A Special Place

A Special Place

The stone cottage by the sea with its sparkling solid granite block walls is where I can feel all is right with the world. The clocks stop. Time stands still. The cares and worries of everyday peel away into silence. The world will keep on turning without my input for this short while and I can feed my soul from the murmur of the tide washing on the shore, the ring of bicycle bells as people pass by in friendly salute, the chattering demand of gulls bickering over crab remains thrown out by the fishermen.
This is a dream world. Solid and yet unsubstantial. Time will no longer stand still than the melody in a piece of music. You can hold the pause but eventually you will be swept along to the next phrase, the next crescendo.
I put on my swimsuit and walk down on to the beach picking my way over the dry rolled seaweed of high tide. I walk the sand of the tide line noting the entry and exodus of each wave turning a fresh crop of pearly shells in its wake. The sand bubbles in places where sea creatures hide, breathing unseen. I bend to pick up the tiniest delicate shell the size and shade of my babies fingernail. This is substance. This I can hold and take and keep in the cut glass pink salt. It can be mine always. My own dear heart quietly contented.

The copyright of this post belongs to Holly Khan

Still, in Two Parts

Part 1:
They sit, smiling: laughter caught on their faces, in the corners of their mouths, the crinkling of their eyes, a spontaneous embrace—
If joy can be captured—frozen, yet warm—aglow in the patina of the fading photograph—continuing beyond the brief click of the shutter—lasting beyond the years of growth of the young children into adults…
They sit: animated, but still; quiet, peaceful; on the edge of their lives, but in balance for the moment.
In the retirement home, she sets down the photograph and thinks, “what’s at rest, stays at rest”, and closes her eyes.
Part 2:
In the cold, stillness of winter, good fortune frozen on the wind, the remaining leaves hanging lifeless from glittering twigs, a man sits, static, like an oil painting, framed by the icicle-bejewelled window edges. His battered, dusty cowboy hat lies on the floor beside him, as if dropped a season ago like the Autumn leaves by the wind and left to decay. His eyes, unfocused, as if he would see through people and not see them.
He remembers the wind of winters long ago: the snow spiralling down, her love bright like glitter, a picture of kindness, a warmth like summer, stilling his hands with her own.

The copyright of this post belongs to Monica Jenkins

The Sign for Corney Reach

I wasn't sure if I could find the path.  I had seen the sign, Corney Reach, five miles, about 30 minutes ago; but it didn't feel like it was within reach.

Why was it that even in my panic, I found myself singing: "the only man who could ever reach me, was the son of a preacher man"?  It must have been to do with the sign for Corney Reach.

I saw a pub sign in the distance with its sign swinging to and fro in the wind. That must be The Little Drummer pub, I thought, but with the wind blowing, it seemed quite a way to go to The Little Drummer.

I felt angry with myself for taking things at face value. When I met the bearded man in the bar, I knew that he took the car for a trial run, but I never thought he would steal it.  That was my only possession and now I was stranded out in the wild, windy countryside, trying to find the path.

 

The copyright of this post belongs to Jane Kunna

Michel

Part One
There’s always a price to pay. So she had been warned, many times, by many people - some more sensitively than others. Her mother had invited herself round, cornered her in the kitchen and called her recent romantic choices ‘depraved’. Her gentle friend Rosie, meanwhile, confined herself to asking: “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Depraved. Well, that was love for you.
Into the slumber of Monday to Friday mortgage-paying, weekend Garden Centre-visiting grey predictability, he had exploded his kaleidoscope of colour, his vivid, irradiating energy. He lived a different kind of life to everyone else, as if he occupied some other, glorious dimension where unknown rules applied. Or none at all. Wild seas and dangerous currents were his everyday, his high-octane reality.
As she lay with her head on his chest, the sun’s glow burning through the curtains, the pulse of his heart raged against her cheek. Even at rest, his heartbeat was twice as fast as hers. “It’s like you’re constantly running from the law, my love.” She teased.
He gave an ironic laugh.
“He’s a bit flamboyant.” Rosie had remarked. “Not at all like Steve.”
“Hence the appeal.” She replied. Steve was her dull, non-communicative, chain-smoking ex-husband. Closing her eyes against the memory, she saw the small places of their life together, the nicotine-stained walls, the closing net of debt, the bickering arguments where nothing was really said.
“Anyway, what’s wrong with flamboyant?” She said. “Michel just knows how to express himself.” He certainly did.
“He’s a bloody frog.” was all her dad could say.
While she didn’t agree with her mother’s histrionics or her father’s blatant racism, honesty compelled her to admit that she had her doubts. It was a darker sense of caution violated, of somewhere entered where there was no guaranteed exit. It wasn’t even the worry that he might actually eat frog’s legs. She knew something of his history, the trail of women left for dead in his wake - at least in an emotional sense. Perhaps he was so alive that he couldn’t possibly live - in any normal way - and took with him anyone who stepped into his orbit. Then they found themselves stranded in a land far from home, kaleidoscoped into oblivion, hungover from the intoxication of him. She was next.
Perhaps it would be a glorious way to go. Or maybe it would be better to stay in comfortable slumber with a dull husband.
And then she would look at Michel and know that behind the radiant image was a darker reality.


Part 2
Zebra in the room.
The water of the Thames was dark and oily by night, lapping with rhythmic suggestion against the side of the punt. It had been Michel’s idea to steal one (or ‘liberate’ it, as he maintained) from the Oxford boat-house and have a midnight adventure.
“It will empower you.” He had whispered in her ear, his big, warm hands resting on her hips. “This is ‘Morse’ and ‘Lewis’ territory, you know.” She replied, laughing. “Are you going to murder me?”
“Perhaps.” His strange, light eyes - very un-French eyes - glinted at her in the semi-dark. “But no blundering English Pig policeman - that is correct, you say the Pigs? - will solve this murder. You and I will be the only witnesses to this unreported crime.” He had held her hand in his strong, certain grip as she climbed unsteadily into the punt. Amazing how much she trusted him when he was telling her he was going to murder her.
He climbed in beside her. “You will simply disappear.”
She leaned into him, the boat shuddering beneath them, breathing in the dark, maddening smell of him, feeling the pulse of his neck vibrating against her lips.
“Would you disappear with me?” She whispered.
“Oui.”
She closed her eyes, sinking into his enclosing arms as he began lazily to propel them away from the bank.
“I know this is not the proper English way to punt along the river.” He said, a smile in his voice.
“No. You don’t have a cup of Earl Grey in your hand. And you’re not moaning about the weather.
Still, I rather like the French way.”
“It is not the French way, either. In France we would be crashing the other boats, blowing our horns and shouting, ‘Salaude!’”
She laughed, the sound echoing across the water, getting lost in the dark undergrowth. An owl screeched, as if in reply.
“Michel?” “Yes.”
“I think you’re already disappeared, aren’t you. On the run from the French authorities?” “I do not run. I never run. I evolve.”
She nestled more closely against him, feeling the working of his chest muscles as he pushed the punt. “Well, I’m on to you.”
“Then I’ll definitely have to kill you.”
He let the punt drift again, pulling her up so that she faced him. His eyes were steady, unblinking, the pupils so huge that they had all but driven out the light, the long, child’s lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. With one finger he traced along the bones of her face, across her brow, to her cheekbones, along her jaw line, as if he were creating her, moulding her shape. Slowly, he lifted her face to his, tasting her lips.
She had never been with anyone who kissed quite like Michel. Sometimes like this, sensual and unhurried, as if he was fine-dining; sometimes playfully, laughing against her open mouth and ruffling her hair. Then, when the mood took him, he would push her hard against the wall with explosive, ravenous kisses, trying to swallow her whole. Fee, Fi, Fo, Fum, I smell the blood of an englishman. Or woman. After he had eaten her up, he would spit out her bones.
He sighed dreamily and began to punt again, as she re-nestled.
“Have I hit on the truth, then?” She said. “Is Michel not your real name? Are you an exile?”
He didn’t laugh. “Just like Lord Byron.”
“Have you driven dozens of women to madness, too?”
“Thousands.”
“Are you going to drive me to madness, Michel?”
She saw his wide smile in the dark, the glint of his teeth. “Only if you want me to.”
She laughed. “You already have, my love. Can’t you tell? It’s after midnight and I’m in the middle of the Thames in a punt we just knicked.”
“Liberated.”
“You’re a bad man.”
Again, he let the boat drift, covering her eyes with his large hands. “Guess what.” He said. She felt his hands tighten.
“What?”
“I have something for you.” His voice sounded close in her head, like one of her own thoughts. He took his hands away slowly. She felt a warm pressure and looking down, she saw a dark shape in her lap. “Open it.” He said.
It was a small bag, made of stiff card, with cord to close it. Peering at it, she read: ‘Maria’s antique jewelry, St. Aldates, Oxford.’
She gave a small gasp. She had often admired the jewelry in the window for its dignified
Edwardian pieces and an pearl and garnet ring in particular that would fit very nicely on her ring finger…
But the bag felt too heavy for that.
“Open it.” He pressed her.
She drew out a statuette, a cat deep blue as she lifted it to the moonlight, a cool, smug look on its face. Its sightless eyes stared into hers. It was strangely warm in her hand and so heavy - dence with the weight of secrets.
Puzzlement fought with disappointment and won. “Did you get this from Maria’s, then?”
“Pas de tout. I stole the jewelry bag from Cafe Nero. Somebody left it on their table.”
She shook her head. “You’re a very bad man.”
“Oui, c’est moi. Le voleur.” He reached across and took the cat from her hand. “Do you like her?” Her hands felt naked, released from the strangely comforting weight. She didn’t quite know what to say. “Yes, of course.”
“You want to know things about me, yes? Well, she could tell you a story, if she could talk.” He stroked the cat with a slow, sensual rhythm. She experienced a ridiculous pang of jealousy.
“Why don’t you tell me?”
There was a long pause. His breathing sounded loud in the darkness.
“Michel?”
“D’accord.” He shifted away from her, looking out across the water. “ I grew up in a nothing little town near Reims. My father ran the bakery, until he went out of business. He liked drinking more
than baking bread. My mother loved this cat. She put her on the on the window sill and there she sat, for years, watching. Always watching.”
He told her about his violent father, his annihilating rages, his pathetic tears, afterwards.
“My mother always seemed to believe him when he told her he would never do it again. Even after he made her clean the blood off the walls.”
“Did he ever hit you?”
“Sometimes. When I tried to help her.”
She could picture it: the watching cat on the window sill, its fake lapis smoothness serene and undisturbed, absorbing the family secrets. The helpless little boy in his bedroom, the muffled sounds of pain vibrating the walls. “My poor love.” She said, stroking his arm.
“It was much worse after the bakery closed. We had to move away. I remember looking back as we left, seeing my mother’s pretty blue dress crumpled on the floor. We had to leave things behind, because we left quickly. It made me sad that she would never wear it again.” “But you took the cat.”
“Mais, oui. I put her in my pocket as we left. She was the witness to what no-one ever talked about. It was going on all the time, but it was - how do you say? - the ‘zebra in the room’.”
She couldn’t keep back a smile. “Elephant.”
“Yes, elephant.” He shook his head. “My mother wouldn’t leave him. I told her he would never stop.” He turned to her suddenly and said, with a slow smile, “But he did stop.”
“How... Why? Did he leave?”
“He died. He was killed.”
In the heavy silence that followed, the owl screeched again.
She jumped. “Why did you give me the cat, Michel?”
“I wanted you to know things... that I’ve kept hidden from everyone for years. Years. I thought she would help me tell you.“ He took her hand, opening it and placing the warm weight of the cat in her palm. She almost thought she could feel it purring. “I feel safe with you, my darling.”
But did she feel safe with him? There was another ‘zebra’ in the room, as he would say. But she didn’t know if she could form the words.
“Well,” he said, after a while, “Aren’t you going to ask me?”
She took a deep breath, letting go of his hand. “Did you kill your father, Michel?”
He drew her back into his arms, whispering: “Only the cat knows. Perhaps one day she’ll tell you.”

The copyright of this post belongs to Alison Stickings 11.1.15

'Tis the Season...Three Pieces

 First Piece

‘It’s hard work being a pantomime prop,’ thought the two kidney beans, their three companions long since lost. ‘No-one appreciates the pressures you’re under as the stars of the show. The longeurs you have to endure between scenes, all the lapses into bored, becalmed quiet. We were expecting Jack and a Beanstalk,’ they mused, ‘but, confusingly, ended up with Red Riding Hood, carrying a knapsack bundle that clearly belongs to Dick Whittington!’

‘I thought it was free,’ said Red Riding Hood, ‘and as it was packed with bottles of mulled wine I decided a-wassailing we will go. Be of good cheer, you can come too.’ The old Christmas card read the riot act, demanding to come along as well. And Cheryl cut the cake so they’d have something to eat later.

The whole cast took off from the theatre roof, blazing pathways through the night sky. Only the old wishing well stayed behind, sulking and emanating an all-pervading smell of  damp and decay. The beans made a mental note to make friends with it later, against the day they needed a fresh start. Germination needed water - lots of it, and where better than a well that could make all their wishes come true?

The copyright of this post belongs to Clare Elstow 11/12/14

Second Piece

The disorganised confusion of the weather was offset by the charming, hopeful chaos within. As her new red boots took her towards the house, the young woman felt uplifting energy, a coracle of hopefulness floating her towards a settled resolution.

‘What if this was perfect?’ she thought, as the door swung open and sunshine appeared through the clouds, clearing away the wind and rain she’d battled so long.

‘Guess what’s in your stocking!’ said the bright apparition on the threshold. Was it an angel in disguise? Perhaps she thought, as she ran towards her mother, who was standing by the front door with its welcoming Christmas wreath.

The copyright of this post belongs to Clare Elstow 11/12/14

Third Piece

They could hear the boots marching down an empty street nearby. A relentless rhythm, transparent in its aggression. Utterly selfish, with no regard to the fears and lives of the occupied residents.

More sinned against than sinning, one family decide to retaliate. Absorbing the beat by osmosis, they do what they’ve always done at picnics by the riverside. A lone voice starts the song; a more highbrow member of the family adds a complex counterpoint, another a bass line. For a moment there is sweet harmony, a polyphonic heaven. Then joy is binned, happiness trimmed and the jackbooted beat predominates.

Everyone echoes the relentless beat, drumming on the floor, table, door – matching the aggression marching away. But one person fumbles again for melody, tries to ejaculate a burst of musical notes. The wistful sound of their harmonica drifts down the street, following the uncaring boots, blowing in the wind.

The copyright of this post belongs to Clare Elstow 20/11/14

All That We Wish Changed

It changed.
Yes, what changed, when?
Sorry?
What is 'it' and when did it change? Ponytail, aka Dr Whatshername, enunciates the words with frustration. I despair at my new ability; convoluted thoughts carouselling on the white noise in my brain. My thoughts are entropic, sliding into unmaking before they are made, before they are solid.

I stop gazing at the wall behind Ponytail. I look down at my knees, close my eyes and go hunting for what was 'It'. Come on Jo, you can do it I encourage myself, my own silent cheerleader. Go, Jo. Go...ahh, yes, It is, or should I say, She is Therese. It is all about her, isn't it? There 'it' is. There she is, Therese and her melting smile. I look up at Ponytail. She is waiting, impatience etches her face. Eyes like daggers and the thick rimmed glasses flimsy protection for me. If looks could change.
Well!
Yes - the room refocuses, settles around me again, white walls, metal chairs and table, recording device, straightjacket, all where they should be. Yes, I speak up, it changed, it all changes when Therese disappears.
Disappears?
Yes (is Ponytail obtuse or obfuscating?), disappeared, went missing.
How went missing?
(Jeez, she is dumb or I am, if I knew that, if I'd known that I wouldn't be here, would I? I want to shout. I don't, but I do shout for I am suddenly full of the blessing of Therese, can see her gentle, mocking eyes, her hands reaching for me) You SEE, It was a kind of reunion.
Reunion? Ponytail's voice is skeptical.
Well, I had not seen her for two weeks
Not long really, she maintains her tone
(Not long, not long, how dare she, it seemed like an age)
No, I guess not, I reply, becalmed.
But?
But the thought of us being together lightened my load, that week.
Load?
(Yes, load. Load, you dumb bitch. Her snide interjections are exasperating me)
Yes, things had changed at work and not in a good way.

I remember Jean's gallic shrug when we returned to our desks after Anna's peptalk that Friday. I'd just checked my email for the confirmation. Sure enough, it was there, a little red flag next to the subject line indicating its utmost priority. Must be accepted. Must be read. 'Naught may endure but mutability Jo' quoted Jean, standing next to me, holding up my coffee mug in sympathy. I remember thinking that that was a bit rich, coming from someone who was a permanent member of staff. I remember wanting to take the mug and throw the hot liquid over him.

How, not in a good way?
I'd lost my job. I scowl at her. Ponytail ignores that.
So, Therese had been away.
Yes, in La Rochelle
Ponytail nods, hair swinging. And was coming back to Paris that day?
Yes, Friday.
The day you lost your job?
YES, I am shouting again, but that didn't matter, nothing, no other change mattered when I received her voicemail. You, YOU don't know.

I remember the voicemail. After I'd restrained myself from burning Jean with coffee, I'd sat back on my chair. I had a few hours to clear my desk but no inclination. I seemed to be floating on the
chair, in it but not. Light headed, disembodied, I was brought back to reality when my phone started vibrating across the desk. Click, electronic voice - you have one new message, press 2 to listen. Click. And then, her honeyed tones, and my heart is in the receiver.
'Ca va Jo? Listen I return to Paris tonight and I must see you. I have been thinking, thinking and making a decision. Meet me at the usual place, 6.30. Okay? I'll tell you all then. J't'aime cherie.' Her voice tilted with the endearment and, click, was gone.

You don't know what she is like!
Tell me, Ponytail is calm, mollifying with her hands.
She is the wind at your back, filling your sails with the beauty of promise, of change.
That word again?
Yes, but in the best, the most wonderful of ways.
So, you were excited at the prospect of seeing her again?
Err, yes! (She is dumb)

My face is hot with an image of Therese. The morning sun across rumpled bed sheets, framing her in sleep, highlighting an expression of contentment that ached my heart.

But that Friday?
Yes?
All that we wish to stay?
Tempts and then flies, I finish the wounding quote.
She did not arrive at your rendezvous.
My flush fades, Therese's image has flown away. The room is at once cold.
No, I whisper.


Copyright 2014 Gabrielle Goldsmith

In the Grey

The harbour is empty in the grey of missing you.

Where are you Therese, I scream at the gulls, circling above me, above the cob. Last time I stood here, I stood with you. And we kissed. And we kissed the kiss of forever. Where are you? The birds, moving with a purpose on the wind, cry and caw in response. They consume my feelings, the wind takes my tears.

Changed futures, chanced futures. I had a chance of something new, something better. I don't want this future, I shout in silence, I'd give up all my possessions, my hopes, all I've promised others, my freedom for another moment. For another moment with you and the peace of mind....
'Your drink, Madam!' The waiter, dances it, chances it around my table, plonking the glass down and interrupting my lament. A leopard does not change its spots. The cliche leaks through my tired brain, as I look into his smarmy expression. 'Merci,' I reply, thinking I'd give him a piece of my mind though it might be murderous.

I don't. Instead, I search the faces of the passers-by. Search them for you. Nothing. Search them as I have done for days, hands to work, hearts to God, furiously searching and asking. Nothing. As one day has cheerfully undone the work of the last, I have uncovered...nothing. I have acquired a shadow. Plain dark suit but local gendarmie, no doubt. He sits a few tables away. He follows me discreetly. He has not said hello yet. It is a matter of time I suppose, perhaps he will give me another day before the police haul me in.

It is day three here trying to find you, to discover any sign of what has happened. Day thirty three since you did not return to Paris when you said you would. At night, alone in the room we shared, curled up tight on the bed, my dreams are addled by unfulfilled desire and wanton fear. I bumble around like a drunk staggering through painted bar doors, attempting to slake her thirst. Is she behind this blue one? No. Perhaps the red door? No!

Last night, I prayed to all the Gods before sleep. 'I promise to be good, to be better, next birthday, next funeral, next wedding, if only you'd give me a sign' repeating the prayer as long as the cold floorboards would allow. I woke with the watery dawn, no sign and my mouth dry. Chance would be a fine thing.

Now, at the quayside, the prayer haunts me. Wedding! I am playing constantly with the ring. Your ring Therese. Working a groove into my finger. Into my soul. Wedding?, I whisper to the cold sky, already running from the low sun. This change has undone me. A fairy child is inking malevolence around my heart. You were my one chance to stay the darkness. Without you Therese, I know it will overcome me.

The waiter brings me cold coffee, with added disdain. I lap it up.

In my pocket, chafing, a small box, circular imprint in empty velvet.


Copyright 2014 Gabrielle Goldsmith