An Old Man

His ears have kept on growing throughout his lifetime, and now, at a grand old age of seventy-nine, the lobes stretch down nearly to his chin line. His stepson and family used to joke in secret that they look like the saggy dried out bits of meat that they sell in baskets outside the pet shop.
He is all alone now in the big house on the leafy private road in Surrey. His lost his wife to cancer nearly ten years ago, and his only son followed suit two summers ago. Secretly he was pleased his wife went, it released him from the years of bullying at her hands. He was free now to do as he pleased, and he had the means to do it, having inherited all the money from both deaths. Why should he have to bother with her two other sons from her first marriage? They only serve as a reminder of her, and of a ghost of a man who came before him whose shoes he could never fill.
Left alone to his dark thoughts his flesh and skin has wrinkled and dried out, his body as thin and shrunken as a skeleton. His eyes are bitter and full of hate, sunken deep in his head under hooded lids. His skin is stained deep brown from the sun, from many years spent pottering about in the garden and going to and from his workshed. He has calloused fingers and knarled knuckles with rough fingertips. They bear the scars of a lifetime of making and sanding and creating, working as a design teacher in the nearby prep school.

Affectations

He knows he looks the business in his three-piece tuxedo suit; ironed to perfection and funked up with a polka dot bow tie, worn at an angle so as not to look too stuffy. No one knows he hired it from the little old tailors around the corner from his flat in Stoke Newington, and he sure as hell isn’t about to tell them. He likes everyone to think that he’s not into this kind of event; black- tie charity balls don’t give you much street-cred back with the uber trendy crew in East London, but deep down he loves it. Once he’s qualified as a chartered accountant he’s sure to be attending these kinds of events regularly, as well as raking in the cash.
He’s been cornered talking to some girl, a friend of his girlfriend who’s married with two kids-she’s nothing of interest to him and he wishes he could escape. He shifts around, not listening to what she’s saying, looking over her head, and scanning the crowd for someone more interesting to talk to. He wouldn’t of bothered making conversation with her but she made a beeline for him, firing questions, trying to be friendly. He fiddles with the silver rings on his right hand, and runs a hand over his head. His hair is thinning and has receded back to expose a high forehead. His remaining hair is razored to fine stubble, and instead of feeling embarrassed by his early onset baldness, he thinks he looks cutting edge with his naked scalp.
The annoying girl is still talking and he looks at her and exhales snottily, replying to her questions in his nasal voice with one-word answers. He’s telling her that he is originally from Leeds and she laughs and asks what the hell has happened to his accent. He clenches his fist and replies through gritted teeth. He’s spent years trying to shake off his working class northern background and tell tale plummy accent; all for some nobody to pull him up on his affectations. His cheeks start to colour up crimson so he takes a swig of his red wine and pushes past her off into the crowd.

An Afternoon Nap

She is lying on her back on a towel spread on the grass. She is wearing only her underwear; an old black matching set, the cotton fabric bobbled in patches. Her skin is blinding white in the sun, flesh shining and sticky from sun-cream and slick with sweat. Her eyes are closed, one hand up on her face, shielding it from the sun.
At the sound of her name being called she its up and rubs her eyes awake. A fleshy white stomach folds over into three rings as she draws her knees up and leans heavily on her arm to push herself up. Her face is pale and drawn without a scrap of make up. Her eyes look naked and exposed, encircled by smudgy shadows. She yawns and looks around, face cracking into a huge smile that lights up her eyes with a sparkle.
She heads inside the house, bare feet padding softly over the tiled kitchen floor. Her hair is unwashed and greasy, held back with a grey headband. It has come loose and dark curly hairs frizz out of the ponytail in a halo. She pulls the band down over her head and readjusts it, smoothing the hairs back into place. As she bends over to unpack the freezer bags, white bosomy flesh spills over the sides of her bra. Several threads have come loose from the seams and flail about next to her skin. The bra is too small and the fabric cuts into her breast- beneath the black are angry red lines checked across her skin. The cup flips down, exposing a slice of pale pink areola and nipple, which she quickly tucks back in with a smile.

Unrequited

She thought that seeing him again after all this 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 meet again around a table in a corner of the dance tent, hugging and holding each other, and she knows that nothing has changed. The D.J. starts and the group moves as one to the crowded dance-floor.
The darkened dance tent is red and glowing like a womb- the thumping bass line beats along with her heart. They are crushed together in the crowd of friends and strangers, inhaling the sweaty air, hot and smoky and alive. So many people surround them but she notices no one but him. Her whole body is alert and shaking, completely aware of his body wedged behind her; can feel his heat spreading into her.
Her view of the stage is obscured and she is squashed tight into the stranger in front of her. The smell of sweat is making her feel dizzy and she sways around, panting as she struggles to take in cleaner air. She feels his arms around her waist and with a flurry of movement she is up above the crowd, precarious atop his broad shoulders. His hair is sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband, she reaches to touch it. Her other arm is outstretched, bare and pale white, waving in time to the music. On the stage ahead of them the chords of her favourite song begin and she stretches open her mouth so wide it creases up her cheeks, and sings along. Her teeth are straight and white perfect aside from the little gap between the front two that used to make her feel awkward and shy. Her legs are wrapped around his neck and he runs a thumb along the naked flesh of her thigh and goose bumps prickle all over her body as the music and blood crashes in her head.
She throws her head back and closes her eyes behind mirrored aviators- their surface shows nothing but the reflection of the crowd, nearly black in the dark, and a shiny red slice of tent beneath the rim of her straw trilby. Pulled down low over her head, her hair tumbles out from beneath it. Bleached blonde and crispy dry it is matted with a long weekend’s dirt and the smell of smoke and mud and sweat; and the magic of possibility in this place.

Bad Romance

They’re on the dance-floor, hot and blurry from too many drinks. The alcohol is starting to make him sleepy, his eyes are feeling heavy-lidded and hard to focus. He gives in and closes them, moving to the music and happy to feel the heat of the young girl next to him. He thinks about when he should kiss her; he’s been wanting to for so long, been secretly in love with her. He opens his eyes, looks at her. Pushing his hair off his face, it is soaked with sweat; thinning and muddy blonde it exposes a high forehead, shiny and finely lined. His face is pasty white and doughy. Pink-rimmed eyes and pockmarked skin belie the late nights, his fondness for cigarettes and boozy weekends. It’s hard work keeping up with all his friends- a good decade younger they are able to party their nights away with no ill effect.
He sniffs and wipes his long sloped nose, the tip is crusted with tell-tale white powder- the remnants of their evenings excesses. His mouth is dry like cotton and he licks his lips, which feel thin and cracked, rough beneath his tongue. His mouth tastes sour and feels furry from the sugary alcopops. He can feel the bile beginning to rise up from his stomach, sloshed around by the movement of the dance-floor. He swallows it down, pulse racing, not wanting to vomit in front of the girl. Sweaty hands grab her hips as he leans in and motions towards the toilets. Drunk, she looks at him with hazy eyes; she doesn’t understand as he pushes unsteadily through the sticky crowd and disappears.

Man on a Summer's Day

It’s the last good day of summer before autumn sets in, fresh but beautifully sunny and clear. He’s made the most of the surprising weather dressed in a thin linen shirt- white, crumpled and smelling faintly of smoke and sweat from where he pulled it out of the washing basket this morning. Unbuttoned to his chest with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, he reaches across the wooden table to give Eva her present. His long brown hair is caught up high in a top-knot, ends splayed and messy. Chisel-jawed and poster-boy handsome, he stopped many a girl’s heart during his days at art school. Smooth and baby-faced through the majority of his twenties, his chin is finally darkened with bristled hairs. Now though, he’s noticed that fine lines are starting to appear around his eyes, which today are heavy-lidded and puffy, ringed with dark circles, the result of a string of late nights and parties.
As he stares across the table at his girlfriend; at her pale porcelain skin, wide eyes and celebrating her twentieth birthday- he begins to feel old and tired. A slight frown furrows his brow as he takes a sip of his ale, ice cold and frothy, and sets the tankard back down on the table before him. Staring into the amber liquid he wonders how best to break up with Eva, without adding another broken heart to the string of them scattered behind him in his wake. Sighing, he lifts his head up, looks across the table, and clears his throat.

The Boy in Blue

The red light blinks furiously as he keeps the camcorder pointed at the affray. He is tired, but his piggy eyes- pink- rimmed, and sunken in his face, remain focused in on the scene that unfurls before him as he tries not to let his personal life interfere with his work.
It is a dreary morning, freezing cold and drizzling, the rain whipping into his face like little knives. He shivers, cold despite his ample extra flesh. He pulls the collars of his fleece, police overcoat and neon yellow flack-jacket closer about his neck. His hands clutch the camcorder tightly with chubby white sausage fingers, numb and exposed, poking out of the ends of his fingerless gloves.
The biting wind is making his nose run; he sniffs and wipes away the dribble of mucus with the back of his hand, leaving a translucent snail trail along his cheek. One of his colleagues cracks a joke to lift the mood of the downtrodden team and he sniggers, his lip curling up to the left in a half smile, exposing two yellowed front teeth that are long and rabbit-like. He shifts around on his feet, legs aching from being stood still so long. He coughs, feeling the podgy ring of flesh under his chin wobble, and he thinks again how unfit he is. All the other men on his team are lean and getting younger by the day. The old cliché about cops loving their donuts now rings tired and false. He resolves to sign himself up to that Slimming World thing that his wife Maureen keeps leaving leaflets lying around for. ‘Tonight, I’ll start tonight.’ Muttered under his breath, but he knows that it’ll be another broken promise, just like all the others.

Girl in the Crowd

She is precarious atop the shoulders of a boy, his hair sandy blonde and pushed up from his forehead in clumps by a red headband. One of her arms is outstretched, bare and pale white; the other hidden, clutched tight around the waist of her friend on the left as they sway unsteadily above the crowd. On the main stage ahead of them the band strum out the chords of her favourite song and she stretches open her mouth so wide it creases up her cheeks, and sings along. Her teeth are straight and bleached white in the sun; perfect aside from the little gap between the front two that used to make her feel awkward and shy, but now she loves how it sets her out from the crowd.
She throws her head back and closes her eyes behind mirrored aviators- their surface shows nothing but the reflection of the crowd, and a shiny white slice of sky beneath the rim of her straw trilby, pulled down low over her head. Her hair tumbles out from beneath it, bleached blonde and crispy dry, matted with a long weekend’s dirt and the smell of smoke and mud and sweat.

Part 2: Writing About People

Well, handed in my first assignment a week or so ago and just received my feedback from my tutor. Feeling pretty pleased, as overall, it was pretty positive, with a particular note about being good at showing and not telling. There was a few helpful pointers about how to improve my poetry as well, so I shall endeavour to dredraft them and repost as soon as possible. NB, I have removed 4 of my poems from the blog as I submitted them into a poetry competition which is still running, so will repost as soon as it closes.

Anyway, back to the task in hand.....Have just begun work on Part 2 of my coursework, and been given a preliminary deadline as the 27th October; so a lot to get through before then! EEk! Have made a start on my notes for exercises one and two and these are my initial feelings:
Really looking forward to this chapter of work, as I love observing people, so this part should be fun and exciting. The first two exercises that I have attempted revolve around writing about a person in a photo, one known to me, one unknown. I have only written notes in my notebook so far, no redrafting yet. Finding this surprisingly hard even to find a good photo to work from! Most are posed or of more than one person- I wanted to find photographs where the subject is unaware that a camera is on them- as if it is just a snapshot of a moment in time. However decided not to procrastinate too much, so have done both exercises twice, and can already see some nice images....off to type them up now.

Another Holiday Moment

We arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon after a long drive from London. After we left the motorway the Friday traffic crawled lazily along the country roads for many miles. Abandoning my reading once the winding road began to make me queasy, I watched the scenery change out of the back-window and shifted around on the plastic seat, eager to get out of the car and stretch my cramped legs.

We pulled up outside a huge building, sparkling in the sun. The hotel was set up on a hill, white against bright blue skies, its many windows thrown wide open to catch the fresh sea breeze that blew straight in from the promenade. Stone steps at the front led down to a huge expanse of green lawn spattered with putting holes and marked with red flags, fluttering wildly in the wind. Bursts of red and yellow flowers lined the car park and their sweet fragrance combined with salty air felt almost tropical. Eager to get outside we checked our bags into our room and raced straight to the hotel’s leisure centre. The August sun was low now, starting to turn the sky a brilliant orange. The air was warm and the paved tiles were baked hot beneath my feet, so we dove straight into the rippling blue aqua of the outdoor pool. The water was heated, but still, the coldness was a shock and we all let out gasps and shrieks of delight. My mother lay on her back in the shallows, eyes closed and floating with her arms out as her muscles relaxed from the drive.

The pool was large and curved around underneath a little white bridge leading to a cluster of tables and chairs, empty now in the evening sun. Dad and I swam under the bridge and the water grew much colder and deeper and led up to a high diving board at the pool’s furthest edge. Hauling himself up the little metal ladder at the side of the pool, Dad made his way to the steps of the diving board, shedding droplets of water that darkened the paving slabs. My mother shouted him a warning to be careful which was ignored as he made his way purposefully to the very highest diving board. He stood at the top for several minutes and gazed down at the pool, before hurling himself off the board toward the sparkling water below. He fell heavily, hitting the water stomach first in a huge belly flop with a slap that crackled around the pool area. His head broke through the swirling water spluttering, hair plastered over his eyes and cursing. His paunchy stomach was covered in curly hair, but we could see the tomato red skin smarting underneath, and we all fell about laughing.

We stayed in the pool until clouds began to darken the sky and the first drops of rain hit the surface of the water, slicing ripples through the blue. The rain tickled my face, but my body was warm and protected by the water of the pool and I didn’t want to get out. I stayed until Mum’s voice became edged with impatience; I climbed out into the chilly evening air and was gratefully wrapped in the huge fluffy white hotel towel. The paved floor had quickly turned slippery with rivers of rainwater and Mum held my arm tight as we slid our way back to the hotel. At the door I paused and looked back and saw a herring gull stood on one of the white plastic tables, dry beneath the open parasol, picking at the cold chips on an abandoned plate.

Descriptiv Prose- A Holiday Memory

The little airport bus pulled up outside a row of tall houses stood next to the road, dark, with the shutters at the windows pulled tightly closed. We unpeeled our sweaty legs from the plastic minibus seats and gratefully tumbled out onto the baking tarmac. My clothes were creased from the long flight and I felt disorientated in this brilliant light and heat. Mum and Janice pulled our wheeled cases from the trunk and paid the friendly driver, who sped off in a cloud of dust to rejoin the other cars on the little road. I squinted up at the tall house as Mum fiddled with the lock of the iron front gate. “It doesn’t look much, does it? I thought Frances said it was right on the beach?” We ascended up some steps to the front door. With a creak it swung open and a burst of light streamed around us as we clattered into a huge white-tiled kitchen, gleaming and airy. The wall opposite had floor to ceiling windows set in distressed wooden frames, that reminded me of driftwood, and a door that we rushed straight over to. Jangling through the bunch of keys until she found the one labelled ‘back-door’, she threw it open and we tumbled out onto a wooden patio area, decked with huge slats of thick oak wood. We all stood still and let out little gasps of air as we took in the view. The decking jutted straight out over an endless beach of brilliant smooth white sands so bright they left a dazzled imprint on my retinas when I closed my eyes. At the shore a turquoise sea sliced through the white, choppy waves caught the sun’s rays and sparkled. The sea changed colour in stripes, moving through all the shades of blue, translucent at the shore, darkening to a deep navy far out in the horizon. As we stood on the decking I noticed movement on the white; little crabs, nearly invisible against the sand scuttled in and out of tiny holes in the ground; their black beady eyes swivelling all around.

We spent our holiday basking out in the sun until we could stand the heat no longer and our skin dripped with sweat and sun cream. Running, we’d plunge straight into the blue surf and submerge our heads in the crystal water, floating weightlessly on the waves. Then, dripping wet, we’d retreat beneath the welcome shade of the striped awning on the decking, the breeze quickly drying our skin. We sat at the big round table, sipping on Bajan rum cocktails in tall glasses that smelt of sweet and spice. The ice cubes melted quickly in the heat, condensation soaking the glasses and leaving dark wet rings on the wooden table. We smoked roll up cigarettes down to the filter, talking and laughing and playing endless card games until the sun had slipped its colourful descent through the sky.