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.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, 14 November 2010
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.
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.
On Edge
She reaches up on tiptoe and the saucepans crash and tumble out of the high cupboard as she slams them down onto the rusty metal hob. She throws the switch across on the extractor and the light pings on and bounces off the silver rim of the pan. Blowing air out of her nose she takes some deep breaths to steady her nerves and pulls the packet of pasta out of the cupboard, staring at the stream of quills falling into the pan. Brown and hard and whole-wheat- not as tasty but so much healthier, she reminds herself that she really needs to lose some more weight before the weekend. Sucking in her stomach she checks out her reflection in the grubby glass oven door. She turns away, feeling the tears pricking at her eyes but blinking them away before her boyfriend can come into the kitchen and see. She flips the switch on the kettle and the tiny room soon starts to fill with the wet warmth of the steam. The rings on the hob are glowing orange so she pours the water over the pasta and sets the pan over top. She sniffs- she can smell smoke and starts to panic, but then realises the crumbs and dirt on the cooker are red hot and burnt to a blackened crisp. A little laugh bubbles up inside but catches in her throat and comes out strangled. If she wasn’t so upset she’d see how ridiculously on edge she looks, jumping at the slightest thing and shaking. She can hear the men’s throaty laughter floating down the hall from the crowded living room and her stomach churns. She turns away and yanks open the fridge door; the salad dressing bottle comes flying out and hits the hard floor with a smash. Splintered glass flies across the tiles and the oil spreads out like a bleeding wound, seeping into the cracks and under the cupboards. The hum of voices in the living room stops instantly and their silence rings loud in her ears for a moment before they gradually start up again in whispered tones. She knows she is on the verge of making a scene but her deep breaths are doing nothing to quell the feeling of hysteria rising like bile from her stomach. On her hands and knees she tries to stem the flow of liquid with a big wad of kitchen towel, and in her hurry she feels a shard of glass slide deep into her finger. As the crimson blood spots from her finger she yelps and rushes over to the sink. Cursing to herself for being so stupid she holds her finger under the ice-cold jet of water and feels her eyes begin to mist with tears that won’t be blinked away. Suddenly she can feel warmth behind her back and hands resting on her hips. She knows it is him. She wants to push him away, frozen by terror of discovery, but her body yearns for him and leans into it; so deliciously, inescapably wrong. Rough hands spin her to face him and he pulls her finger towards his mouth, kisses it. She can feel her heart hammering at the sides of her chest, so loudly, surely he can hear it. He cups her face in both hands and they look at each other for a long moment. He pulls her into a deep kiss that fills her entire body. Her hands are in his hair; they find their way under his shirt and she is running them all over grabbing at him, tugging him close. He reaches beneath her and pushes her up onto the kitchen side and she wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer. They kiss urgently, until panting, he pulls away and steps back. He stares at her intensely, before turning and leaving the room. She drops back down to the floor, smoothes her blouse and redoes the button that has been ripped open. Her head is spinning. The kitchen door swings open and she straightens with a gasp, sure the guilt is written all over her face. She looks up, wanting it to be him again. Instead her boyfriend is stood in the doorway, face open, eyebrows raised in worry. He comes over to her and wraps her in a hug and she stands wooden and uncomfortable, as the waves of nausea and disappointment wash over her again. He kisses the top of her head, tells her she’s doing a good job; how much he loves her. Avoiding his eyes she parrots back his praise but the words sound hollow and empty, ringing false in the tiny kitchen. As he leaves to rejoin his friends in the living room she breathes a sigh, pleased to be alone again.
She pulls a large stainless steel knife from the wooden block on the side, it’s silver blade glinting in the light, and slices it through the tough skin of the leek laid out on the chopping board. The motion makes her feel better and she slices through all the vegetables robotically, trying to turn her thoughts off, wondering how the hell her life got so complicated.
She pulls a large stainless steel knife from the wooden block on the side, it’s silver blade glinting in the light, and slices it through the tough skin of the leek laid out on the chopping board. The motion makes her feel better and she slices through all the vegetables robotically, trying to turn her thoughts off, wondering how the hell her life got so complicated.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
A Man I Know
Here he stands, central in his gallery
Still, backlit, next to twisted-copper bodies.
The sculptures on their plinths spill out the door
And hide amongst the courtyard trees.
Oiled canvas stretched tight in frames
Catches the vibrant rainbow light and gleams.
And when the clients leave he shuts up shop-
Flips the switch to kill all window light,
Removes his navy suit jacket top.
Packs away the board and signs and
Behind him shuts the iron gate, with padlock.
Now, crouched among the shells of silent cars,
Greasy insides laid out across the concrete yard,
He is bent with shoulders hunched and cap askew
Beneath a bonnet that salutes the orange sky.
We call his name and he straightens with a creak,
Smears oily hands across beige thighs,
Folds his hat into a pocket at the rear,
And cracks a smile that creases up his eyes.
He stamps his sturdy boot clad feet
Against November wind and leaves behind
A fairytale breadcrumb trail of brown
Muddy snowflake piles, so deep.
Later, at the chime, we open up our scarlet door
To find him standing with proffered wine.
Stood at the bright white island he unloads
Pieces of his life from every pocket, sets keys
And wallet, and phone upon the side while
Pots and pans steam atop the Aga grange.
Still, backlit, next to twisted-copper bodies.
The sculptures on their plinths spill out the door
And hide amongst the courtyard trees.
Oiled canvas stretched tight in frames
Catches the vibrant rainbow light and gleams.
And when the clients leave he shuts up shop-
Flips the switch to kill all window light,
Removes his navy suit jacket top.
Packs away the board and signs and
Behind him shuts the iron gate, with padlock.
Now, crouched among the shells of silent cars,
Greasy insides laid out across the concrete yard,
He is bent with shoulders hunched and cap askew
Beneath a bonnet that salutes the orange sky.
We call his name and he straightens with a creak,
Smears oily hands across beige thighs,
Folds his hat into a pocket at the rear,
And cracks a smile that creases up his eyes.
He stamps his sturdy boot clad feet
Against November wind and leaves behind
A fairytale breadcrumb trail of brown
Muddy snowflake piles, so deep.
Later, at the chime, we open up our scarlet door
To find him standing with proffered wine.
Stood at the bright white island he unloads
Pieces of his life from every pocket, sets keys
And wallet, and phone upon the side while
Pots and pans steam atop the Aga grange.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Literary festival, Ghosts and Other Stories (lots of balls in the air)
Am currently staying with mother in Dorset, where there is the Bridport Literary festy in full swing, plus am trying to do lots of other things all at once and feeling a bit swamped...
Managed to organise myself some extra time for my assignment which is good, but my work for the exercises and my learning log has gone a bit askew- for Assignment 1 I worked steadily and methodically on each exercise in order, and wrote frequently in my learning log/ had regular updates on here. This time around I have done lots of notebook work for each exercise and half completed things here and there whilst barely touching my learning log. Hmm, slapped wrists I know but it's difficult trying to fit all the million and one things I have to do into the day, so this way of working in dribs and drabs seems to fit best at the moment so I guess I shall stick with it.... I shall just endeavour to write here more frequently after each piece of work I do so as not to let it slide. It's just easy to push the Learning Log part of the course to the bottom of my to-do list as it seems more important to spend time on the actual writing part of it...
Also, another distraction adding to my list is a ghost story that I am currently working on alongside my course work. Discovered a 'Halloween themed' competition in the Telegraph newspaper- a 2000 word ghost story due in by November 20th. Am trying to link it in to my current coursework by using some of the same characters/ scenes so that it will be relevant to this assignment. It is going ok so far, have written about 1000 words already but I feel that the story is not developing quick enough to be finished in the word limit. Think I need to possibly re-think the storyline....
In terms of where I am in the course- have been gathering notes on my mum's boyfriend Chris, for the poetry part of the assigment and have just begun drafting down the bones of a poem using them although I think it will need some amount of redrafting before it is usable.
Have also been thinking about the final submission for this assignment as well- which character that I want to write about the most and I keep changing my mind, am now thinking maybe I will take the poetry route about a number of different characters? Anyway, I shall keep trying things out and report back soon. Over and out...
Managed to organise myself some extra time for my assignment which is good, but my work for the exercises and my learning log has gone a bit askew- for Assignment 1 I worked steadily and methodically on each exercise in order, and wrote frequently in my learning log/ had regular updates on here. This time around I have done lots of notebook work for each exercise and half completed things here and there whilst barely touching my learning log. Hmm, slapped wrists I know but it's difficult trying to fit all the million and one things I have to do into the day, so this way of working in dribs and drabs seems to fit best at the moment so I guess I shall stick with it.... I shall just endeavour to write here more frequently after each piece of work I do so as not to let it slide. It's just easy to push the Learning Log part of the course to the bottom of my to-do list as it seems more important to spend time on the actual writing part of it...
Also, another distraction adding to my list is a ghost story that I am currently working on alongside my course work. Discovered a 'Halloween themed' competition in the Telegraph newspaper- a 2000 word ghost story due in by November 20th. Am trying to link it in to my current coursework by using some of the same characters/ scenes so that it will be relevant to this assignment. It is going ok so far, have written about 1000 words already but I feel that the story is not developing quick enough to be finished in the word limit. Think I need to possibly re-think the storyline....
In terms of where I am in the course- have been gathering notes on my mum's boyfriend Chris, for the poetry part of the assigment and have just begun drafting down the bones of a poem using them although I think it will need some amount of redrafting before it is usable.
Have also been thinking about the final submission for this assignment as well- which character that I want to write about the most and I keep changing my mind, am now thinking maybe I will take the poetry route about a number of different characters? Anyway, I shall keep trying things out and report back soon. Over and out...
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