Procrastination and Distraction

Hello there, I have a confession to make. I have been somewhat distracted from my writing by a sudden return of my passion and ability to doodle and draw. Compounded also by the fact that I am currently camping at my mother's house waiting to be moved into our new house at Odiham, and thus my writing has taken rather a backseat. I haven't even been doing any notebooking. I do feel terribly guilty and pledge to resolve this as soon as possible. It appears that I am rather less equipped at multi-tasking than I originally thought.....

Affair To Remember

She marches through the neon tunnels of the shopping centre, the footsteps of shoppers echoing off the walls and into her head. She ignores the many storefronts, with their bright displays enticing customers through their open doors; instead her eyes stay straight ahead and focused. She takes a sharp left and finds the shop she’s looking for. She pauses for just a moment, and looks around her. Stupid to think anyone would recognise her here, but still she feels guilty and doesn’t want to be caught out, or have to make any unwanted small talk.
She crosses the threshold into the alluring pink and purple decorated space. Thankfully the shop is empty at such an early hour; she doesn’t think she could handle the laughing couples arm in arm, choosing risqué lingerie in lace and silk.
The lighting in this place is dimmed, soft and flattering, in contrast to the rest of the shopping centre. She wanders through the store, weaving her way through the rails of lingerie - reaching out and touching the fabrics, feeling the silkiness between her fingers. Tucking a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, she rifles through the clothes rail trying to find her size. She glances around her before she grabs different hangers and drapes them over her arm, ready to make her way to the fitting room at the back of the store. As she swings back past the door she gets too close to the security gate and the quiet of the store is pierced with the frantic electronic beeping of the alarm. Feeling her cheeks prickle with red, she holds the hangers high and waves at the shop assistant who looks up from the till with a frown, and nods in the direction of the changing room.
She pulls the heavy blue velvet curtain across and hangs her outfits up on the brass hook protruding from the wall. She is grateful for the soft lighting as she pulls off her clothes and lets them fall into a pile on the floor. Stood naked in front of the mirror, she looks at her body, lit orange by the lights, and tries to imagine it through his eyes. She makes herself look at her stomach; flat, but with skin puckered and etched with silvery stretch marks, the scars born of the brutality of pregnancy. She can feel familiar feelings of self-loathing bubble to the surface and she tries to swallow them down. She knows deep down this affair is just another way of her acting out, of trying to beat down her low self-esteem that has been with her since her childhood. This decision to meet up with him will only end in more pain. Her head is filled with reasons to cancel their meeting, but she knows that she won’t bring herself to make that call. This is everything she has been hoping for since their days as housemates at university; and her heart beats faster when she thinks about it. As she stands in the small cubicle pulling on silky corsets and fastening suspender belts, she lets her mind wander back to the summer, to the heady long weekend spent in the dried grass fields of a boutique music festival where they had rekindled their romance.
She thought that seeing him again after all that time would be different, that she wouldn’t feel those things for him that she had before. With so much time passed she hoped she would finally have closure. They met again around a table in a corner of the dance tent, hugging and holding each other, and she knew instantly that nothing had changed. The D.J. had started up and their group had moved as one to the crowded dance-floor. She remembered the darkened dance tent had been red and glowing like a womb and the thumping bass line had beat along with her heart. They were crushed together in the crowd of friends and strangers and she had inhaled the air, thick with sweat and smoke and heat. So many people had surrounded them, the space buzzing with voices and laughing and music, but she had noticed no one else but him. Her whole body was alert and shaking, completely aware of his body wedged behind her; could feel his heat spreading into her.
Her view of the stage had been obscured as she was squashed tight into the stranger in front of her. The smell of their sweat was making her feel dizzy and she had wobbled, panting as she struggled to take in cleaner air. Suddenly she had felt his arms around her waist and with a flurry of movement she was up above the crowd, precarious atop his warm shoulders. His hair was sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband, and she had reached out to touch it, to feel it between her fingers. Her other arm was outstretched, bare and pale white, waving in time to the music. On the stage ahead of them the chords of her favourite song had begun and she had stretched open her mouth so wide it creased up her cheeks, and sang along. Her legs were wrapped tight around his neck and he ran a thumb along the naked flesh of her thigh and goose bumps had prickled all over her body as the music and blood crashed in her head.
She opens her eyes back in the reality of the changing room, shivering at the memory of the deliciousness of his hand against her skin. She brushes out a crease in her jumper, picks up her bag and swishes out of the changing room towards the till; hanger in hand and determination on her face.

Negligee

She marches through the neon tunnels of the shopping centre, the footsteps of shoppers echoing off the walls and into her head. She ignores the many storefronts, with their bright displays to entice customers through their open doors; instead her eyes stay straight ahead and focused. She takes a sharp left and finds the shop she’s looking for. She pauses for just a moment, and looks around her. Stupid to think anyone would recognize her here, but still she feels guilty and doesn’t want to be caught out and have to make any embarrassing small talk.
She crosses the threshold into the alluring pink and purple decorated space. Thankfully the shop is empty at such an early hour; she doesn’t think she could handle the laughing couples arm in arm choosing risqué lingerie in lace and silk.
The lighting in this place is dimmed, soft and flattering, in contrast to the rest of the shopping centre. She wanders through the store, weaving her way through the rails of lingerie - reaching out and touching the fabrics, feeling the silkiness between her fingers. Tucking a strand of blonde hair back behind her ear, she rifles through the clothes rail trying to find her size. She feels embarrassed, furtive, as she grabs different hangers and drapes them over her arm, ready to make her way to the fitting room at the back of the store. As she swings back past the door she gets too close to the security gate and the quietness of the store is pierced with the frantic electronic beeping of the alarm. Feeling her cheeks prickle with red, she holds the hangers high and waves at the shop assistant who looks up from the till with a frown, and nods in the direction of the changing room.
She pulls the heavy blue velvet curtain across and hangs her outfits up on the brass hook on the wall. She is grateful for the soft orange lighting as she pulls off her clothes and let’s them fall into a pile on the floor. Stood naked in front of the mirror, she looks at her body and tries to imagine it through his eyes. Not perfect, but then who is? She can feel familiar feelings of self-loathing bubble to the surface and she tries to swallow them down. She knows deep down this tryst is just another way of her acting out; of trying to beat down her low self esteem that has been with her since she was a child.

Poems poems

Been experimenting with rhyming, as it is something I have avoided until now, thinking I would be no good. I've given it a go, and am enjoying it so far. Tying it into my other coursework, the poems I've created are based on the character that I have been working on in most of my written work for this assignment so far, and the poems have really helped me clarify her in my head.

Hungry

Can you feel my hunger when I'm with you?
My heart beats loud; you must feel it too.
I can be anyone just for tonight
In the darkness I forget what's wrong or right.
Close my eyes, don't need to think about my life
Lay back, enjoy, for tonight I am the world's wife.

One Kiss

One hand in my hair, one on my face
Kiss me quick, pick up the pace!
I stop your words with my mouth
And my hands travel down, heading south.
You break off, push me away
You don't want it to be this way.

Red lipstick smudged and bleeding
My clothes are creased and slept in.
I can taste you still, on my lips
And feel your fingers touch my hips.
In the dark I lay and reminisce
About the start; it was just one kiss.

The empty bed is now unmade
One side is unslept in, unlaid.
It smells of you and I start to cry
Can't shake this feeling, how hard I try.
Love like a star; burnt out and dying
My pulse beats fast from all the lying.

Ghost Story

My stomach churns as I flick the indicator and turn the car into the familiar private residential drive, the wheels crunching over pink-hued pebbles. I taxi slowly down the centre of the road until I reach the house at Number 12. It’s been many years since I have been here yet every detail is the same as I remember, right down to the pattern of the ivy twisting around the window frames. All the curtains in the windows are fastened open and the grass on the front lawn has recently been cut short. I turn my car into the driveway and shut off the engine, drop my head down and take in some deep breaths. The house is built in mock Tudor style, in keeping with the other homes along this tree-lined drive that ends in open playing fields. They belong to a private school and in the term time months I remember hearing the laughter and shouts of the children drifting across the treetops during breaktime. Today there are no voices and the air is silent and still.
I rummage through my handbag until I find the bunch of keys that had arrived by post a few days ago. As I stand on the stone step and fiddle with the key in the Yale lock a gust of icy wind whips down the tunnel of the drive sending fallen leaves and a muddy white plastic bag swirling through the air before coming to rest at the garage door. There is no rain but the air feels damp and cold so I pull my wool coat tighter around my shoulders. The lock clicks open but the door must be swollen shut from moisture so I lean against it with one shoulder and push. The wood frame gives slightly and the door swings open into the kitchen. I head straight to the corner by the window and pick up the kettle. My throat is dry and a little sore after the long drive and I need some hot, sweet tea before I can even think about unloading the car. I turn the cold tap on fast; the water jets out in a murky stream for a few seconds before coming through clear and ice cold. I fill the kettle up full and click the button. It lights up with a blue glow and begins to crackle to life.
Tucked into a nook on the opposite side of the wall is the fridge freezer. It is unplugged and the door has been left slightly ajar. The front of it is completely covered with photos, pictures and handwritten notes. Some are old and curled at the edges, partially obscured by the fresher ones that have been stuck on top with fridge magnets. I move closer and look at them. A torn piece of lined paper with a phone number looks nearly new; the paper is fresh and not yet discoloured like the rest. The area code is local, written in a hurried scrawl. I wonder whom it belongs to. There is a yellowing newspaper cutting just visible beneath. It has a passport-sized photo of a girl smiling in black and white. I remember her face; it was in the news a few years ago. She was the local girl that went missing in broad daylight; her disappearance still unsolved. I wonder why Alan would have kept such a thing for so long; but then lots of things Alan did were inexplicable. I pin it back to the fridge and shiver. The air in the house is cold, my fingertips are pink and numb. Shoving my hands deep in my coat pockets I move through into the hallway, looking at the pictures hung on the walls and arranged on the tables in gold frames. I barely recognise any of the faces. When Granny was alive the frames were full of pictures of family- mainly of me; the beloved only grandchild, and the smiling faces of mum and dad and my uncles. Now the frames are filled with strangers- men and women, Alan’s friends; snapshots of his life I’d never known.
I remember the kettle and head towards the kitchen. I push open the door into steam and noise. The air is so thick and wet I can barely see as I make my way over to the kettle. It is thundering and boiling, a jet of steam and spitting water pouring out into the room. The switch must be stuck, but the metal is too hot to touch so I switch it off at the socket and pull the plug from the wall. It is nearly empty and I can smell burning where all the water has boiled away from the element. I look up and feel my breath catch in my throat and my heart pound. The window is opaque with steam, and, in clear letters as if a finger had just been dragged through the condensation, is a word written in spider crawl. A name- ‘Lottie’. I stare at the image, trying to make sense of it, when I feel the hairs raise on the back of my neck. I can feel someone else behind me and I spin around; blood crashing in my head. There is no-one there. I stay there for a few minutes while my breathing returns to normal and my eyes flick to something on the ground. The newspaper cutting of the girl has fallen down. I’m about to pin it back but instead I let it fall into the waste-bin. There’s something about the girl’s eyes; I feel uncomfortable under her piercing stare.
Cupping my hot mug of tea I slide open the French doors that lead from the conservatory straight out into the garden patio. I pull out a lighter and let the orange flame ignite my cigarette. After a few pulls I begin to feel calmer and my eyes wander about the garden, and I think of Alan. Left alone to his dark thoughts after Granny’s death ten years ago his flesh and skin had wrinkled and dried out, his body became as thin and shrunken as a skeleton. His eyes were bitter and full of hate, sunken deep in his head beneath hooded lids. His skin had stained deep brown from the sun, from the years spent pottering about in the garden; to and from his work-shed and tending to the tomato plants that filled the greenhouse. I remember his calloused fingers and knarled knuckles with rough fingertips as he used to pull me into a close embrace, and I shudder at the memory. We’d been estranged for so many years that the news his house had been left to me came as such a shock. Initially I’d been pleased at the welcome influx of money to my stretched bank account, but now, stood here in the still garden with twisted oak trees hanging down over the grass, I feel a shiver run down my spine and wish I’d not come here alone. I hear a distant boom of thunder rolling on the horizon; the sky beyond the row of treetops at the garden’s end has darkened to a deep smudgy grey and the heavy branches are thrashing wildly above the garden shed. I can hear a banging thud with each new gust of wind; coming from the direction of Alan’s work-shop. I stub out the cigarette and hurry down the paved path that weaves out of sight behind a weeping willow tree. I follow its curve until I am standing at a dusty door. The windows are tightly shut and dark, with wisps of cobweb caught at each corner. The wooden door is cracked and dirty; swinging open on its hinges, banging into the stone frame. I’ve never been in this room, as a child it was a forbidden space- always padlocked and shut tight. Now the overhanging branches are scratching along the spelt roof and knocking at the windowpanes as I stretch out a shaking hand to reach the door. My hands are clammy as I grab the cold metal handle and pull it slowly open. I step up into the room and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust in the murky light. The room is edged all round by wooden worktops, their surfaces full of metal tools and sharp cutting instruments. The back wall has floor to ceiling bookshelves, but devoid of books, instead filled with objects that take me by surprise.