Wide Open Stare

star

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:13:10 -0700

Just a mess around while waiting for other things to happen.

night flower

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:12:20 -0700

Just a mess around while waiting for other things to happen.

knife

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:12:03 -0700

Just a mess around while waiting for other things to happen.

cd cover

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 10:11:53 -0700

Just a mess around while waiting for other things to happen.

Poetry (1) In the darkness

Thu, 16 Oct 2008 15:15:57 -0700

In The Darkness In the darkness I lie hidden. In the darkness you lie hidden. Your toes touch my toes. But it's all a game. If only I could still see your eyes. I could tell if you're as frightened as me. Here in the shadows we play, At being adults, Wishing we were still the children we are. In the darkness we are. (Hidden) Alive. We can live out our secret lives, in peace. Away from all those prying eyes, Those waggling fingers. All those cutting words. They turn us into jelly. Toe to toe, we giggle. If only we could stay. Just a little longer. Till the end of the world. My friend. My love. In the darkness, we lie. Together.

Short Short Story (number 11)

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 16:46:27 -0700

When Did You Last Sing? Footsteps. Definitely footsteps. Was there music? Maybe. Perhaps. Please? Music. Yes. Definitely. He pushed the bed toward the tiny window. The metal legs scrapping and following old groves. This was not the first time. He moved the bed up right, climbing up the internal slats like it was a wide ladder. From here his eyes could just reach the window. Just. The window had three bars across. Sunk deep into the wall. The sill was level with the ground outside. That outside that promised to be full of life this evening. Life that the cell sought to hold it's captive from. There. Someone runs past. Sandals. Kicking up dust. A young boy, late home from school. On his way to play football with his friends. Hurrying home to eat his dinner with his mother and father. There was music. The man sighs. It has been too long since anyone played music in the outside. It is not a melody he recognises, but that does not surprise him. It has been twelve years. Much will have changed. But music stills stirs his soul. He strains to hear more. Moving his eyes away and trying to crane his neck so his ear is nearer the window. But his body is not used to this position, and his arms begin to shake with the stress put on them. Reluctantly he moves back and uses his eyes once more. Beyond the window to his cell is a street. Well, He calls it his street. It's little more than a track between buildings. A dusty and forgotten path through the city. It is about ten feet wide, before it ends in the faded brown of a wall. There is an open square that the street leads to. It is from here the man thinks The music must be coming from. When he walked the outside, there had been a small market there. Or was there? It had been a long time since he walked... he is no longer sure if it was here at all. Such a market. Selling wonders from all over the country and from place beyond even our land. Places you could only dream of. The music is fading. He cannot hear it anymore. Had there been any music at all? Had he finally succumbed to the madness? There were no more footsteps. He must move the bed back. He must not be found out. Or they will take him to a cell without even a window. With great reluctance, he pushes the bed back. There had been music. He was sure. He smiles. Only to himself. They may have taken everything else. But there was always music. He lays back on the bed, straining to remember the captured few notes. Each one bringing with it stirred memories of it's own. They have not won. He will outlast them. Caught in the music of the past, he hums along. Unbroken.

Short Short Story (number 10)

Sat, 29 Mar 2008 12:00:28 -0700

A Flower For My Suit The weight in his pocket fell heavy on him. The car was still stirring. He reached for the key, but stopped, afraid of continuing with his actions. Both hands return to be placed on the steering wheel. The proper position, ten to two. Staring straight ahead. The weight held in his right pocket of his best suit. His best suit showing it's age. His age. Worn round the bottom of the sleeves, beginning to perish under the arm. But still the best. It always had a calming effect on him. He was wearing it when he met his wife, when they married, and when he buried her. Her life watched by a suit. The suit had also seen his first day of his job. His only job. The best part of thirty years. And it had seen the last day. Made to volunteer to be fired. Sometimes it amazed him that the suit still fit him. That his body hadn't changed it's shape in all that time. A good investment then. A trip to a proper tailor, the money sweating in his hand. Being measured, the slight embarrassment at being so close. Then the wait. The first fitting. The soft caress of the material against his skin. He wore it home, his old clothes carried in a bag. The weight in his pocket nagging at him. Turn the key, get out of the car, fulfil the purpose of the journey. Gripping the wheel tighter. He glances in the rear view mirror. A tired old man, in a tired old suit looks back at him. The white shirt beginning to yellow at the edge of the collar where it met his skin and sweat. It belonged with him and his suit. But the tie! The tie was brand spanking new. A bold 'fuck you' red. Brought just two days ago. Worn for just the second time. (The first being when he paid for the extra weight in his pocket.) The only thing out of place. The only thing that seemed right. He released the steering wheel. He hands now clammy from holding too tightly. Gently he rubbed his palms up and down on his trousers. It's the motion that makes him smile. She would have told him to stop. He wishes he could see her, feel the touch of her lips. The decision once made, is simple. Choice finally made, he reaches for the key. It turns easily. The engine in his car dies. He releases the seatbelt. Opens the door, and steps out. The hand in the pocket now. He catches a reflection of the red of his tie. He brings the weight from it's resting place, no longer nagging, or insistent. Pressing against his head. The bullet gives him his last kiss, and a red carnation to blossom on his suit.

Short Short Story (number 9)

Sat, 22 Mar 2008 11:50:01 -0700

Humour Is A Virtue He wants to stick a knife in your eye. If not a knife, then anything sharp and pointed. He wants it to burst. He hopes it will pop like a balloon. Spurt the vitreous humor everywhere. Laughing all the time. He would clamp your head, so you couldn't move, couldn't escape. Rig up the knife so he didn't have to hold it. So it remained a fraction away from your eye. So close you can't even focus on it's tip. So close, if you blink it will cut your eyelid. Then he will push. Very, very slowly at first. To see if the lens bends from the pressure. Then, all in at once. It makes him laugh, each and every time. Watching you keep so still, watch you praying that it's all a bluff, that someone, anyone, will break down the door and rescue you. But no one will come. No one does come. Pressing home. Piecing. Screaming. But you've still one eye left. Giggling he approaches with the knife.

Short Short Story (number 8)

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 17:17:27 -0700

Staring At The Sun She glared at the sun and it glared back at her. Her head against the grass, the freshly cut smell irritating, but bringing with it pleasant memories. The sun seemed early this morning. The sunrise almost over when she had arrived. Missed the first stroke of the day, she felt some anger. But it would pass. Just how many times she had done this, she was unsure. But it was always worth it. When they have cut the long grass, the very next morning still wet with dew, the blue and orange coat, all followed like a ritual. Her favourite coat. Only now worn to lay on cut grass. Her arms spread wide. Fingers reaching, stretching. Nestling in. (There's no one to reach to.) She hadn't always come alone. The memories of days in college spent worshipping the death of the long grass. All her friends around her. Sometimes even a picnic. Alcohol and good times. Outlast even the sun. She smiles once again. The sun warms to her. A small breeze plays around the end of her blue summer dress. Another summer soon would end. She sits up, and flattens her dress out as best she can. Looking at her purple painted toes, her huge black boots discarded by her side. Soon she would have to join her departed friends in getting a job, start resembling her parents, stop wearing these clothes, no longer be able to have the time to waste laying in the grass. But not yet. There's always time for one more summer. She lays back. The sun deep in her eyes. The long red afterburn, staring back.

Short Short Story (number 7)

Tue, 16 Oct 2007 14:57:51 -0700

Some Cuts Are Deeper Than Others The sword was his grandfathers. In fact, it had been in his family for many generations. A true heirloom, their only heirloom. It should have been his fathers first. He knows this most deeply in his heart. Each time he runs a finger along the hilt, he thinks of the father he never really knew. It is a truly beautiful thing. Not overly ornate, the handle wrapped in black, pristine from lack of recent use. The pommel only slightly larger than the hilt itself. Smooth, the family crest etched into the very end. The cross piece containing a large red jewel planted right at the meeting of blade and hilt. 'The Red Eye,' his grandfather called it. Blood red with a chasm of blue black in it's depths; the iris. It seemed to move with him round the room. The scabbard of red leather cracked, mounted over with brass. It had been replaced once, but that was so long ago, that it seemed to have always belonged to the sword. That left the blade. He had only ever seen the blade once, when his grandfather presented him the weapon on his 21st birthday. 'Son,' he said. (He always called him son since taking him in as a child.) 'This sword has been handed down through the male line of your family for more generations than there are records for. It is said that while it is in the hands of one of our family, good luck shall always be our companion.' With that, he drew the sword completely, and presented it length wise, to his grandson, bowing low. He had returned the bow, and let the sword rest on his upheld palms. He remembers just how heavy he had expected it to be, and how much lighter it had turned out to be. He had stood, gripping it tightly, then pressed the flat edge of the blade against his forehead, bowing once more to his grandfather. The blade was made of folded steel. A close inspection revealed it's making in the patterns of folded metal along it's length. There was engraving as well. The crest repeated, and writing along the entire length. But he could not read this. It was overly stylised, and written in an ancient tongue. When he had started to replace the blade into it's scabbard, his grandfather had stopped him. 'You must never draw the blade without the intention to draw blood. This you must swear.' His grandfathers voice solemn, heavy with memories. He had sworn. His grandfather had taken the sword and nicked his thumb on it's razor edge. His grandfather passed the sword back and he followed suit. The pain strange in such somber circumstances. The blade was returned to its sheath. That day was over twenty years ago, and he has not unsheathed it since, not even after his grandfather died. The cut on his thumb is still visible. The sword rests now on it's specially made holder in his formal seating room. It should have been his fathers first. But his father could not inherit it. When he had been just a child, both his father and his mother had been killed in the last Great War. One day, he knows he will pass it on to his own son, named after his grandfather. Knows that he will repeat all that was said and done. Knows that he will get one more chance to gaze upon that blade before it is gone from his possession. Till then it stays where he has kept it for all these years. Always catching him in it's red eyed stare.

Short Short Story (number 6)

Thu, 11 Oct 2007 14:54:11 -0700

The Long Days Past, Remembered. The beach. Sand between his toes. Days past filtering through his mind. Childhood memories cascading. Ice cream cones, melting slowly. Dripping down the front of his shirt. Broken smiles. Walking along the beach that last time, with his father. Then with his mother on the day of the funeral. So slowly then. Returned, and returning. Wet footsteps making trails of moments passed. Looking back and seeing his own path. A window to the past. From beach to home. Sand dusted wooden blue. Painted by another owner, before his time. The door of white cream. A deep blue towel soft waiting ready. Drying eyes. Wipe the morning's time from the soul. And enter. Pausing. As he always does. A glance back. Who could resist? The perfect picture postcard on his doorstep. Golden lipped endless expanses of crystal. The house cooler. Touched by a breeze through windows all open. She is still upstairs. In bed. Her arm round the space he has left. Standing, not two steps in. The forever repainted white floor boards easing to his weight. Worn by his step. A tingle of chill. The cool air caresses his pale blue linen shirt. Lifting. A blissful shiver down the spine. He does not want to move. But both wind and time press him forward. To the small gas cooker. Coffee and toast. Touching the wooden rung ladder to the second level as he passes. Made by hand. His hand. Just to reach the mattress that serves them well. Carefully filling the saucepan used for boiling water. It's base tarnished. Browned from the heat. Skin bronzed from the sun. Striking a match. Flaring. Blistering the tiny splinter of wood. Igniting the gas. Hob and grill both. Reaching for the loaf. Brought yesterday. From the market. Twenty minutes walk away. Along the beach. Roughly cutting two slices. A blunted knife. Seen many days. None better than this. The smell of the toast filling the small wooden hut. Wrinkling his nose in delight. Knowing she likes to wake to this. The breeze catches him again. Knows that their days there are numbered. Summer beginning to welcome autumn's embrace. But he will stay there as long as he can. Try to keep in the moment as long as he can. Stretch it till it can maybe last forever. Hold back the tide of normal life. The water boiling. He pours it into two cups. Only instant granules. But still greeting the aroma as an old friend. The toast ready too. Spread with jam. He climbs the ladder carefully, the food held, balanced on a tray. He climbs to wake her with a kiss. He climbs knowing that this morning will be, like every morning, a beautiful one. He climbs to make the new memories that warm the old ones away.

Short Short Story (number 5)

Sat, 06 Oct 2007 10:51:15 -0700

The Broken Shards Of A Life He put the pieces of broken vase together. That sad pile of shattered long given gift. One more link to his past undone, he struggles even to remember his mothers face. The few fragile photographs he has of her do not show her as he wants to remember her. They hide her warmth, her love, just showing her as an old woman, a snapshot of frozen time. All he has are his memories, and they seem faded, more like the memory of memories. Remembered from remembering. And now the vase was gone too. He had brought it for her on her birthday. He had given her flowers first, she had thought that would have been it, and on other years it would have been. He had so little money, she was always glad of the fresh flowers. A mixed bunch of colours. So happy, a joyful tear, a small wail of 'Oh, you shouldn't have! I'll have to split them up, it's a shame. But I just don't have a big enough vase.' Then giving her the main present. Big grin stupidly, happily, wonderful. She hugged him even before opening it, like she knew what was in it, like she had worked all those extra hours with him, so he could buy it for her. They had seen it together, in the window of Mr. Garrety's shop. A gleaming sculpture of china. Emblazed with her favourite colours of ivory and green. No price, and they knew that if they had to ask to find out, they couldn't ever afford it. But he had secretly gone in and asked Mr. Garrety himself. Felt that twinge of pain when he had found out much more it was than he had even guessed at. Still, he had agreed a payment scheme with Mr. Garrety, who remembered his father when he had been alive, and it was removed it from the window. Mr Garrety promised to keep it safe, till he had paid in full. His mother sighed when she saw it was gone from the window. Knowing she couldn't have brought it didn't stop her dreams of owning it. But now it was sold. Gone, though to whom she did not guess. Her arthritic fingers gently removing the paper, neatly, where other people, including himself, would have ripped it open to see what was inside. Revealing the plain box inside. Still taking time to fold the wrapping paper, because it was such lovely paper it could be used again. Then, finally, tears. Laughing. Filling it with water, centre place in the front room with the flowers, on a small lace doily she had made herself. There it stood, watching the years pass, like a venerable member of the family. Watching them age. Watching still when they took his mother out in another box. Now too, it was gone. He swept every tiny fragment into an old shoebox, and took it to her. Scrapping back the earth to form a small hollow on her grave. Sending it back to her beyond this life. One more thing gone, he shakes his head, works the dirt out from under his fingernails. Says his goodbyes, like he has done a thousand times. Never once receiving an answer, and then makes his way back, to the only home he has ever known.

Short Short Story (number 4)

Tue, 25 Sep 2007 15:01:21 -0700

The Call Of The Song The songbird raises him to wake. It's call of morning glory filling the air. The windows lay wide open, for him to capture the song each start of day. Even on the cooler days he opens them last thing before he falls to sleep. The songbirds cry, the only enduring thing of beauty left within his life, now he lives alone. It was not always thus. Before the whole house had swam with the song of his wife and three daughters. The laughter of tears brought to his eyes. When every moment seemed to contain it's own beauty. He has though often of capturing the bird. Placing it in a small cage, so that it might beguile him with it's song all through the day, but he does not. He believes that once captured the song will change. That music too often played will dilute itself. The final lasting moment of precious life lost, caught within a steel cage. His daughters gave him more to smile about than all the songbirds in all the lands would ever achieve. He can still remember bouncing each one on his knee, telling them fantastic stories of far away places. Of princesses, and knights, of honour and of beauty. But, as with all things close to him, each daughter married. Moved to those same distant lands. Each day the songbird comes, he takes him longer to rise from his bed. Shuffle to the window and rest his aged hands on the white window still. Gazing into his garden with memory. The small tree he, himself, planted. Watched as it grew with him. The many seasons of fallen leaves he has raked away. The branch that his songbird sings form each day. He can't help but think of the bird as his. His wife died soon after his final daughter left the family home to start her own. He feels robbed of the years they could have spent together, finally alone. He knows she would love the songbird the same as he. The songbird finishes it's morning rousing call. He watches it calmly, as it regards him, before suddenly taking flight. Gone within a blink of his eye. There will not be many more mornings left for him to hear it's song. Still, he thinks, it will wake him those last few days, and that, at least, was a thing of joy.

Short Short Story (number 3)

Sat, 15 Sep 2007 11:09:40 -0700

She Falls From Grace Her name is Grace. She loves to dance. But whenever she tries, she loses all coordination. Limbs flying everywhere. She likes to joke that with a name like hers, how come she is so clumsy? It always gets a laugh from people, when she meets them for the first time. But as they get to know her, the joke wears thin with each telling. And Grace never fails to retell it. Each and every time she knocks something over, bumps into someone, spills drink or food, the old joke comes out. After a while it only serves to irritate. Grace, however, doesn't notice. Through gritted teeth, the people around her joke that she is as clumsy of mind as she is of foot. Though never to Grace's face. That would be impolite. Still the joke continues, so they tell their own secret little gibe to each other every time. Till soon, that begins to get on their nerves as well. After that they begin to drift away from pretending to be Grace's friends. Don't answer the phone when she calls; walk away when they see her approaching. Grace always wonders why she can't keep friends for more than a few months. She prides herself that she is a good friend. She is always ready to listen to their problems; Nodding in sympathy at their woes; Joining them in their triumphs. Still, it hurts that no one stays in touch. Often after a party, when she has been left alone for a few hours, nursing a single drink, (she wont drink more than one, doesn't want to get drunk and therefore more clumsy) she will go home in tears. Her house is never emptier than at those points. She puts music on as loud as she can. She dances perfectly when she is alone. Not clumsy at all. Every time she swears it will be the last party she goes too. But then her new friends stop answering her calls. She doesn't want to be alone. So she dresses up and heads back out to whatever party she can find. All the new people she meets make her slightly nervous, especially because of her clumsiness. It makes her very self-aware. But she covers it well with humour. No one ever fails to laugh. That's what keeps her going. Keeps her making new friends. Knowing that she can still raise a smile, even if it's at her own expense.

Short Short Story (number 2)

Thu, 13 Sep 2007 14:12:34 -0700

One for the Road The bottle of Jack Daniel's Old No.7 Quality Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey stood waiting for him. He didn't like to drink it, but he did like the idea of drinking it. Liked the image of it. It felt cool to drink it. Just sucked in by it's advertising. By the whole drama of drinking whiskey. That's why Stacy had brought if for him. So he could pretend. Pretend he was cool. But Stacy had long since left, just the bottle remained. He poured himself two fingers, feeling stupid and not cool at all. What difference did it make how much? Why not fill the glass? Or better still drink straight from the bottle? Save on the washing up, like that mattered. The bottle was the last thing. The only thing that remained of their relationship. Everything else, the books, the Coldplay CD, even the furniture they had brought together he had given away or destroyed. He drinks the drink. He pours another, not measuring this time, but not overfilling the glass. He did not want to spill any. He drinks the drink. Once the bottle was empty, that would be that. He smiles to himself. Well, once the alcohol has worn off, at least. He has saved this bottle for last. It was the first thing she brought him. Now it would be gone, he could have a clean break. A fresh start. All that nonsense. He pours a drink. He drinks the drink. He's beginning to think, remember at least. Stacy. It's the last thing he wants. 'Drinking makes you think.' He slurs. He likes the ridiculousness of the rhyme. Then realises that this is because he is getting drunk. And he can't stop thinking about her. He doesn't even know how he got started on this destructive path. Why he wanted to get rid of all reminders of her. The bottle is half empty. He reaches to pour another. His fingers around the neck. But the bottle is not lifted. No drink is poured. The glass remains empty. Slowly, ever so slowly he replaces the lid. Maybe it would be okay to remember. Once in a while. Stacy's bottle of Jack D's No. 7 goes back to the cupboard, where he had pulled it this morning. The whiskey on his lips, her smile in his mind, the empty glass on the table.

Short Short Story (number 1)

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 10:33:17 -0700

The Night Of A Little Gathering Sarah likes to entertain. She has large dinner parties. Six or seven courses. Little nibbles with a glass of wine before hand. The table resplendent with decoration. The house sparkling. Her husband, Philip, isn't bothered about entertaining. He's just as happy in front of the television, a beer and some chips. However, he always enjoys the parties Sarah organises. Somehow, she manages to invite some very interesting people. Writers, artists, people who work for someone famous, explorers, athletes. People with anecdotes. People who have lived lives. Philip can't help but be sucked into the conversations. Tonight, even he admits Sarah has out done herself. Never has the house looked so fine. The table full of frills, but done so tastefully, so artfully, he thinks it would be a crime to sit there and spoil the harmony of the decor. Fresh flowers spread around the house. She says their smell is in relation to each room. A different aroma for a different mood. He doesn't know about this, to him one flower smells like another, but he's happy to go along with it. Philip wonders just who Sarah has managed to get on her guest list now. To justify the extra mile she has gone for this particular party. This 'little gathering' as she often phrases it. Perhaps she has got hold of someone truly famous. A true celebrity. Not like some of the hangers on that have often appeared. They are the ones he doesn't like so much. Interesting only through association. In the kitchen, Sarah is whistling. It makes him smile. The smells of the approaching meal are fabulous. He is happy. He doesn't offer to help. He knows where he isn't wanted. He lounges in front of the television. Soon he will get up and get dressed for the party. Ready to stand by the door to meet and greet. In the kitchen, Sarah whistles on. The man she met at her last party is coming again tonight. She has replayed that last evening over and over in her head. The constant compliments on the house, the table, the food. The realisation on how hard she must have worked to get it so perfect. Things Philip never did. All he did was drink too much; talk loudly over the other guests. Like he was more interesting than them. Surely he realised she only asked these people in hope of drowning him out? Then she recalls the slight touch of fingers on the table. The soft kiss goodbye. She smiles, and whistles happily.