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

The competition has been set up by a group of bloggers who've decided to create an anthology from blog-posts called "You're not the only one"

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