The Empty House

The emptiness of the house ran through its pipes. Every time he turned on a tap it burst out fast and furious, like a bull released into the ring. Once, he’d left the bath running whilst he answered the phone. Minutes later he’d felt the emptiness lapping angrily about his ankles and by the time he’d managed to switch off the taps it was up to his knees. It’d taken days to get the house back to normal. He’d left all the doors and windows open for weeks but the emptiness refused to go, clinging to the walls and carpets like stale dogs’ piss. He didn’t dare invite anyone round until he’d had the place professionally cleaned. Especially not the children, they were too perceptive. No matter how much air-freshener he used, they’d detect the emptiness within minutes and then it would be one-way ticket to Saint Anne’s nursing home.

The emptiness was loudest at nights. It took him ages to get to sleep, its thick distressed gurgles ringing incessantly in his ears. At first he’d thought it was tinnitus, but after a while he’d noticed how the sound got louder the closer he was to a wall, a radiator, a pipe. He’d taken to keeping the central heating off, even in winter. The emptiness was intolerable when it was hot, its fiery whips lashed against his flesh until it bled. One night his neighbour came home to find him lying naked in the snow outside his front door.

Everyone had told him he should move after she died, that the house they’d shared for so many years would feel too empty without her. But that was nearly ten years ago. There was no point moving now, it wouldn’t make any difference. The emptiness had started running through his veins.

The Reasons Why

The reasons why she’d left him were numerous and varied. Some were large, noticeable and inexcusable, like the punctuation of the sign for FISH'N CHIPS’ she had to pass on her way to the station each morning. One day she would have to go in and tell them to change it, for it was a daily reminder of the ignorance of the kind of people she was forced to live amongst. Such literary carelessness would never happen in Hampstead, but of course they'd had to leave there because of his job. Oh yes, his job - one of the more large, noticeable and inexcusable reasons why she’d left him. Along with his gambling habits, his life-long affair with the brandy bottle and his on-off affair with a certain large and noticeable blonde, who probably had difficulty spelling her own name.

The other half of the reasons why she’d left him were smaller, more discreet. Take his selfishness in bed for a start; he’d refused to try anything for his snoring, said it was a natural bodily function and he wasn’t willing to have it interfered with. Then there was his tea-making – not only did he put the milk in first, but he left the teaspoon in his cup so long that all their teaspoons were either bent, stained a hideous copper-brown or most often both. And why oh why did have to suddenly stop still every time he wanted to say something when they were walking down the street, even if it was raining? Surely even men could walk and talk at the same time? For anybody else these reasons mightn’t seem like feasible ones to want to leave someone over, but after seventeen years these originally minor annoyances had become as conspicuous and unbearable as a misplaced apostrophe.

STARS

She didn't believe in all that star-sign airy-fairy malarky. But she’d read her magazine cover to cover bar the stars and she still had ten minutes of her journey left to kill.  It was better than nothing. ‘Beware of something red, it could change your life’. Something red. Red. The bus? Not prepared to take any chances, she got off at the next stop and walked the rest of the way to work.

 Now that she was late she decided to take the lift up to her floor. Even though she worked on the seventh floor she never took the lift, not after seeing that film where all those people get trapped and…hold on, why had the lift suddenly stopped? She looked at the buttons. The number seven was no longer lit. She pushed it again. Nothing. Number 6. Nothing. Any button, any floor, just to get it moving. Nothing. There was only one button left to try.  She was about to push it but a sudden thought froze her finger mid-air. The emergency button was red. Images from the film flashed through her mind - the caged-in people, a sudden almighty jolt, a flash of white light, then the lift hurtling downwards into darkness.

But why on earth didn't you push the emergency button? Her boss had been furious, couldn't understand why she had stayed in the lift all morning without raising the alarm. Time-wasting, deliberate skiving, that’s what he’d called it. She’d felt too much of a fool to explain. Anyway it wouldn’t have mattered, it was just the excuse he’d needed. Someone had to go, the Credit Crunch had spoken.  How could she have been so stupid? She wished she’d never read her bloody stars. Read her stars. Of course, that was it, her stars…something read.

 

My First Bedroom

My first bedroom was where fairies gathered motionless on the walls waiting for night to come so they could dance around under the faint glow of the fairy castle lamp. Occasionally they tiptoed off the wall to tuck a silver coin beneath a pillow covered with wavy chestnut hair. In the corner stood a washbasin where tiny soapy hands scrubbed away the remains of each day’s adventures. The mirror above the basin reflected rosy marshmallow cheeks, lips plumped with a thousand questions and eyes sparkling with the thrill of the present. Next to it towered a white wardrobe with a neatly ironed green school uniform hanging on the front like a medal. Inside the wardrobe Snow White’s dress vied for space amongst hems of colourful tulle, shiny Lycra leotards and lovingly knit woollen creations.

The wardrobe was good for hide and seek and for disappearing into when I didn’t want to be found… I feel the cold metal from my tap shoes digging into my skinny legs as I crouch in the corner of the wardrobe with my eyes closed to shut out the darkness. But I stay where I am because I believe that one day the back of the wardrobe will suddenly open and lead me to a world of snow queens and talking lions and enchanted forests. A world where I can be a real Snow White, the heroine of my own fairytale. I hear my Mummy’s footsteps, followed by her voice. I know that any minute now the wardrobe door will open and I’ll have to climb back out. Back into my bedroom. My first bedroom. A room where fairies are trapped in wallpaper and can only come out at night when no one’s looking. At least they didn’t think I was. Even fairies make mistakes.

You lose your sense of humour

You lose your sense of humour when you’ve only got a week left to write a 5000-word coursework essay and you still haven’t started even though you’ve had three months to do it and you’ve had a fever for the last week which has kept you awake at night so you’re feeling tired as well as ill whilst trying to think what to write but you can’t concentrate because there’s a contract sitting next to you waiting to be signed but you don’t know whether or not to sign it because it’s for a flat you’ve made an offer on but you’re not sure whether to go ahead and complete because everyone’s saying it’s a bad time to buy because the housing market’s going to crash and you’d be a fool to buy now but then again if you don’t you’ll lose the flat you’ve had your heart set on the flat you walked past the other day and saw the owner in the window cradling her newborn baby who she’s waiting to take to start a fresh life in a new house where another family sits waiting to move but you don’t know why because you’re not dealing with them directly because they’re further up the chain but your decision still effects them and potentially even more people because you don’t know how long the chain is or exactly how many lives could be turned upside down by your decision but you can’t think about that because you’ve got an essay to write and the deadline is drawing nearer and the page is looking blanker and bigger and you still can’t think of a word to write so you might as well switch off the computer and try again tomorrow because everything looks smaller in the light of day

Her Mum's Kitchen

It was hard to see in her Mum’s kitchen. It was always thick with smoke. Not smoke from cooking - not much cooking went on in that kitchen. Smoke from her Mum’s cigarettes. If her Mum could’ve rolled pastry as well as she rolled a bit of baccy and paper, she doubted she’d be the size 8 she was today. In fact she had a lot more to thank her Mum’s nicotine addiction for than her skinny little ass.

It was her pert buttock that started it all. He pinched it as he passed her in the club. She saw him blow her kiss as he walked towards the bar, motioning for her to join him. Her friends urged her to follow, told her he was far too fit to ignore. And well, she deserved a bit of fun after the way Andy had treated her. So she DIO’d her Bacardi Breezer and followed the trail of testosterone.

He’d insisted on walking her back to her Mum’s. On kissing her goodnight outside the front door. She thought he’d started walking back down the path as she turned the key in the lock, but suddenly there he was pushing her inside, pushing her forwards through the hallway and into the kitchen. One hand over her mouth, the other pushing her forwards. Forwards over the kitchen worktop. Darkness. The sound of a zip opening. Her arms flaying across the worktop searching for something. Help. The sponginess of the tobacco packet first, then on top something small, hard. Grab. Flick lighter. Flame to denim. Shrieks. Obscenities. Legs being slapped.
Jeans pulled down. Off.

She watched his silhouette run from the kitchen and out the front door, then stamped on his jeans until all the flames were out. Her Mum’s kitchen thick with smoke.

We Keep Walking

We spot a road signposted ‘To the Future’ and start walking. For the first few miles the road looks the same as the one we’ve just left. It’s a busy urban road lined with office blocks, glass-fronted flats, shops, restaurants and bars. Cars whiz along it in a hurry to get somewhere. The pavement is crowded with people shouting and bumping into one other. The road smells of money – ten, twenty and fifty pound notes fall from the sky and are snatched by reaching hands. The road sounds like a speeded up record on continuous play. Suddenly a church appears and the air is filled with confetti-shaped promises in every colour of the rainbow. After the church the road turns a sharp right. Identical suburban houses line either side of a pine-scented avenue. As we walk a large white bird swoops down, narrowly missing our heads. The bird deposits a basket on one of the doorsteps. As we pass the basket we hear a baby scream. The screams pursue us for the next five miles. As we continue walking the houses become bigger and the screams start to fade. For a while there is silence. The air is warm and scented with freshly baked bread. Gradually the air becomes thicker. Stickier. Slowing us down. A fog starts to form and it’s hard to see where we’re going. We encounter fewer and fewer people along the way and soon realise we’re the only ones still walking, although we can hear footsteps behind us. We pass a hospital and peer through the window, but it’s dark inside and we can’t see in. Not far from the hospital is another church - this time the air is cold and filled with tear-shaped memories. The road is very bright now. Empty. We keep walking.

The Velvet Kiss

She was the first girl he ever kissed. Her lips felt just as he imagined a girl’s lips would, only softer. Like velvet. He loved her lips above all else. She never wore lipstick. She didn’t need to. Her lips were a permanent crimson and they sat atop her chin like a plump ripe strawberry waiting to be picked. During their twelve years of marriage, he never tired of kissing them. He believed her lips turned a fraction softer and redder with every kiss.

Her lips were the only things about her that hadn’t been affected by her illness. Although she was only thirty-two, her lustrous buttercup hair had become a wizened grey. Her eyes were now sunken murky pebbles, whereas before they looked like large eager hazelnuts trying to burst from their shell. Her olive skin had turned a ghostly white and lost its creamy texture. Now it appeared chalky, and he was afraid to touch it lest she cracked and turned to dust. But unlike everything else, her lips were as vivacious and fruity as ever. He spent most of his time at the hospice staring at them and imagining their velvety caress. Each night before he left he bent down and kissed them. Against her pale face, and glistening with the saliva from his kiss, her lips reminded him of an exquisite ruby perched upon a white silk cushion.

The call came at 3am one Monday in January. By the time he got to her room he knew it was too late. The first thing he noticed as he approached her bedside was the two thin slices of yellowy-blue marble in place of the ruby he’d left behind only hours earlier. Before pulling the sheet over her, he bent down and placed a kiss on her forehead.

Mes Amis

Friend 1: She’s a bunch of tall white lilies with Northern roots strutting down a chique Parisian boulevard. A high-heeled, high-flyer in a low-lighted white open space. Lap-top under one arm, baby under the other. Earth mother, sexy lover, party planning perfectionist. A Joe Malone Candle burning at both ends, leaving Gucci scented swirls of success on everything she touches. Producer, life maker, multi-tasking creator, nothing left until later. In the moment, on the move, inhaling food on her way to the moon. My inspiration.

Friend 2: She’s a delicate pink rose in a crystal vase dancing like no one’s looking to the beat of the eighties. A fair princess fleeing a dark castle. A glass butterfly, diving in and out of shadows, searching for safety. Bubble wrapped, ready to burst, discovering life, evading reality. On the ball, off the rails, silver-outlined, honey-coated. She knows it all, but keeps it quiet. She could go far, but chooses closeness. She’s learnt not to care what people think, to let her heart lead the way and give her head a rest. My soul-mate.

Friend 3. She’s a fire red sunset lighting a grey London street. A soft-centred toffee with a tough bite, a sharp tongue, a kind word, a contagious giggle. She dances to life’s different rhythms, moves to the music, finds its every beat. She’s strong-willed, hard-working, a fast-talking voice of reason. She’s always there. Present. Pragmatic. Planning ahead, thinking back. Dealing with it. Helping out, holding it in. Finding a way through. Never giving up. My rock.

Friend 4. He’s a jug of tasty gravy, adding flavour and warmth to every dish. His glass is always half-full and topped up with bubbles. He’s the fruitiest orange and the brightest yellow. An angel with a treasure in his soul. My love.

I've Done Nothing For A While But Listen

I haven’t written on my blog for over a week. In fact I haven’t written anything at all in that time. For the last few days I’ve done nothing but listen.

I began listening last Monday. I listened for an hour to a client who I see every week as part of my work with the Community Learning Disability Team. I’ve been listening to her for nearly two years. I keep listening because she needs to be heard.

On Tuesday I listened to a friend announce the birth of her new baby boy. I listened to the agony of her labour and the ecstasy of its fruits. I listened out for the response of my own biological clock, but couldn’t hear any ticking.

On Wednesday I listened to an editor’s approval of an article I’d submitted to his magazine. I turned up the volume so I could hear his acceptance at full blast. It’s one of my favourite sounds.

On Thursday I listened to my insecurities. I tried not to, tried to tune my ears into other things, but they kept butting in. Eventually I turned on some music and managed to drown them out.

On Friday I listened to my sister and tried to keep calm.

On Saturday I listened to my Granddad’s war stories. I’ve heard them a thousand times but this time they sounded different. I realise now the stories were exactly the same – I was simply listening more intently.

On Sunday I listened to my best friend exchange wedding vows. As I stood behind her I recognised the voice of true love and couldn’t help but cry.

On Monday I listened to chocolate-flavoured whispers as they ducked in and out of the duvet.

Today I listened to the silence and decided it was time to write.

They Met Through Work

He never held down jobs for very long. It was because of his ‘quirky’ ways. But this time it was different; he’d been with Scholes & Son’s for over a year.

He met her on his first day. She was in the same room as the coffee machine and he’d spotted her whilst adding milk to his morning Nescafe. He couldn’t stop thinking about her after that and was ecstatic when his boss finally asked him to take some work to her. They hit it off straight away. He’d seen other men come away from her looking pissed off, cursing her name, saying she’d wasted their time, put them behind schedule, that it was about time someone replaced her. But it was never like that with him. Admittedly some days she could be tad temperamental, but he put that down to the stress of her job, the weight of her workload, how many people relied on her. But most of the time she was docile and obliging. His colleagues soon guessed something was going on: “Anyone would think you two were married the amount of time you spend in there.” That particular comment had made him smile. Made him dream.

He’d been on his way for a coffee refill the day he saw his boss hit her. He heard the shouts from halfway down the corridor and had arrived in the room just in time to see his boss’s fist rise into the air. His brain shook as the fist landed. After that it was one big blur. He was straddled over the body when the security guards arrived, his hands still clamped tight around his boss’s throat.

The new boss started the following week. The first thing he did was order a new photocopier. He wasn’t taking any chances.

And Then It Wouldn't Stop Raining

The holiday was doomed from the start. They’d typed her surname wrong on the flight ticket – put a B instead of R at the beginning of Radluck - and that always spelt trouble. Whenever her name was printed that way on a ticket, something went wrong - like the time she went to see Les Misérables and a piece of the set had fallen down and knocked the lead unconscious. It’d never happened with a flight ticket before and she was in two minds whether or not to board the plane. However, deciding the waste of the flight money would be disaster enough in itself, she downed two straight whiskies and got on. To her relief the flight was one of the smoothest she’d ever experienced, and thanks to the effects of the whiskey she’d been out cold for most of it.

On arriving at the hotel she was dumfounded to discover that it looked even better in bricks and mortar than in the brochure. She literally skipped to the reception desk to check in.

“I’m sorry, there’s been a problem with your booking.” The reception lady’s face and tone said it all. The party was over.

“It appears your room’s been double-booked. We’re going to have to upgrade you to a suite. No extra charge of course.”

The party was just warming up.

After unpacking, she headed straight to the pool where an extremely complimentary barman handed her a complimentary cocktail.

“What glorious weather!” she remarked to the lady on the adjacent sun-lounger.

“Yes indeed, it’s been like it all season apparently.”

She stretched out on her chair, shut her eyes, and prepared for the hot Mediterranean air to penetrate every pore of her sun-starved body. It was at that precise moment she felt the first drop of rain.

She Didn't Expect The Door To Open So Easily

She recognised the door immediately. She’d been trying to open it for over thirty years. It was the door from her dreams. The most beautiful and unusual door she’d ever seen. The door was made of water. The first time she dreamt about the door she hadn’t realised it was made of water. From the outside it looked dry and blue, more like the sky than the ocean. However, when she touched it, it felt as if she was reaching into a crisp pool of water. In fact, when she took her hand away she expected it to be dripping wet. However this wasn’t the case. Whenever she removed her hand from the door in her dreams, it would be completely dry. Dry with a celestial glow. Furthermore, unlike most other doors this one was shaped like a star - a seven-pointed star with a hard rock-like handle in the middle. When she held the handle it felt as if she was cradling a slice of the moon.

Whenever she found herself in front of the door in her dreams, she felt compelled to open it. She reasoned that such a special door could only lead to somewhere equally magical. However, when she tried the handle it would turn and turn but the door always remained shut. She’d try to push the door with her palms but they would simply sink into the water. Then she’d press her whole body against the door, willing it to open with all her might, until she felt like she was drowning and would have to come up for air.

When she came across the door in real life, she didn't expect it to open so easily. Before she knew it she was on the other side and the door had turned to ice.

What Am I Waiting For

Ok, where to start? You see, that’s just it, that’s the problem. Where to start? I’ve wanted to write a book for as long as I can remember; I’ve been rattling on about it for years. It’s not as if I’ve kept it to myself either. I’ve told friends and family and anyone who has cared to listen. Well where is it then? THIS BOOK? It’s all very well producing a 300 word piece of flash fiction every day, writing the occasional article, and entering the odd writing competition. These things are within my writer’s comfort zone. My dreamy-peachy-creamy comfort zone. But it’s time to move onwards. Onwards and upwards. Time to raise my pen towards the stars and emerge from my comfort zone like a Phoenix rising from the flames. But if only I could leave my self on the ground. I need to get away from myself, to escape from the ‘I’, from this stifling egoism that keeps me chained to the first person perspective, hindering my creativity. It’s always me me me me me. So before I can start, I must unleash my writing self, free it up, oil its arthritic hips and get it snaking around the dance-floor like a Latino lover on ecstasy. It’s time to be bold, write in second and third person, invent characters - male characters, child characters, elderly characters - write about different subjects. Yep it’s time to jump into the ring, hold up the red towel and let my insecurities charge me - a full frontal assault on my writer within. Let them rip me into a million shreds; let my guts be splattered across the page, and every piece of paper be stained with the ink of my soul. Let them make me tell it from the inside. Out.

Late Night Phone Call

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s me.”

“Who?”

“Me. You know, Me.”

“Look, stop mucking around. What time is it?”

“It’s late.”

“What’s going on? Is something wrong? Is someone hurt?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I thought you might like to speak to me that’s all.”

“Look, who is this? It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“So, why are phoning me? Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“Look, I’ve told you, I don’t. I’m going to put the phone down if you don’t tell me.”

“You really don’t recognise me?”

“No.”

“Look, please don’t be scared. I always wake you up in the night; just not by phone.”

“Oh my god. It’s you.”

“Yes. Now do you recognise me?”

“Yes. But…but why are you phoning me? I don’t understand.”

“I thought maybe you’d prefer it this way.”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. This is weird. Hearing your voice like this. You sound different. Your voice. It sounds different from the outside. Quieter. Further away.”

“I am further away, much further.”

“But how did you get there?”

“You shut me out.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You’ve wanted me out for a while.”

“But…I…”

“Don’t worry. I understand. It can’t be nice being woken up every night. It’s starting to get to you, I can tell. Everyone can. That’s why you started taking the tablets.”

“I needed to sleep, that’s all. It’s nothing to do with you; I never meant to push you out. I’ve missed you the last few nights.”

“I know. That’s why I phoned, so you could still hear me.”

“Will you call again?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to you.”

“I’ll stop taking the tablets. You can come back inside.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Ok."

"So, we’ll speak soon?”

“Yes.”

“Bye then.”

“Bye.”

You're Not The Only One

I've just entered the You're Not The Only One competition, all proceeds of which go to the charity War Child. You can find out more details here

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