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.