down causing her dress to make a satisfying ‘poof’.

‘Yes, and didn’t you just stay in here all of last night? I felt your loud music failed to coordinate with my sleep patterns.”

Aghast, “but I thought you loved that play? It is your favourite, you know with all the tiny men that play the-“

“Harpsichords, and very loudly.”

“Oh lets have it again, as it’s your favourite after all!” Standing she begins to waft around the wooden floor calling in a honeysuckle voice, “Oh my fine, handsome actors that entertained me so last night, your duty has been redeemed as this old lady would like to hear your play!”

“I am not old Mariella and I certainly do not want to hear this play, that I have heard enough off.” Her lips have now become so very tight that Mariella begins to wonder if any air could past through them and how much so it would spoil such a fine day if Miss Juliana were to die due to over pursing. But this thought is very quickly shooed to the side when a precession of colourful people enter upon the room.

The first carries a large, splendid platter of fruit. Some boringly recognisable and some so rare they are locked away in glass cabinets across the world.

The second carries a rather oversized bowl of pink punch decorated with large cubes of ice carved into people’s faces (one of Mariella’s favourite games: ‘If looks could freeze’ in which it is customary to guess the name of the ice-cubed face).

The third carries an extravagantly and expensively iced cake that subsequently breaks off into extravagantly and expensively iced cup cakes.

And this man is where the food stops and the actors commence, each small (as desired) and wearing a different colour suit, standing together and in the correct order they make up the rainbow; each also carries an oversized harpsichord of a different colour to their suit, which make up the colours of a backward rainbow when they stand in congregation.

Quickly and effectively the front of the room is turned into a small stage, Mariella and an irate maid sit together on the lips. Food is served.

“Oh breakfast! I sure am starved.” Mariella’s hand begins to play upon the tops of the platters eyeing unfamiliar delicacies suspiciously. “And what is this?”

“This madam is the rarest of raspberries from the depths of the Sibe-“

“And what is this?” This carries on until all the fruit has been named, each explanation being cut of half way through. After each has been explored a decision is finally made on what breakfast will be. Mariella turns away from the fruit, disgusted, she picks up a pink cup cake, which happens to be the same colour as her dress. “Well you know what my dear old Aunt Marie used to say: ‘if there’s nothing to eat let them eat cake’!”

The play is a short one that is often performed on repeat, like an irritating song that always finds a way to get stuck in your head. It consists of seven small men who are each highly skilled on a harpsichord. They act out a play of song, dance and music on the subject of unrequited love. The play is entitled My Love Sick Aunt, from which you can probably gather it is about Miss Juliana herself, the reasoning to why Mariella thinks it to be her favourite. In actual fact it is her least as she loathes to be reminded of the love she once felt for a chef of the castle and the demolishing way he failed to love her back. Though to anyone else it is simple light entertainment.

Tick, tick, tick. “Oh I am so very bored and I do wish that clock would stop ticking as it is reminding me of my boredom.”

“Well what do you wish to do Mariella?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, that is why you’re here is it not? To tell me what to do?”

“In which case I think a costume change as Monsieur tous le Pommes is coming this evening for the ball.”

“Ah yes, I have the most splendid idea; I shall dress as an apple to match his name, won’t that be quaint?”

Dryly, “very.”

The lights dramatically (and rather irritatingly) dim on the room.

Act two: The Apple Ball

“Dorriss!” This persistent voice never ceases to terrorise such a busy palace, “Dorriss the apples are bruised, why are the apples bruised?” Miss Juliana’s heels cascade down the ornate stairs.

A tall, precisely dressed butler side steps into her bee-line, hair plastered across his brow matching a twirling moustache painted above his lips. “Why, they are only bruised on one side and only one bunch.” His French tones roll into an uptight Miss Juliana.

“They are bruised and everything for tonight must be perfect. Mariella is hoping to be married tonight.” These last words carry weight and severity, emphasised by perfect scrutinizing eyes.

“Madame if the apples bother you that much they will be changed.” Clap! Clap! “Men, more apples!”

“Oh don’t you think I’m going to look splendid just splendid Miss Juliana?” A surprised seamstress turns from the wired up Mariella, astonished at how quickly Miss Juliana can get around the castle.

Mariella is standing directly in front of the small window, casting a light shadow. She wears a bodice that a lady is furiously tightening and is currently showcasing a series of tort cords that are momentarily being twisted and bent into the very life like silhouette of an apple. Different shades of green and red silks are strewn across the table, Miss Juliana is currently examining them.

“Which do you think? Red or green apple?”

“I’m really not sure Mariella.”

“Well I was thinking that green was more bubbly and lively, but red far more passionate; which do you think Monsieur tous le Pommes would prefer?”

Leaving, “The French are known for their passion…”

Tout tout, tout tour, la la la la la la, tout tout, tout tou, la la la la la, tout tout, tout tout.

An array of dancing smocks twirl across an over decorated floor, bobbing and skipping to a familiar tune. Tall white wigs dotted with fruit meet voluptuous gowns by pressing palms. Twirling and laughter fill the great hall. Freeze frame.

Heads turn in unison to Mariella dramatically posed at the top of the stairs. “Ladies and gentleman, the princess of the Palace.” A light applaud commences as Mariella descends the stairs, looking uncannily like a graceful apple (as much as apples can have grace).

On reaching the bottom of the stairs the applause turns to red smiling lips as a tall man dressed in a white and black striped suit approaches her. “Ah madam, stars do not sparkle as much as you do in this dress.”

Ha ha. “Oh don’t you flatter Monsieur tous les Pommes.”

Interval, enjoy the ice cream…

The Stranger

Doesn't really have a story behind it, I just started writing a piece under this title and this is what came...

The Stranger

An inky blackness began to wash through the streets, engulfing everything it came in contact with. A wind was trailing just behind it, causing the town to quake in its track.

Though she was unaware of the encroaching gloom beyond her window, she sat, absent-mindedly watching her television.

The seven o’clock news came on, as it always did, a pattern was beginning to show in her days.  Recessions, children missing, children found, murder. She turned it off, tutting as she did so. Is the world ever going to sort itself out?

She felt hungry, a glass of wine and a few bars of chocolate seemed every so tempting. You can start your diet tomorrow, just a few pieces won’t do you any harm. She told herself that every night, never to start a diet. She ambled into the kitchen, turning the radio on. It was the irritating man who played the awful music. And didn’t she love it.

She opened the fridge and pulled out the wine, the cupboard for the glass and the drawer for the chocolate. She knew where to reach as if it were built into her: she made the little trip every night. She made her way out of the room, glass in one hand, chocolate in the other, making her way back to the lounge to watch Hollyoaks, the later viewing. She stepped over the threshold as the doorbell rang. Frozen in a forward motion, she wondered who could be calling at such a late hour. Come to think of it, no-one ever came round. She turned and darted back to the kitchen, placing her snack on the edge of the table. Heading for the front door, she fixed her hair and clothes as she went.

The inky wind washed through her hair, it was no-one she knew on the doorstep, a stranger.

He knew she wasn’t expecting to see him, an officer. He could always tell, as soon as they opened the door. Some would look relieved, others confused, the majority worried and a small number, like the lady, surprised.

His first job was to state his name, his office, removing his hat as he did so, looking calm and professional. Then after the facts had been stated, he was to pause, letting the information sink in. If the person did not ask them to come in then he was to ask to come in. But she asked him in, with a perplexed smile.

The smell of a shop-bought ready meal still hung in the air. He could always tell the difference between a shop-bought and home cooked meal. When his wife was out he’d always have a ready-meal. Perhaps it was lasagne.

She ushered him to a seat at the table, asking if he’d like a cup of tea. That’s one perk, or disadvantage of being an officer, all the tea. He refused that night, however, he could tell from the one glass of wine and chocolate that she was on her own. She would therefore be social. He could also tell she was lonely by the irritating music she was playing, which she turned off as he’d just begun to register it. All these facts told him that she was going to want to gabble on, and he wanted to go home. Resulting in him declining the offer of tea.

She sat awkwardly at the edge of the table, her eyes falling onto her wine. She snapped them up, embarrassed with her indulgence. He smiled, saying that it may be best if she were sitting comfortably. It was a little trick officers had, playing the host when they were the guest. She sat staring at him, inquisitive and innocent.

For a brief moment he wished not to tell her, to keep her in her average day’s life. But he had come here to complete a job and this he did.

He didn’t cease talking until all he had needed to say had been said. He watched her facial expressions change. From that of curiosity to horror, from horror to disbelief and from disbelief to a state of permanent blackness.

When he had finished they sat for a while in silence, then he asked if there was anyone she wanted him to call. When she shook her head he stood to leave. He gave her his number and left the house.

His work was done and he did not turn back as the inky darkness engulfed him.

She had had customers all day, she couldn’t help feeling that this tragedy was good for her business. She also could never understand why people placed flowers at the site, passers by didn’t want to walk by and know that right there is where someone died, that’s what she believed.

A lady walked into the shop. She walked straight over to the tulips and took three, then she moved to the till, her eyes drawn down as she did so. The lady placed the flowers down and took a card from the rotating stand. ‘Is that all?’ she asked, beginning to tie the flowers. The lady simply nodded, her eyes still down.

She said the price and the lady handed it over in silence. She couldn’t help feel that this lady’s mood was clashing with her happy music and she wanted her to be gone.

But the lady stood still for a while, a hand floating above her purchase. She was just about to ask if she wanted anything else when the lady unexpectedly spoke. ‘Do you have a pen please?’ As she said these simple words, the lady’s eyes rose. They were, she thought as she reached for the pen, the worst eyes she had ever seen. They were stained black through tiredness and the skin was wrinkled around the edge. But mainly they just seemed so lost, so saddened, like nothing was ever going to put the light back into them. She handed the lady the pen.

The lady took it with a nod of the head and began to write in her card, her hand shaking as she did so. She knew it was wrong to read people’s messages but she couldn’t help it.

To my darling son

The world will never be the same without you.

Never feel like anyone’s ever forgotten you.

Because I never will.

Your loving mother

Who will always love you

She felt a feeling of abandonment reading the card, and then, just like the rain vanishing, she realised; she realised who the lady was and why she was buying flowers, why her eyes seemed so lost and why she had just written that message. And in that moment she understood the pain this stranger was going through, and then she felt like she was no stranger. She watched her leave the shop and walk the few yards to the site. She followed in the same route out of the shop and to the site and here she stood, hands by her side, watching the lady place the flower and the card among the others.

When the lady stood back up their eyes met for a moment and she offered a little smile, even though tears were threatening. She understood now, why people place flowers.

She looked around and noticed an officer walking down the street, hat in hand. He looked solemn as his eyes fell upon the flowers. He paused and stood by them for a moment, head bowed. The lady, the mother of the deceased, made a small movement towards him, like they’d met before. But her thoughts were in a different place.

Here the three stood, watching the petals of the flowers shiver in the wind, while the world carried on around them. Three strangers, brought together by an occurrence, a forgettable happening that changed the course, interrupting the pattern of their every day lives, like an expected wind vanishing.

The China Cup and Saucer

I wrote this two years ago during an exam and happened to remember it when I got home so wrote it down....

The China Cup and Saucer

There are women for whom every day is the same. And to place change on that day would send worry through perfectly oiled minds. These are the women who drink from a china cup and saucer.

Every morning a small alarm clock will ring at a certain time. She will lift a corner of the sheet, slip out of bed and step into her slippers. She will delicately wrap herself in her silk dressing gown and leave her room – that looks like it’s never been touched.

Her breakfast is always the same: one Weetabix, four tablespoons of milk and a small glass of orange juice.

Her table only ever has one chair by it. Except for when guests are to come round.

On this Thursday morning she adds a drop of milk and sugar to her tea. Which she drinks out of a china cup and saucer.

With her coat perfectly buttoned she walks down the small garden path that is in the centre of perfection. On either side, green yards, where if grass was to exceed allowed limits it would have its head cut off immediately, without  trial or a last word. The roses would stay budding and fresh; the weaker ones not getting a single chance.

This is what she left on that Thursday morning, as she sat in her car to drive to work. But in the window, sat her tea cup from breakfast. An item that should have been washed and put away still sat there. The first sign of change: a hairline crack in the china cup and saucer.

This woman, as she drove off to work, was one of these women of perfection. Her name: Jane Eliza.

After work she pulled out of her bag a small black book, the ‘To Do’ book. As she walked into the café she got her warm smile from the owner, Mr Green, who had saved her regular table. On it he now placed her coffee.

Jane Eliza added a sachet of sugar and three drops of milk before stirring and bringing the mug to her lips to take a single sip. With her pen she crossed out the things she had done and the things she was to do. This is where her thoughts overtook her, and no-one came through her door. But today was different.

A man with whom she occasionally made small-talk smiled at her. He was wearing a big brown jumper with grass green trousers to match. She smiled, a weak polite smile, then closed the imaginary door. Leaving the exact amount of money on the table she stood up to leave. Then she walked into the shop opposite to buy a new china cup and saucer.

The rain was beginning to cry as she walked back into the street. She pulled out an umbrella and walked, like a lady-in-waiting: proper, delicate and perfect.

As she turned the corner into the car park the man from the café stood, smiling at her. In his hands was placed a small but powerful gun.

She stopped, with such composure, straight and fearless. In her hands she held her new china cup and saucer.

‘Your car is so clean,’ he grinned. ‘If a single splat of dirt was to caress it, it would be wiped from it. Disappear from the world.’ She stood silent.

He held up the gun: ‘You were the last job on my To Do list.’ And with a single shot, Jane Eliza was wiped from the world. The perfect little murder.

As he buried her in a small garden just off the motorway, the rain began to sob. As it did so, it wiped her away with it.

There is trouble with women that drink out of a china cup and saucer. They are trapped in a perfect world, so different to yours or mine.  And when something happens out of their control: change, their mind breaks down. Then, slowly they are dispatched from their world and placed back in ours.

So when it rains, and their gardens get too wet and things leak, this is the first stage of change.

Yet Jane Eliza was taken from the world in a different way.

By a man who couldn’t bear the woman he loved so much to ignore him, in every way. She had a list of life and he wasn’t on it.

A perfect rich man was to be his replacement. A perfect man, coupled with the perfect women. The woman he knew he’d never really be able to know.

So he killed her.

And now her china cup and saucer lies broken. With the rain gently falling upon it.

Thinking of You

I thought this poem was appropriate for remembrance sunday.

Thinking of You

You are the bird that sits on my windowsill

The one that wakes me every morning,

You are the milk that turns my coffee sweet,

You are the warmth of the coat on a windy day

You are the cool lemonade after a run,

You are the love note past from the boy,

You are the earth little secrets told,

You are the butterfly that hatches from its chrysalis,

You are the child that holds your hand,

You are a leaf blown up by the wind,

You are the first drop of rain after a drought,

You are the forgotten dream returning,

You were my angel coming to play,

Because I love you

And always thinking of you.