Trigger

Oh God, oh God, I take it. Cold and heavy and scary, so scary. He's fine, so I'll be fine too - except it doesn't work like that. He's fine so I'm more likely to make a Pollock on the wall. I can feel their eyes on me, hoping that I'll - oh God, no, don't think about that. I'm getting out of debt today, one way or another.

He's fine so I'll be fine... the slaughterhouse goat. Instinct, stupid, stupid instinct.

Shit, do it. My hand's shaking. The trigger reluctantly eases a few millimetres and Janey, we'll be ok. You'll go to college. Daddy said he'd provide for you, there when I held you for the first time, I promised.

I'm afraid, and then I'm angry. You'd do this?! You'd make me abandon my girl? Fuck you, fuck you all! I see myself walking away, abandoning my investment. My family. I wouldn't make it to the door.

So I squeeze, a little more.

A little more -

Oh God, a little more, eyes shut tight, and -

click

Oh, it's not so bad! Cold, losing so much blood, but really... Janey

An argument

She is shouting at him. He is shouting at her.

They halt on your arrival, and stare - they did not see you approach. It seems that it is true: you cannot observe the action without affecting it. I forget whether it is Heisenberg or Schrödinger I should thank for this trick.

Never mind; as the author, I can lead you behind a veil and allow the couple to continue. They will forget we were here.

"You always tell me what to do!" she says, irritation showing in her voice. Her shoulders tensed, face obscured by her hair, looking at the ground. "And whenever I do things my way, you act like I'm a huge disappointment! Why can't you just let me make my own decisions?"

He isn't looking at her either. "I don't know why you feel like that. Try to see things from my perspective: every time I get a little bit of hope, and stop pushing you, you give up again."

She reaches across the table and puts her hand on his. "But I am getting better. Trust me."

Why should you care about them, if you know nothing about them? Allow me. I am the woman - or, at least, she is me. Me as I see me. And how far that is from Anna the Writer, I am least qualified to say.

Here, a lot is unsaid. They know the history, and you don't. Allow me. The woman has struggled with depression. She is teaching herself how to be brave again. The night of this conversation, she bailed on a commitment - a failure that she saw as making a free choice, and he saw as a relapse. The cursor is blinking at me. I didn't plan beyond this part. So, because I can, I think I shall bring resolution.

“I’ll try to get better. I am trying. I love you.” This time he takes her hand. She looks up, and their eyes finally meet.

They drop the subject, shelve it for next time they need something to resent, and sleep. You can go now.

On the tracks

He has his answer: it doesn’t stop.

“Does it ever stop hurting?” The question he doesn’t ask – his mother weeping openly – he feels the need to be strong, outwardly. Inwardly, he is already heading to the crossing.

The crossing. It’s dark; a mild, starless night. He tries not to think about the doctor.

The doctor, hiding behind her clipboard, muttering “I’m so sorry”s with a solemn, tearless face. He stares at his knuckles, white and pink from his fierce grip on absolutely nothing.

Nothing to stop him now. As he waits, his thoughts turn to heaven or oblivion. Which is worse? Best to say his goodbyes now, in any case. The note already does that, for the most part, but he wants to say something to his daughter.

His daughter, three years old, refuses to get into the pool. She doesn’t want to get her new swimming costume wet. It’s red, with a smiling yellow duck over the heart.

“Come on in, honey, Daddy’s gonna catch you!”

– on absolutely nothing –

He boards up the window she fell from, hammer and nails splitting the wood.

The wooden post piercing the earth; the last mark he’d make on this house; the last he’d allow it to make on him.

His eyes blur with choked apologies as the screaming demon train took him to whatever comes next.

Cliff edge

He is afraid. Heart pounding, he inches along the rocky ledge, only kept from despair by thoughts of home.

Home, where the salty air blurs the border between sea and sky. Home, where Rosie waits for him. He knows that he may die today. If the ledge crumbles, he might die.

He clings tighter to the cliff face, arms and chest scratched and bruised from his journey. The wind tugs at his clothes, trying to pull him aside. You could fly, it whispers.

An eagle soars in front of the setting sun, and there is a moment of unforgettable beauty. Nothing could ever be so perfect, he thinks. And he lets go.

Panic - a drabble

I start to panic. I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone ten years from now. I don’t know who or what I am. Am I a good person, or even a nice one? How many opportunities do I miss every day? My pulse quickens and my breaths come shallow and fast as I become overwhelmed by the vastness and insignificance of my life in the huge, unfeeling universe.

What if my best days are behind me? What if I haven’t made a difference?

Then he puts his hand on mine and smiles at me, and I’ll be alright.

Ending

So I stood apart from the crowd, reflecting on how the simplest and best things in this world were forever denied me. Love, friendship, laughter. It's not that I felt lost; how can you feel lost when there's nowhere to be, nobody to go with?

Don't feel sorry for me. Some people just feel this way. Peripheral. Once, though, I was alive.

His name is Richard, and he was my world for a year and a half. From the night I met him outside a Subways to that last, regret-filled phone call when we both stopped trying, he was my heartbeat, the sun in my sky. His home was my home; his friends, my friends. Every adventure in life we went through together, holding hands and running for the hell of it.

I’ve been over it time and time again in my head. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment our sandcastle fell apart. My best guess is that it happened at the most trivial of moments, as these things do - when we were choosing new curtains for the bedroom. We’d both had a rough couple of weeks; stress at work, in his case, and an ill nephew in mine. I suggested a few light colours, but he didn’t like them. So I suggested a few darker ones, but he didn’t like them. So I suggested a few brighter ones, and he didn’t like those either. I suggested he make his mind up what he fucking well DID want, or at least give me a fucking HINT... and he gave me the strangest look, like he didn’t know me, and he said “There are much more important things for us to decide.”

I cried myself to sleep that night.

That was months before the last thread broke, and there were plenty of good times after that day, but the memory of what he said came back to me after every fight, every angry word, every disappointed look. My paranoia wouldn’t let it rest. Sometimes I’d catch him looking at me pensively, as if trying to work something out, and I’d ask him what he was trying to decide. He never answered.

When a relationship ends, especially if it’s one you were completely invested in, at some point the inevitable question ‘what could I have done differently?’ comes up. What if I’d tried harder, been better, done the washing up more often? What if I’d spiced things up in the bedroom? What if I’d suggested blinds?

Sometimes these things just don’t work out. I moved out, ostensibly to ‘get some space’, but really because I couldn’t understand him and it was tearing me up inside. After two weeks we gave up. I moved away, started again with new friends, and a new flat that didn’t carry his fingerprints and his scent. But I haven’t been the same since. I watch couples in love with detached disinterest, knowing that I can’t ever feel that way again. I watch people laughing and joking in pubs, in parks, light-hearted and hopeful, and privately wonder how long it is until I move on again and get a new dead-end job somewhere else.

I can’t live with them, I can’t love like them, and I can’t feel the warmth of Richard’s skin on mine.

So I stand apart from the crowd. Don’t feel sorry for me, some people just feel this way.

Celebrity

Dear general public, the joke's on you.

Yes, I know I've been lampooned in every magazine, mocked in every list of 'what's hot and what's not'; I know every bitter columnist has bemoaned my utter lack of dignity and self-respect. I know I've been the big joke on the music scene for all 30 years of my less-than-prestigious career.

But here's the funny part.

You bought it. You gave me air-time, screen-time, your precious time. You, my dears, have kept me in Gucci sunglasses and Prada handbags. You paid for my swimming pool. I'm currently considering getting a tennis court put in the grounds.

And what have I given you in return? Such classics as "Sex me do" and "Oh Baby Baby" (which, need I remind you, stayed at number one for three weeks despite being universally recognised as monotonous garbage).

I've been accused of taking myself too seriously. The celebrity friends, the designer dresses, every red carpet and all the late-night boozy pap-snaps. Do you think I didn’t know it's all just a game? Just a dance that I performed for your benefit? You gave me a celebrity lifestyle, and in return, I gave you my life - and that was worth nothing to start with.

Oh and I'd like to remind you all that my new movie, "Make room for Albie", comes out on the 25th.

Ciao.

x x x

Brother - a microstory

Carrie's diary, 12th Feb

In my dreams, I always have a brother. His name's Liam, and I dream about him a lot.

It's strange to wake up and only have two sisters. Every time I walk past the computer room and don't see his battered trainers hanging over the door, exactly where I know they should be, it pulls at me a little bit. Like this isn't how things were supposed to be. I can't talk to my parents about it, it would be a bit weird... they'd think I'm crazy.

Liam's diary, 12th Feb

Carrie's new meds not working.

Alone: ending 2

It seemed to her that in the whole wide world, there was nobody living or breathing but herself, and that even her one life was one too many.
___

The next morning, Naomi woke up shivering. James had presumably left for work already. She got up, and went downstairs to do something useful with herself.

It was as she stood at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes from last night's home-cooked meal, that she started to get a vague feeling that she had forgotten something. A dream last night... but she couldn't remember what... She had been married to James for two years now. She thought about the night he proposed, at Dielle's, and how happy she had been, but )if she was brutally honest) the romance had long since died. James' job meant that he worked very long hours, and wasn't around much; usually leaving Naomi at home by herself all day.

As she dried the plates, she thought about how much she missed work. In fact it seemed like she hadn't really seen anyone since she quit, and that was months ago...

Ah well. If the dream's that important, she reasoned, it would come back to her. She put away the glasses, and went to get the vacuum cleaner and wait for James' return.

Alone

Naomi stared at her reflection, excited at her thoughts and plans for the night. They had a reservation at Dielle's, the most expensive restaurant she had ever seen, and she had her suspicions why. James had seemed determined enough that it be perfect. Anticipation bubbled up in her stomach and she adjusted her silver necklace and put her earrings in. James had bought them for her some months ago, telling her that the diamonds were really pretty, and so was she. Naomi smiled at the memory; he didn't have a way with words, but the thought was there.

She had tried on three dresses already, always glancing nervously at the clock. He was supposed to have arrived by now. Seven o'clock came and went, minute by minute, as she put on makeup and made more final adjustments to her hair than were really necessary, more out of a need to be doing something until he arrived.
At exactly - she checked the clock again - twelve minutes past, she called him on his mobile. He didn't pick up. She looked out of the window at the deserted, rain-drenched streets and left a message.

"Hi baby, I'm sure you're just running late, but I wanted to check. You said we had a table booked at Dielle's, remember? Oh, you can't have forgotten. Well - look - um - call me back, or, yeah." Taking some gum, she started chewing, and called his home line. The machine kicked in. "Baby, pick up. C'mon, where are you? It's... quarter past now; they won't hold the table forever... James, please, call me?"

She sat on her bed, and chewed her gum ferociously, as only an ex-smoker can. The road by her house was usually quiet, but tonight it was dead silent. All Naomi heard was the clock ticking. By half past, her anxiety had reached a point where she was craving a cigarette more than she had since she quit, months ago. Muttering threats and curses to her very late beloved, she called his work. No answer. She called his parents, no answer. Panic began to set in; her phone clearly wasn't working. What if he'd tried to contact her? She called her home line from her mobile, and vice versa, until she was satisfied that both were operating as they should.

It is possible, she supposed, that he had gone on ahead and expected her to get there herself. In which case, he must think she'd stood him up! Hurriedly, she pulled on her shoes and pulled her coat on.

Heading out the door into the inky blackness, it struck her just how quiet everything was. Even on the rainiest days, there'd usually be some old man walking his dog, or a horde of drunk twenty-somethings calling across the road to one another. But tonight, nothing. Silence, apart from her own breath and the sound of her heels on the pavement. It unnerved her.

Dielle's was about half an hour away from her house, giving her plenty of time for thought. By the time she arrived, she had run through every worst-case scenario she could think of; from visions of James in a hospital bed, to zombie attacks that she had somehow missed. The blue-black evening was punctuated by the occasional hazy orange glow from the streetlights until she arrived in the centre of town. Dielle's was a bright glow in the darkness, promising warmth and comfort. She pushed open the unlocked door, and stared around her at what she saw.

Dielle's was the most in-demand restaurant in town. James had sworn to her that he'd booked the table in advance, because otherwise they had no hope. And yet before her, all Naomi saw was empty tables and empty chairs. There wasn't even a waiter or a cook. Wandering further into the exclusive, luxurious establishment, she called out:

"Anyone there? Is there anybody - anybody here? Hello!" A tremor of uncertainty had crept into her voice, a note of panic evident through her false confidence. "Don't worry, Nay," she said to herself, "there's nothing to worry about. They were clearly closed tonight, and James just forgot to tell me. That's all." She looked briefly again around the deserted room, and pushed her way back into the cold, muttering "Shouldn't have left it unlocked really, anybody could come in here..." But the street outside seemed as starkly lacking in 'anybodys' as everywhere else.

Hanging around in the doorway, she went to call Claire, but hesitated. What if she didn't answer? What if nobody answered? Naomi decided she'd rather not know, and put her phone away again.

By the time she arrived home, her makeup had run from rain or tears. She hadn't seen so much as a stray dog on the way home. "Fine. Tonight's been one huge disappointment", she said, still trying hard not to think about what was happening. She focused instead on the smaller picture, on how James had let her down, and how he better have a good reason. Settling into bed in her nightshirt, she flicked the television on, half expecting every station to display a test card or something. But no, there was the chat show, set up to look warm and inviting to all - but completely abandoned. There was the nature programme, cameras panning across endless plains devoid of any animal life. There was the music channel, showing only instruments laying silent on the stage.

Being her usual methodical self, Naomi tried to watch a video. The set was empty. She played a CD; only the backing track could be heard. Tears ran down her face as she pulled out a photo of James from her wallet - showing only the bench he had been sitting on at the time. She felt a jolt as she realised that this meant she would never see Ben again, and a pang of guilt as she became aware of that thought.

It was half past ten, and Naomi hadn't seen anyone since she'd left work at half four. Curled up and sobbing in her bed, she eventually fell asleep, exhausted from the worrying and crying and the deep, soulful sense of loneliness that pulled on her heart. It seemed to her that in the whole wide world, there was nobody living or breathing but herself, and that even her one life was one too many.
___

The next morning, she was awoken by warm breath on the back of her neck. "Morning, beloved." The soft, warm voice of her James was unmistakable, and at first her thoughts were too fuzzy to know why she was so shocked and pleased to hear him. "Or should I call you fiancée now?" Speechless, Naomi looked at her hand, and stared in wonder at the diamond ring there. "Last night" - he kissed her neck - "was amazing. And the food was great. They don't exaggerate about Dielle's, do they princess."

___


Which is all fair enough, as fiction, but that's not all it is. It happens to me every night. As soon as I leave work, the world empties of all company, and I return to my bedroom to spend the next however-many hours alone, waiting for the noise and the presence of someone with skin on. But, for your company, as far as it goes, I thank you.

Lucid dreams

It's been a long day, once again. As I settle back into my bed, I think about all the things that have to be done tomorrow. Louise and I are house-hunting, again. We'll be discussing plans for the wedding, again. And I'm leaving my job for pastures new, so it's a very interesting time to be me. These thoughts fill my mind, each one coming round as soon as I dismiss it, like a merry-go-round. I close my eyes, and eventually drift into the darkness of sleep.

I dream. The walls of my room fade away to reveal a great grey plane, stretching into the distance in every direction. The first thing I notice is that, despite the sheer black sky, everything is as brightly lit as a summer day. The sky itself seems too low, oppressive; resting inches above me as I wander the endless plane. I don't know how long I walk for, but when I turn around, there's a girl. I swear she wasn't there a second ago.

"Hi", she says, and shakes my hand. Her skin is cold, almost glassy. Only then do I notice the strange way the eerie, sourceless light seems to shine through her simple black clothes. Hm. Jeans and a blouse. She only looks about eighteen.

"Hi", I reply uncertainly. "Who are you?"

"My name's Sarah. And you, of course, are the great Daniel Holland." She states it as fact, not a question. "I'm a great fan of your work."

I wonder what work she could possibly mean.

"I've come to warn you. You're going to make a decision you'll regret, one that will affect your whole future... sorry! I know this comes across as 'destiny of mankind' stuff. But it's important."

"Is this a premonition?" I venture, unsure who she is or what it is exactly that she's a fan of.

"Right. I'll start from the beginning. We understand a lot more about dreams these days."

"These days?"

"Yes. Look. Have you ever wondered how people dream of the future and call it psychicness?"

"Actually, I'm not sure how many people call it -"

"Shush. And some people dream of history and call it past lives?" I nod; she has a point.

"Well, dreams aren't limited to one place or time. Premonitions, reincarnation dreams - they're all cases of two minds being in the same place. To make things easier for the scientist in you, imagine it as two minds that share a frequency."

I put my hands up, cutting her off in mid-flow. "Hang on. This sounds like bad sci-fi to me, and I should know! Two minds sharing a frequency? What? What does that mean, what would it do?"

"So essentially you're saying 'please, continue', then?" She stands there, hands on her hips, surrounded by vast grey emptiness. I nod, sheepishly. "When two minds are in the same place, thoughts and memories can be transferred from one mind to another. Although rarely as directly as this. Only since we worked out how the sleeping mind -"

I interrupt again. "Hang on, go back. You said I'd make a decision I'd regret. And you're here to stop that? Change the future - past - and improve the timeline? Surely you know the damage that could do?" Ignoring her fed-up expression, I say "And anyway, how can I be sure that the stuff you're saying is true? It sounds like nonsense."

"Well if it is, it's your nonsense. We're in your mind. And I'm not asking you to change your mind about the decision. You'll make it, you'll regret it, that's how it's got to go." I take a breath to argue this point, but she continues: "And as for whether this 'stuff' is true, here's proof that our minds are on the same wavelength. My hair reminds you of an ex-girlfriend, whom you ended it with because she kept calling you 'puppy'."

I look at her blonde-brown ponytail, and raise an eyebrow. "Oh my gosh, a figment of my imagination knows what I'm thinking!" I say, resorting to sarcasm. "Truly, this is a miracle -"

"Fine! Fine, you can have your proof! Tomorrow - well, today by now - you'll meet the person who'll convince you to make the decision you'll regret." She looks irritated, as if I wrestled this information from her against her will.

After that, the oppressive black sky and the endless plane begin to fade, along with the girl. Then, there is nothing but the usual dream nonsense, probably involving public nudity. I wake up with vague recollections of going to a zoo and watching my mum do a pop concert; but the dream on the grey plane is as lucid and as inexplicable as the moment it happened.

I wake with an eerie sense that something isn't quite right, but I can't put my finger on why. I'm sure you know the feeling, as if you've dreamed something unsettling but you can't remember what. There's something hovering just on the edge of my memory; something that worries me. I roll onto my side, contemplating getting up. I stare at my grey carpet, frowning. Why is today important?

... Ah well, if it's that important, it'll come back to me, I reason, and I push myself out of bed.

Madness: chapter 1

She glanced casually around the pub. No matter how far civilisation advances, she thought, pubs will always stay the same. The same old surroundings, with the same old atmosphere. After what she had correctly judged as a good disdainful pause, she returned her attention to the stranger. The Salesman cleared his throat, and tried again.
“I don’ think you unnerstan’ wot I’m off’ring you. We’re talking ’bout.... what are we talkin’... oh yeah. A release,” he declared dramatically, flinging his arms wide and knocking his empty glass to the floor. “A release from the madness!”
Skye eyed him critically. “You don’t look very released to me.”
“Tha’s coz I’m drunk, isn’it? Tit.” He passed out on the bar, his face resting in a puddle of warm beer.
Skye gathered up her belongings, and left. There had been dozens of these so-called Salesmen buzzing around, trying to convince everyone that Mental Readjustment Medication, MRM, was the best way to go.
MRM, your window of opportunity. Your doorway to the future. Your drainpipe of hope for tomorrow, and so forth. It had been getting worse recently, the Authorities were getting more and more insistent. It hadn’t been so bad at the beginning.
“These shots will need to be administered monthly, to prevent a breakdown in the neural networks between the dream and logic centres of the brain.” In other words, we’re going to pump you full of instant obedience training until you don’t know what’s what.
That had been 3 years ago, when only a few had seen the inherent danger in MRM shots. Skye had been one of the masses who fell for this clearly transparent attempt to subdue the people of Great Britain. Every month, without fail, she would walk around the corner to the nearest MRM clinic. Every month, she would take the vaccination without complaint, and every month, she would return to the familiar mental numbness to which she had become accustomed.
This had gone on for almost two years, just before the Mental Oppression Resistance had made their first Sweep. Right from the beginning, some had seen through the MRM facade, and they Liberated several hundred people in a single week! Skye had been one of the very first Liberated.
Skye had attended a Sweep once, and it had been the best moment of her life. The MOR squad had fanned through the clinic, forcing all the nurses and salesmen out of the nearest exit! Then the MRM vaccine was destroyed, and the people were given a choice.
Skye remembered taking her choice, the amazing surge of adrenalin as she realised that she was free to make her own decision. The MOR squad had lined them up, and gave them their choice.
“Look, we’re not going to pressure you into this. That isn’t how we do things. You have a simple choice, but you can’t make it until you are in possession of all the facts...”
Well, now Skye had all the facts, and she had thrown off the shackles of the MRM shots. Now, she knew what she was doing and why she was doing it. Now she was free.

Climbing.

“Come down here right now!” She ignored her father’s calls. Every time they asked her father to ‘deal with her’, he would come to the school and shout at her; and every time, she would ignore him and keep climbing. She didn’t want to come down. She was safe up there, leaving everyone and everything at ground level as she ran across the roof… at least, that was how she thought it should be. The reality was very different. Every time she thought she had succeeded in freeing herself from the worries of the world, somebody - usually her father - would come and shout at her. It wasn’t as if she was doing anything that terrible; she knew she wouldn’t fall. She had been climbing things for as long as she could remember.

I remember a seven year old girl, running from a boy with a dog. He chased her through the park until she climbed up a large tree with spreading branches. He waited at the foot of the tree for an hour, taunting the girl and shouting at her, until he realised that she was long gone. She had climbed across to one of the other trees intertwined with it. She kept climbing through the treetops, long after she could have come down safely, knowing that nobody could get her while she kept away from the ground.

“I’m not kidding, young lady, you get down here right now!” Sighing, she jumped from the art block, to the bench, to the ground. “That’s better. You know I don’t like you climbing things, it’s dangerous! You could hurt yourself so badly. Now come on, we’re going home.” He took her hand and led her to the car, which she entered silently. He shook his head. He worried about her so much, and she kept risking her neck. She only had to be unlucky once…

I remember a nine year old girl, helping her father put the Christmas lights on the roof of their house. He threw her a string of fairy lights, which she caught and wound around the chimney with a smile on her face. “Good girl!” He laughed, clutching the end of the lights as she threw them back. The girl smiled again as she dropped from the edge of the slates into her father’s arms.

“What was it this time? Homework you haven’t done? Kids picking on you? Mean teachers?” The girl frowned at her father.
“No.”
“Well whatever it was, you have to learn to deal with it! You can’t keep avoiding your problems, darling, you’ve got to face it head-on.”
“I know.”
He slumped back in his chair; it was no use. She was going to keep climbing whatever he said. She’d been doing it her whole life, and it hadn’t bothered him at first.

I remember talking to a man. I said, “I wish you wouldn’t encourage her. One of these days she’s going to break her neck up there, and you know she’s starting to climb at school as well. It’s not safe!”
He replied, “You worry too much about her. I trust her completely; she knows what she’s doing and it won’t help for us to stop her. Besides, you have to get used to the idea if you’re going to come rock-climbing with us!”
I remember looking doubtful. “You’ll have a wonderful time”, he assured me. “We’ll both be looking out for you, and I would love for us all to have a shared interest. We never seem to do anything as a family any more.”

After she had gone to her room, he took out the last photo album of them all together, at the beginning of the holiday. She looked so much happier then, he thought. So did he. He took out the photo of his wife, taken hours before she fell.

I remember being strapped in to the harness. I remember him reassuring me. I remember the girl looking excited. We climbed for three hours up a vertical cliff with plenty of handholds. I remember pulling myself up by one, and I remember it crumbling. That’s all I remember.

She entered the house through her window. Her father had never realised that she could get anywhere she wanted from her room without going downstairs, and she did so every night. This night, she had gone back to the park. She had climbed the huge, sprawling tree in the middle of the park and sat in its branches thinking of her mother. Now that she was back, she went to check on her father. He wasn’t in bed, even though it was past 2am. He was downstairs, asleep in his chair, holding the last picture of her mother in his hands. The girl went slowly up to her room.

She didn’t climb again.

Noir Heartbreak

Quite proud of this one. Read it twice :)

It was something of a professional rainstorm; one that clearly intended to do the job properly or not at all. There was a flash of lightning, a clearing of the throat, and the symphony began.

I was walking through the city, my coat wrapped tightly around me, but it made little difference against the rain. The falling water flowed through pipes, off roofs, down gutters; washing the streets clean, or so it seemed to me. The city is a different beast at night. Paths I walk every day become unfamiliar. The warm orange glow of the streetlights barely penetrates the inky blue darkness. There was something about the weather that brought out the introspective side of me as I stumbled home that night, looking forward to the relative warmth and comfort of my bed. I thought about Claire, wondering where she would be right now, if she was safe and dry with her fiancé.

A car drove past, throwing up a spray of ditchwater that soaked my jeans, making them even more uncomfortable than before - if that was possible. I cursed under my breath. I hate that.

My mobile rang. I thrust my hands deeper into my soaked pockets, only to have it slip out from my sodden gloves and fall into the river of rainwater. “Shit”, I muttered, pushing the now dead mobile back into the coat pocket. Whoever it was could wait.

I got home to find that whoever it was hadn’t waited, that they’d left a message on my answering machine. I collapsed into my old green armchair as I heard her voice, so familiar to me still. “Alex, where are you? You said you’d come round tonight! I cooked for you and everything. This is the second time, I’m starting to think you’re avoiding us. Mark was very upset…”

“I’ll bet he was.” I was surprised by the note of bitterness in my voice. I turned the sound off and hit delete. The thought of Claire with that slimy maggot was bad enough without having to see them together, pretending to enjoy themselves. I knew they didn’t feel comfortable with me, so why they kept asking me round was a mystery… except, of course, that Claire is a good girl and still wanted to be friends. Well of course she did. But I just didn’t feel up to it, and they should respect that. Besides, she deserved better than him…

I pulled myself out of the chair and staggered upstairs, almost tripping over Kasper on the way. “Sorry dog”, I said as I ruffled his ears. I jumped up the stairs, the prospect of a warm shower enough to make my shrug off my damp clothes before I reached the top.

I climbed into bed that night, the rain still hissing against my window, trying not to think. About anything. But I haven’t yet learned how to turn my thoughts off, and as I remembered the great times I’d had with Claire, I decided it was worth it. I’d ask them around for dinner, I’d cook something nice, wear a pretty dress, and be civil to the bastard that broke my heart, and my best friend who betrayed me. I fell asleep with a smile on my face. Tomorrow would be a brighter day. Besides, I had a sneaking suspicion she was going to ask me to be a bridesmaid…

Something Lost

I wrote this a couple of years ago for a creative writing lesson. So while it isn't as I would write it now, the sentiments are the same, and it's still quite personally significant.

- Something Lost -

I lay my head on my pillow, relaxing into a sleep deeper than any ocean, falling back into the Dream again. And there I am. Just like last night, and every night before that, only this time is different. This time I’ll find it. I know I will.
I walk uncertainly into the dense, tangled forest. Thorns grasp me back, and pull at my clothes and hair, but they can’t stop me. It is dark, and I am the only person there, I am the only person ever there. As I struggle through the hostile woods, I am gripped by the inescapable fact that I will never make it. Just like every time, I would fail. I shake myself, and try to feel confident. I tell myself, I can do this. I can. I don’t feel the cold or the damp air, because I am driven by the knowledge that this time will be different. This time I will find it.
The forest ends abruptly, and I force my way out of the greedy briars, trying to restrain me there, onto a great precipice. I am in the valley. I slip, tentatively inching my way down the almost-sheer cliff face. There are no plants or roots to anchor myself; this valley is dead. It has always been dead.
The vague, indifferent darkness makes it difficult to see, but somehow I struggle up the loose scree and grasp the ledge. Ordinarily, I would given up by now, but this is different. This time I will find it.
I only made it this far once before. I’ve made it through the forest of doubt, I’ve triumphed over the valley of the shadow of death, and I feel it.
There it is, can’t you feel it? Right over the horizon... here, is what I’ve been looking for.
A river. The river. The only way I’ll ever get it back is to reach the river. Walking towards the clear, cool water, I see myself over and over again. I see myself failing, giving up and going back, or just dying out there, with nobody to help me. I was alone, I was afraid, I was ready to give up... when I saw it. There, in the water, that’s what I’ve been looking for! It has been lost from deep inside my heart my whole life, and there it is. I run towards it, hot, and out of breath. I plunge my hand into the icy cold water... I’ve never got this close before!
There, on a bed of perfectly rounded pebbles in the crystal-clear stream, is the locket. A simple, heart-shaped locket... is it gold or silver? I can’t tell in this light... and I pull it out of the water. I am just about to put it back where it belongs when I feel the sliding, fading sensation again. I clench my teeth and mutter under my breath:
No, not now... please not now, I’ve tried so hard, I did what you asked of me...
And I am awake. Alive again to live another twenty-four hours of despair, of emptiness. I know that any second now, I will forget. Just before every trace of memory disappears from my exhausted mind, I feel the words:
So close...

Married Life - a microstory

Barbara fussed over her hair in front of the mirror. "You must mow the lawn at some point."

"Yes darling", her husband replied from behind the newspaper.

"The shelf needs fixing too."

"Yes darling", he said, as a page turned in the breeze.

"And for heaven's sake try not to embarrass me tonight! Every time we go out together people give me funny looks. And can you please at least try to be civil to Marcus Weatherby tonight?"

"Not a chance in hell, darling; the bastard killed me."

"You died of natural causes, you silly man. Get in the wheelbarrow."