The Door

I have a jar full of story prompts and sometimes I pick one out at random to write a story about. This is one of those stories. The prompt that came out of the jar was – a new door appears in  your home. This is what I came up with…

The Door

It was a sleepy Sunday morning when I first noticed the new door. It could have appeared on the Saturday night – I had been out drinking with my boyfriend Robert that night and was pretty distracted at bedtime, I might not have noticed it. It definitely wasn’t there Saturday morning.

My house isn’t the biggest – just a living room with a small kitchen attached downstairs, a bedroom and small bathroom upstairs. It’s not like I have a huge old rambling house where a door might be overlooked. Continue reading “The Door”

Character Flaw

I did exist. I was real, you can’t deny it. Though no one but you ever knew my name, I had people that loved me, cared for me, respected me. I had needs and hopes and desires. I had dreams. You never thought about that did you?  When you abandoned me for better things, you thought I would just fade away. Of course I didn’t,  I am a person. People don’t just disappear.

Oh I know it’s easier with him. You don’t have to think so much with him, he is simple, relatable, he makes it all so easy. You just “get” him, don’t you?  No need to work at uncovering his layers, work out his motivations, what makes him tick. He is an open book to you, not like I was. He doesn’t confuse you or deceive you or challenge the way you see the world or your place in it. I understand all that. He was the easier option. I was making things too complicated, with him it just flows. Continue reading “Character Flaw”

More Fond Of Rain

You said you would be my sunshine
But I have always been more fond of rain.

Summer’s light is too harsh
Too bright
It exposes you.

I much prefer
The soft grey dawn light
Of overcast skies
Refreshing, life giving water
Raining from above
Like blessings.

The sun can only warm
Until it burns
Leaving red pain
An unpleasant reminder
That will not fade
Long after the warmth has gone.

Rain can be a refreshing mist
On a fevered brow
Cooling and calming
like a mother’s hand

Or it can be fierce
Lashing down on skin
Small sharp pains
Like a lover’s words
In a heated argument.

Rain cleanses the world
Makes everything new
Awakens soft scents of nature
That summertime has crushed

Rain revives, gives new life
Washing cares away.

Rain rages,
It hammers, It roars,
Then calms, And quiets
Like a beast.

While thunder thuds it’s beat
And lightning takes centre stage
It is rain that gives melody to the storm.

The sun is easy to love
And everyone adores her
It’s much more of a task
To see the beauty
In the many shades of rain
To love all her quirks
The good, the bad,
The darkness she brings.

You keep your sticky summer sun
It’s few moments of scorching beauty
I have always been more fond of rain,
Of dancing in the storm,
Walking bare headed in the downpour.

You huddle under your umbrella,
I will raise my face to the skies
And be blessed with rainbows.

Bittersweet Memory

First published in my old notebook February 8, 2014

Bittersweet Memory

My daughter exists only here now, trapped in this yellowing photo, her features scarred with fold marks caused by her long imprisonment in my wallet.

The memory of her face hovers at the back of my mind; a vibrant sweetness that I can’t ever touch again. This likeness is but a pale reflection of all she was. I hate it for not capturing her essence, but it’s all I have now. I cling to it like a lover that I’ve lost interest in, but daren’t give up.

Will I still carry this imitation in my pocket and my heart when it stops conjuring her in my mind? Will I ever forget the perfection of her smile? Will the trust in her eyes fade to a shadow of a dream?

I can’t imagine ever casting it aside, even though it just taunts me with my ultimate failure. It will be my personal millstone forever.

I fold the photo back into its tiny, safe square again, hold it to my lips. My fingers grip it tight, pinching like I’m trying to stem blood from a wound. I wish I’d held on to her small hand this tight in that crowd all those years ago.

I wrote this story for the monthly writing competition in the Amazon Kindle Owners group on Goodreads. The theme was “old photos” and the word count limit was 200 words.  I was  surprised and delighted when it won.

Angels

First published in my notebook  January 12, 2013, a later version of this story made it into the second Strange Stories book, Strange Worlds- Surreal Stories and Tainted Tales.

Angels

It was raining when I met my wife.  It was about two in the morning, the streets just starting to fill with belligerent drunks. She had been out with a friendbut the friend got lucky and left her to get home alone. She had run out of money but decided to walk home as she didn’t live far from the town centre. To this day she insists that she would have gotten home just fine if her stiletto heel hadn’t caught in a drain, breaking the heel and twisting her ankle quite badly.
I was tipsy myself, having left my mates because they were already
out drinking me, and settling down for a serious session of liver murdering. I had a headache and was just finding it all a bit much. I had hoped the cool air would clear my head.
I offered her help, maybe hoping if I’m honest that tonight would turn out to be a good night after all. As soon as I got close I realised she was far too far gone to know what she was doing. I couldn’t take advantage, but I couldn’t leave her there, easy prey for any passing predator. I could have put her in a taxi, I suppose, but it just didn’t feel right. She was so ridiculously beautiful, and so ridiculously drunk. It didn’t feel safe.

Continue reading “Angels”

Inside your mind

First scribbled in my last notebook on January 11 2014

Inside your Mind

I want to wear your mind for a day,
walk the world your different way.
I want to feel sounds with your skin,
to taste the colours and the noise ,
and the chaos all around,
feel it knotting and winding inside,
and overtaking all.
Feel my tongue tie to my mouth,
and my language dwindle,
and finally understand the answer,
that you cannot give or cannot know
or cannot birth with words.

I want to feel the rain as shards of glass,
when it falls upon your face,
know the utter pain of soft grass
on your bare, exposed feet.
Experience the utter security and rightness
of a silky label on an old vest.

I want to feel the unfettered joy,
when the world clicks and the cloud parts
and, for a forever moment, all is well
and calm and ordered
and simple and it works
and you fly.

I want to go to that place you go,
when it is all too much here
but your body has to stay,
when you sink into colour
and fade out of sound.

What it is like in that place
that only you can go,
only you will ever know?
Is it better than here
in your other world?
Is it safe and kind and all silky labels?
or is it just colour and nothingness?

I want to know if you want to see
what it is like to be me,
how all that is impossible to you
is at my feet with ease,
if you envy it or hope for it
or are indifferent to it,
or if it is just another thought
your soul shrinks from.

I wonder because I want to understand
to be you for a day
to get you
to know what the weather is like
inside your mind
so I can make that smile happen
again and again and again.

The Show Must Go On

First scribbled in my last notebook on October 7, 2012

The Show Must Go On

Everyone loves a good show, the lights, the make-up, the pretty girls singing songs, the actors that can produce a smile or a laugh or a
tear with the mere twitch of an eyebrow, the carefully pitched tone of a line.

The show must go on. So few ask why.

Partly it is the sheer energy that goes into it, the months of rehearsals, the bitter arguments over the precise stance of an actor delivering his monologue, the momentum. The performers think the show must go
on because of the paying audience, people who have worked long hours, denied themselves luxuries for this one evening of entertainment. The audience thinks the show must go on because of the hours of hard work the performers have invested, the energy and the time. They see it as a mark of respect, thanking those people for their time with rapturous applause.  The truth is the build-up of those things – the energy it all creates.

The show must go on, for They need to be fed. Continue reading “The Show Must Go On”