Witches in woods

it was dark in there.  a damp church-like copse in the middle of a hay-field. 

witches wood.

i dared you.

one second sun, the next second a deep darkness.

our eyes adjusted to the gloom.

a forbidden gloom.

once inside all that mattered was the dense undergrowth, the torn up pornographic pictures down the long-forgotten well, and the snaps of little twigs as small creatures scampered away.

our bikes lay, wheels still spinning, in the sunlight. 

we laughed. 

and ran.

our secret.

I'm not nice

[I'm Not Nice]

You go on about how you want to be this top-notch tickety-boo ever-so fandangly writer.  You talk about your love of the English grammar and your expertise in it, just because you have some damn silly qualification that means zilch, because you got it when you were some little mess of a punk-goth girl aged sweet sixteen. 

You make me garble out my words and forget to breathe.

You do realise that your words are shite?  Surely, somewhere deep within your soul, there resides some snippet of common-sense that occasionally likes to bash you on the head with a heavy mallet? 

No?  Think carefully.  There's a possibility that you may be mistaking the truth for low self-esteem. 

The misconception is that you can write.  You can't.

I want to tell you this.  I want to tell you that you have no style, no uniqueness, no ability to capture the imagination of other folk.  I want to tell you that it's been done too many times before, in too many forms. 

You have nothing special to offer the world.

Your meticulous planning makes your words lose the fresh appeal that they need in order to embrace imaginations.  You think too much.  Where's the heart, the soul, the gut-wrenching emotion that can make your words great? 

Who the fuck told you that you could write?

I won't tell you that you can't write.  I won't tell you that your ideas are old and boring, your narration cold and static.  But one day I will be there to watch you fall flat on your face, to see the heat rise in your cheeks and the tears form in your eyes.

And I shall giggle.

Happily.

Because there's very little that I detest more than pretentious people. 

And you are pretentious.

[And I'm Not Nice]

The goat tale

dear sirs

this morning when i awoke the sky was blue, the grass was green and a smile played upon my glossy lips. 

i laughed as i walked down to the edge of the river, calling out with a graceful voice for my little arnold-the-goat to come play. 

oh!  the mortification!

arnold-the-goat won't be coming out to play anymore.  for arnold-the-goat is dead.

dead, i say!

he lies on the grassy river bank, flies sucking at the congealed pools of blood that blossom from beneath his neck.  my poor arnold-the-goat.  what harm did he ever do to anyone? 

i fear, dear sirs, that a goat-murderer doth hide amongst the gentle-folk of this village.  and yet who could it be?

oh!  the faintness tries to devour me!

is it freddie, son of the blacksmith?  did he tire of gentle cap teasing and instead long for the feel of blade against fur? 

is it peachy, daughter of yonder squire?  did she run squealing too many times?  did her nursery nurse find the cold-heartedness required to slay an innocent arnold-the-goat?

or is it tom, tom, the piper's son? 

i beseech you kind sirs to rectify the situation immediately before the offenders return to kill my molly-the-duck.

with kind regards

harriet-the-pig

Rosebud

she laughed.

a tattoo? me?

but as he slept she ran her fingers along his arms, arms that bore colourful pictures of grim reapers and forbidden skulls.  She was transfixed by the swirls, the perfect strokes and the imagination that had gone into them.

they were so kissable.

lickable.

her birthday was approaching, her twenty-second.  they hadn't been together long, just a matter of months, but she knew what she wanted.  it would fuse them together, make them as equals - and it would annoy the heck out of her mum. 

he held her hand as they entered the tattoo parlour.  she gazed about apprehensively, admiring the pictures on the walls, stifling the odd nervous giggle that threatened to chase her back out through the door. 

she chose a rosebud for her arm, girly and safe.  she stepped into a back room and closed her eyes as the tattooist gently took her arm and reassured her with soothing words. 

are you sure?

yes, just do it.

she shuddered involuntarily as the needle pierced her skin.  she felt the guiding hand tighten against her skin and urged herself to sit still as little arrows of pain shot into her. 

eventually she opened her eyes and watched the tattooist at work.  he was gentle, yet firm, the little beads of sweat on his forehead matching the little beads of blood that were sprouting from her arm.  she was transfixed by the tattoo as it began to take shape, the pain becoming distant as her arm became numb. 

and then it was over.  the tattooist explained how to take care of it, how not to pick the scabs even when the itching was intense, and then he passed the pale-faced girl back to her boyfriend, who grinned happily. 

years have passed and the boyfriend with his colourful arms is long gone, alcohol driven and mentally insane.  but the tattoo remains with the pale-faced girl, a reminder of a life that now exists only in memory, a life that feels as though it should have been a dream, a life that was fueled by violence and shame. 

but she doesn't regret it.  it's a reminder of a relationship that made her strong, and opened her eyes to the world. it's a reminder that she isn't a victim anymore ...

she laughs.

The bar

her laughter was the sweetest sound he ever heard.  he watched her sitting at the bar, her long fingers idly playing with the bright pink straw through which she sipped her sex on the beach demurely, with the grace of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted, her reason for wanting it and the way in which she was going to get it.

her confidence exuded a powerful sexual appeal, one which drew men to her in much the same way that dogs are drawn to lampposts. 

as her laughter coursed through his head again he watched her slide off the bar stool and totter towards the ladies on heels that only the brave - or stupid - can wear.  he sighed as he imagined his hands getting entangled in the long red curls that cascaded down her back. 

he felt his own burning desire to relieve himself.

when he returned she was back at the bar, lipstick refreshed, blue eyes sparkling.  he found it difficult to remove his eyes from her voluptuous cleavage.  it beckoned him, tempted him to bury his head within her ample breasts and be smothered.

he kept his distance. 

he sighed as he listened to her gentle irish lilt and watched her flirting with the man she was with, a man in a brown suit.  he downed his jd in one, wincing as he did so.  as he beckoned to the bartender the lady turned and fixed her eyes on him.  she raised an eyebrow and a smile formed coyly at the corners of her mouth. 

then she dismissed him, turned and began flirting again, with the man in the brown suit.

Brown Leather

Yes, but is it brown leather?

Sheila ran her fingers along the edge of the mantlepiece, staring vacantly at the dust that gathered in the crevices so easily and pursing her red lips as she spoke to the faceless man on the other end of the phone.

She had little patience with the faceless men who seemed to consume her every waking hour.  Those that didn't treat her like a second-class citizen, like flecks of spittle on their Saville Row suits, often assumed that she was easy prey.  Not that Sheila did much to alleviate this image with her peroxide locks, her standard Chanel lipstick, and her cute little leopard-skin purse.  Her - usually short - red leather skirts often bracketed her into the vamp category of most people's minds too. 

Not that she gave a fuck.

She hadn't given a fuck since the age of thirteen when Miss Prissy Missy Hockey Sticks had told the whole school Sheila's secret. 

Sheila sighed as the faceless man confirmed the colour and then idly placed the phone in its rightful place.  Deftly lighting a cigarette with a casual flick of manicured thumb against flint wheel, she slowly turned and made her way to the door of the light breezy room.  Straightening her skirt she left the room, leaving the door gaping open behind her.

At the front door she paused to wipe away a lone tear that trickled down her cheek.  She leant her forehead against the cool frosted glass and sighed deeply, mustering up the courage to leave the comfort of her home, a home that doubled as business premises. 

She hadn't even reached the end of the road before her meandering steps became long strides, and by the time she reached the High Street she was running as if her life depended on it.  

Which, in a way, it did.

Sheila stifled heart-wrenching sobs as she ran past pedestrians of every colour and religion.  Everything she saw through the tears was a blur, a swirl of incoherent colours, and she barely made out the sounds of wolf-whistles and Whatdjadoin' girl? through the thundering that echoed in her ears. 

She stumbled as she reached the blue door and, as someone grabbed her arm to steady her, she used her other arm to wipe away the tears and snot that streaked her face. 

The faceless man stood just inside the blue door.  In his hand he held out an object.  Behind him a faceless teenager hugged a bloody bundle to her chest.  A woman sitting in a chair cried and repeated over and over and over again, But I didn't see him.

Sheila gave a fuck. 

And her world fell apart as she reached out to grab the collar the faceless man held out to her.

Yes, it is brown leather.

Blogging and the mistress of mockery

I have this problem.  No, let me rephrase that.  I have many problems.  Innocence, gullibility, naivety, idealism, those rose-tinted specs, the inability to understand those big words, seeing the good in everyone, depressive mood swings, switching off when people talk to me, lack of eye-contact, staring into space, daydreaming,  a nervous cat, laziness, forgetfulness, snappiness, kinky bears, biting ...

My political persuasions, musical tastes, tellybox habits, reading material, homelife, beliefs, ways in which I see the world and lack of common-sense may be different to many of you. 

Maybe you say tomAYto and I say tomARto.

I like it that we aren't all similar. 

I like it that we don't all think in the same way. 

I like it that we can banter and bounce ideas off of each other. 

I don't like it when people imply that maybe I'm a tad dense just because I don't agree with them.  It doesn't make me stupid.  It may make me look stupid, but perhaps my brain just doesn't work in the same way yours does.

I don't like it when people copy the important things that make this blog mine, that have my mark, my stamp.

I don't like it when people agree with other people simply because they think that they have to, that it makes them look cool and the other person will like them all the more for it.  I'd rather people said what they feel, and didn't feel the need to hide their thoughts because others make them feel stupid for thinking differently. 

I hide.  I hide often.

This isn't a popularity contest.

I'd like to think that I comment because you say something that inspires me, provokes me, makes me think deeply, because you make me laugh, or cry.  I'd like to think that you comment here for the same reasons. 

I have other problems.  I'm guilty of sarcasm, whining, tongue-in-cheekness, dry wit. You may not always be aware. Sometimes I'm horrid, a bit bitchy.  I take offence too easily.  Far too easily.  I take things too personally. 

I wish I didn't.

What you see is what you get.  I can't always change the little aspects that make me the person I am.  And to be honest, I don't want to. 

So please, enjoy my company as much as I enjoy yours, but without making me feel foolish and vulnerable, without making me feel [really] angry, without making me want to hit you.  Please don't mock me, talk down to me or even humour me.  Please don't imitate the finer things in my postages. 

And most of all, please don't ever assume that I sit on the fence. 

The reason you think I sit on the fence is that you don't listen.

If you don't listen, you don't hear what I say ...

You annoy me in all your self-righteous mockery [and you annoy me with your copycat techniques] ...

Self-righteousness is not beguiling.  It's simply annoying.  Maybe when you rule the world I'll take note ... until then just piss off.

Alice

Alice.  Could I ever have forgotten that name?  It leaves a taste on the lips that is so divine, and a whispering touch that reaches far into the soul.

Alice.

She wasn't like other girls.  Whereas they would strut, bogged down with cheap jewellery and graceless fingers feeding limp cigarettes to blossoming [cheap] red mouths, Alice would seemingly glide, flicking her just-got-out-of-bed hair away from her face with slender purple tipped hands.  She possessed a passion for life that was equalled by nobody. 

She was beautiful.

Whisper her name.

Alice.

Sitting on the riverbanks we would idly watch the swans drift by, feeding each other fresh strawberries and sparkling wine, making up silly stories, finishing each others sentences.

We camped out in second-hand tents, drank beer with obscure bands, read poetry under moonlit skies.  We had dreams of climbing mountains, sailing the oceans and fucking in every place imaginable.

Alice.

That was my summer of love. 

She popped out for cigarettes one day.  She never came back.  She left me with the tattered remenants of dreams that would never be fulfilled, and a sly kiss on one cheek that was washed away with soap and water. 

That was six years ago.

Alice.

Today she came back into my life.  Sitting on the tube, smirking at the novel trivialties in The Sun, I heard a laugh, I glimpsed a flick of just-got-out-of-bed hair. 

Alice!

I followed her.  I had nothing else to do.  She left her companion with a sly kiss on a stubbled cheek and glided into a park.  Dusk was falling.  I glided after her, fingering the knife that lived in my pocket, a knife that had lived in my pocket since that day six years ago, the day she left me with a sly kiss on the cheek. 

Leaves are so beautiful when you view them close up.

Alice. 

It wasn't Alice.  Her eyes were too lifeless.  Her skin too clammy.  Alice never wore a look of terror. 

I will still whisper her name. 

And one day she may hear.

Alice ...

Little Red Riding Hood

*yawn*

i am so sleepy.  i'm always sleepy.  mummy insists that i ought to be taken to see the doctor, but daddy just shrugs behind his morning paper and mutters faint little negative comments.  at this point mummy tends to turn a beautiful shade of red, almost the colour of leaves in the autumn. 

i know that this is the moment i need to excuse myself from the breakfast table.

i know you've heard this story before.  it's a classic, everybody loves it.  i hear it said that you tell your children this tale as a form of entertainment.  it makes them laugh and fires up their imagination.

*stamps foot*

do you really think it's funny?  you honestly believe that the horrid moments of my life deserve to be treated so flippantly?  can you not imagine the pain and humiliation i felt that day ... ?

grandma had given me a wonderful red poncho for my birthday.  it was lined in fur to keep me warm on exceptionally cold days and it had deep pockets that could contain no end of mischievous objects.  the hood was the bestest thing about it - it was detachable!  can you imagine my excitement?  nobody in my little village had a detachable hood. who would even think to have a detachable hood on a poncho?  i was quite the novelty for a while.  the girls would oooh and aaah and the boys would give me presents of red ribbons and stolen kisses.  it was a golden season.  i was loved, admired, kissed and fantasised about.  i was the apple of all eyes.  the cream that all the cats desired.  the finest cheese in the delicatessan. 

i spent the entire season with a quirky smile on my face.

and then one terrible morning we had a phone call from grandma's help.  grandma was poorly.  she had an awfully high temperature.  and grandma's help needed to go out for the day, it was already pre-arranged.

daddy was at work.  he's a lawyer in the city, plush office and all the executive toys one could wish for.  mummy was lying comatose on the sofa.  too much gin, and at ten in the morning too!  i was running a mild fever myself, had been allowed to take the day off from school and i was supposed to be tucked up in bed with some good books.  but mrs mctoffee had a bad ankle [the day before it had been a bad back, and the week previous she had been complaining of a strained muscle in her little finger] and suggested that if i wrapped up warmly - with lots of jumpers and my wonderful red cloak - then i could make the trip to grandma's.  she even suggested that it could be our little secret, that i could be home before mummy woke up and before daddy returned from the office [or maybe the cheap hotel if he'd taken a detour].

i wasn't too excited at going.  grandma was old and she smelt horrifically of wee and evening primrose oil.   i would sit and gaze at her wrinkles as she spoke to me, wondering why her face didn't shatter into a thousand pieces.  oh!  but she'd been the cause of my popularity this season so it was only fair that, even in my own poorly state, i visit her, share some soup and offer to read some tragically silly romantic novella to her. 

at this juncture in the tale i need to make it clear to you that there are no woods between my house and grandma's.  there's some alleyways.  a dodgy neighbourhood with rusty cars and foul smelling children.  a pretty park with swings and roundabouts.  but no woods. 

laden with a flask of hot chicken soup, pockets crammed with tissues and parma violets, i left the warmth of my childhood home.  it was a beautiful day.  there was a crispness in the air and the sun shone brightly on the faint traces of frost that coated the pavement.  i skipped happily, humming some trashy tune under my breath.

i was aware of the man before i saw him.  he was whistling a hymn we often sang in church.  old dave!  he grinned at me, the soggy cigarette poking out of one corner of his mouth.  i tried not to shudder at the sight of his rotten teeth.  we exchanged pleasantries.  he often did the garden for daddy in the summer season and we chatted a little about that.  he kept his hands in his pockets the whole time.  i told him that grandma was poorly.  he knew grandma.  she sometimes made him fresh home-made lemonade if she and he were at my house at the same time. 

and then we separated.  he went his way and i went mine.  i skipped again.  i stopped in the empty park to play on the swings.  i talked to the ducks.  anything to delay my arrival at grandma's. 

grandma has a very austere looking house, red brickwork and grey slate tiles.  in the garden there are no blades of grass out of place.  she's extremely houseproud.  i let myself in with a cheery hello grandma!  i didn't notice anything wrong in the kitchen as i poured the soup into two bowls.  i could hear the radio playing classical music in grandma's bedroom so i hurried up the stairs and walked through her open door ...

... and dropped the bowls on the floor. 

you think she was eaten by a wolf?  even better, you think that at the end of the tale she's still alive? 

you don't live in the real world do you? 

red.  everywhere was red.  it wasn't just her wrinkled face that lay in a thousand pieces.  old dave!  he was standing there, grinning manically.  and the worst thing is ... he was wearing grandma's sunday best.  he'd smothered his lips in her crimson lipstick. 

and he grabbed my arm.

i don't want to tell you the rest.  suffice to say the next eight hours of my life were the most horrific.  he made me do things no child should do and made me see things no child should see. 

and it's all my fault.  oh, they say he's mad, has been since childhood.  apparently he was almost convicted for the murder of a boy-child, but the case was thrown out.  not enough evidence.  but really it's my fault.  i was the one who told him that grandma was home alone.  i was the one who told him that she was poorly.  i think i may even have let slip that the door would be open.

and do you know?  i think i do remember telling him that she kept her life savings in a shoebox under her bed.

silly me. 

*yawn*

i am so sleepy.

The stranger

Bastard ...

It was just a whisper. 

And yet it seemed to fill all the corners of the large sunny room.  She flung her bag onto the faux-fur settee and kicked off a pair of black stilleto's, failing to notice that they missed the cat by mere inches.  A dog came bounding into the room, skidding slightly on the highly polished flooring.  Seeing the look upon her face he promptly came to a halt, turned and fled back the way he had come. 

The cat followed him.

*bang bang bang*

The sound almost made her choke on the vodka she had just poured into her open mouth.  She shuddered and lit a cigarette. 

*bang bang bang*

She cursed at the sound of hammering, realising that maybe this person wouldn't just go if she didn't answer the door.

She ignored it anyway and instead took a long drag on her cigarette.

*bang bang bang*

was followed by

*woof woof woof*

Curses.

The dog came bounding into the room again, tongue lolling around, eyes brightly questioning her reluctance to answer the door.

I want to play, he seemed to be saying. 

She rose from the seat where she had perkily perched her bottom and sighed deeply, stubbing out her half finished cigarette in a large pink glass ashtray, a souvenir from some Spanish holiday.

The figure was already almost to the end of her path when she opened the door.  As he turned back towards her she raised her hand to protect her eyes from the glare of the sun - and also to allow her to better see the figure who approached.  

He was of medium build, and his posture was good.  As he neared he held out his hand and she responded by mirroring and holding out her own.  He took it and his handshake was firm, clean, direct.  She gazed into cool blue eyes and noticed the way his white hair curled slightly over the collar of his blue shirt.  

I saw you.  Outside the restaurant.  You looked angry.  Maybe a little sad.  I wanted to check you were ok.

She stared at him a little coldly.

You followed me?

Well, he began, yes.  Yes, I did. 

There was a pause.  Uncomfortable.  A pause that only belongs to strangers who have nothing to say to each other. 

You remind me of someone, he declared.

A child.  A little girl I once knew. 

She took in his soft features.  She smelt his smell. 

Tobacco.

She heard his laughter in another room, another house.

She closed her eyes and played a game of hide and seek with a tube of Smarties and the coat belonging to the man who laughed in another room, another house.  Her mind conjured up images of photographs and memories: her very first trip in a boat at the age of five weeks [in the boat belonging to the man who laughed in another room, another house]; the man who laughed in another room, another house holding her on his knee at the age of ten months, grinning insanely into the lens; ripping open Christmas gifts that were the same year in, year out - colouring books and pens from the man who laughed in another room, another house; smiling shyly at the man who laughed in another room, another house at a wedding, maybe two.

She shook her head. 

No, she mumbled.  No, you don't know me.  I'm not that little girl. 

He gazed at her sadly and reached out to touch her cheek softly.  She smiled apologetically and closed the door, hearing his soft-tread as he made his way back down the path.

A tear slipped gently down her face as she leant her forehead against the door.  She wasn't that little girl anymore. 

But she would do anything to be that little girl again, to smell that smell, play that game and rip open those presents.

An open letter

dear you,

you meant everything to her.  you should know that.  and if you don't then perhaps you need to cast your mind back to those heady days when she was your princess and you were her knight in shining armour, those halcyon days of old where the sun never failed to shine and the sky remained a constant blue [with a hint of pink]. 

she was beautiful.  her hair tumbled down her back in heavy curls of auburn. her brown eyes gazed adoringly with wonder at anything and everything, flecks of green sparkling with delight as she surveyed the world that only you were able to offer her.

you forget that she squealed with a passion unlike no other when she saw poppies, that she could calm herself with a single stroke across her adored cat's back, that she could find mystery and magic in any book you read together. 

you forget the way you would pull her hair out of her face when she was ill, the tears that she cried when you visited her in the hospital, the look of determination that fluttered across her brow as she concentrated on a piece of work.

a little part of her deep inside died the day you deserted her.  she sat at the top of the stairs failing to grasp that your cases were packed and you were leaving.  why?  what did she do to make you leave? 

did you ever actually notice her confusion in the following months?  or was it easier to pretend that it didn't exist?  she remembers the fights, the arguments over the telephone, the pain of knowing that you would briefly enter her life again and again and again, always promising, never delivering ...

did you stop loving her?  or was she always to be found somewhere in your heart?  did ever a day go by when you didn't think about her? 

in her own way she still loves you.  there is pity there.  and the bitterness and jealousy sometimes crushes her chest.  but if you could take her in your arms now and tell her of your love, would you do it? 

would you do it for the five year old child that still resides in my head, begging for explanation?

dad? 

love me?

love, me.

Tick Tock

The room was cold.  Empty.  Bereft of any tangible memories.  She spun round on the bare floorboards, the ash falling from the lit cigarette in her hand as she did so.  She reached out for a past that hid in the shadows and refused to reveal itself.  As her eyes began to blur with silent tears she gazed upwards, praying to a God that didn't exist in the world she inhabited, praying for a salvation that would never be hers. 

Fuck you then.

She turned abruptly, dropping her cigarette to the floor and crushing it expertly beneath her kitten heel.  A lone tear caressing its way down her cheek was wiped away with a gloved hand and a strand of purple hair, playfully tickling her chin, was casually tucked behind an ear. 

As she teetered toward the door she felt a surge of strength rise within her, a strength that came from more than the half bottle of vodka she had consumed in the car on the way over. 

She could do it.  She knew she could.