Tag: Fiction

“This time it will be different, it will, it will, it will.” She repeats her promise over and over, the needle jumping inside her head.

“This time I will be controlled and calm, I’m sure he will notice”, she thinks, “He must notice and if he doesn’t, I will make sure he does!”

She laughs out loud at the thought.

Heads turn, she blushes and turns away to face the window. Outside the rain falls and sparkling droplets race each other down the glass as the sky rolls and roars above.

“How apt” she murmurs.

As the bus slowly winds its way through street after street she revisits her journey. She remembers how each passing footstep changed her view, how every moment brought new understanding and that moment when it all clicked and became real. Achingly, painfully, wonderfully real.

With a sigh she reaches into her bag, digs out her notebook and jots down another idea knowing it may languish there for sometime but feeling better for capturing it. She slowly flicks through the pages, enjoying the memories as they flood into view. She pauses now and then as the turn of a page recalls a moment of magic with such vibrance the rest of the world is whitewashed from existence, another page and the hue changes from white to blue, butterflies explode from the folds.

Here and there she dabs at the pages, flourishing her pen like a quill, embellishing ideas and images, tiny details to tweak the reality held within them. She smiles contentedly.

Lost amongst the fibres and ink, she doesn’t notice the man sitting across from her, studying her, fascinated by her fascination. He watches the corners of her mouth twitch, the casual turn of her wrist as she trails ink across the page. He can’t make out what is written there and decides that he is content that it will remain unknown to him, for now at least.

His eyes watch as she lifts her head, the clouds break overhead and sunlight fills his view. Dazzled for a moment he closes his eyes and, when he opens them, she is gone.

He wonders what she has written, and then reminds himself that his pleasure was in surrendering to the unknown. With a telling smile he reaches down and from the depths of his bag, retrieves his own notebook.

He opens at a fresh page and waits for the words to arrive.

His muscles strain as he tenses against the movement beneath him. His grip remains firm as he shifts his weight slightly, fully immobilising the writhing mass that twitches at his feet.

He looks down with impunity, almost with a sense of pity but he knows what must be done. He has trained a long time for this and is wary of his mentor standing off to onside, quietly observing him and taking in every action, every pause, each calculated pass of the blade.

He reaches down and the blade catches in the sunlight. Freeze frame as suddenly the moment is here and he can see everything, feel everything, sense everything. The gentle breeze that caresses the long grass into soft waves of mesmerising green, the sounds of the forest behind him and his own heart thumping loud in his chest, crashing in his ears, filling his head with a steady rhythm, urging him on.

The first cut is always the most important. Not too deep, but deep enough. It must be at the correct angle, get it wrong now and there is no point going on, as all that is left beyond that are a few amateurish hacks to finish the job as quickly as possible.

No, he must be patient.

He was told it would be this way, that only he would know the moment to start. That only he would be able to judge the exact second in which to make the first cut and that he must not given in to the temptation to start too soon nor buckle under the pressure that he might make a mistake (for there will always be others). He knew too that his time was running out, he’d heard of others who had already taken this step and the talk of their sureness with the blade was starting to spread. He knew that this was his chance, his last chance.

A slow deep breath and, almost without realising, his arm reaches out and the blade hits home, he draws back and across in perfect choreography, and then he is reaching forward again. The blade is sharp and effortless in his hand, his grasp remains true, and soon the wriggling stops as the blade repeats the slashes, over and over, carefully following the patterns he was given.

His mentor watches his face carefully, and with a shallow smile allows himself to relax. He sees a mask of concentration and a steady arm, he follows the delicate dance, the slash and slice of the steel, and knows that his teaching is over.

The young man breathes out, a long deep breath that loosens his shoulders, his arm hesitates in the air as if unsure of what to do next before falling by his side. He straightens and turns as his mentor strides over to him, beaming as only a proud father can.

“Well done lad, you got the entire thing off in one piece!!” he bellows, slapping his son hard on the back.

His son releases his grip and they both turn to watch as the freshly shorn sheep bounds back to join his flock.

Adrift. Floating in an empty space. Colour fills the horizon, seeping into the space below, sinking deeper and merging with black.

The subtle rhythm of the music, the staccato beat fills the room. Repetition on repetition, frequency and tone, key in maintaining the moment. Syncopated change fluctuates the air and the colours swirl once more, the room spins back into being whilst retaining a distance, smoked glass and dull mirrors.

Lost in fragments of time, seconds are hours, minutes become seconds. The colours blur, space bends and the contours are rubbed smooth with the resonance of the sound in the air. Animal cries punctuate each instance, a moment scattered and regained. Carnal, base utterances added to the cacophony and once more dark fades to white, the light blue of the sky above, clear, vivid, pinsharp.

Each emotion, each instant is beautiful, locked in memory. Their eyes meet and know it to be true, all of this and more, each nerve ending tingles as they spark off each other. Electric, alive, one.

Again, everything shimmers and returns to dull normality. The sounds and smells remain but the light has dimmed, and as it fades everything is restored. Everything is just how it was left, yet everything has changed. Once again it is over.

Leaving now, contemplative and sullen, quietly content and sated. Until the next time when everything will change again, every action and sliver will twist and bend, ready to take on a new form. A singularity bonded from the motions, the writhing mass responding as one. A unique bond, a tie that will hold against the tide of discontent, against the maelstrom that will always rage.

The sky slowly darkens as the sun dips behind the clouds and the windows of the plane slide to grey. Whisps of air stream past, chasing droplets across the glass, helter skelter as the plane starts to descend.

The light changes, melting from the dazzling brilliance of moments ago to the dull artificial glow that washes over the life within, and an irregular motion bumps and buffets the plane, pockets of turbulent air enjoy their brief moments of power.

The rows of seats are almost full, the gentle chatter of a hundred strangers fight the mechanical hum, a war of attrition that neither will win. A sudden burst of laughter breaks through but is soon lost, impaled on battlements.

Near the front of the plane sits a young woman. She sits quiet through all of this, contemplative and resolute. She sits upright, deaden to movement. She is Joan of Arc of now, no martyr but divine in her moments. She is powerful yet still, assured and confident, the low tone of her voice resonants authority when she chooses to use it. She knows this full well, she knows the power she holds and she chooses her moments to wield it based on nothing but pure whimsy and focussed vigour.

She thinks ahead to the man that will be waiting for her. The moment their eyes will meet, the last few final steps they will take towards each other, the touch, the kiss, the embrace. A gentle smile creases her lips as her mind slips away into a daydream of what is to come.

At the back of the plane a group of men can be heard, their banter echoing down the cabin. They conform as you would expect, leery with the flight attendants and, with no sense of self, annoying and apologetic to those around them, They are an endless series of in-jokes and nicknames, inane chatter and sudden outbursts. The quiet bully and vicious mockery that they don’t fully understand.

Crouched in their seats, an elderly couple anxiously peer out of the window into the wall of cloud. They hold hands in comfortable silence, aware of each emotion passing between them with no need for words. They force their minds back to their holiday, the strolls along the promenade, the exotic drinks and food, the sun and the dashing youngsters, bronzing on the beach. Anything to take them away from their reality, the terror of falling.

Onward they descend, still in cloud, windows mirroring the transparent opaqueness of the air outside, the changes in light flicker through the cabin dulling everything inside to the soft hues of a dream. Loud voices dull, quiet voices cease and, slowly, silence breaks through the plane. Heads swivel and eyes strain as the passengers unite and turn to query the windows, peering through the grey white world outside, waiting for a view, any view, of something else, something real. Their reflections stare back, and none of them like what they see.

“Inspire me!” he howls. The frustration echoing loud through the room.

“Step away” came the voice, the gentle caress of a whisper, fading almost before it had begun. That cold sheen of silk pulled across skin, comforting yet alien, the voice soothes him once again. Closing his eyes as the colours flow, emotions swirl vivid in technicolour, washing from blue to red, anger to love.

But he will not. He remains there, resolute in his determination. This has worked before and will work again. He will see this through, it’s all he knows, all he can do. The world washes white, then colour floods his view once more.

He is drawn through purple and green, closer still, knowing what he seeks is a fragment beyond his grasp, that translucent clarity will reveal itself in moments. Consumed, it’s all he can consider, totally, willingly focussed. The room slips away from him as he graps and grapples towards his sanity and the tortured salvation he seeks.

Behind his eyes, colours swirl and merge in the raging torrents and deep pools of his mind. Emotions cascade, tumbling through thoughts, eclipsing everything whilst he searches for the light, the release, the answer.

Suddenly, peace. A quiet resonate. He has arrived.

Blinking against the sudden, dazzling light he opens his eyes to a room that dazzles and glows. Quietly the voice rewards him, praises him, comforts him. He smiles, knowing the worst is over for now. One day he will heed the voice, one day he follow and learn more, one day he will step away and be inspired in other ways, he will accept what he didn’t know as true, he will succumb and no longer suffer his way through.

But, for now, he is happy and content. The room tilts back towards normal and with a slow smile he reveals what he knows, offers it up and finally placates her. She quietly approves and relaxes her grip, and as he breathes once more his mind spirals back to the beginning.

White slashed black, curls and lines form and dance, circles and dots wash into view. His fingers furious now, desperate to capture it all, to fill the void.

The words spill and dazzle, inspired by light, daubed in vivid colour.

He relaxes and calm descends.

And he types on.

He wanders through the streets, past the gentle glow of the houses, under dark and slanting drizzle. He has no purpose, no destination, and can barely remember where he started but this is all he knows, this is his life, his motion. He hunches forwards as another car drives past, plucking the droplets clustering on the edge of his hood and shining them like jewels.

His motion is fluid and organic as he ambles over the pavements, lightly stepping on cobbles and kerbs. He has been here before, he knows, been round this place more than once. He knows it well, too well perhaps, but like an old friend he enjoys the comfort it brings, the familiarity that makes it all too easy to slip into this place one more time.

A break in the clouds above and spears of light arrow down and smash into puddles. He pauses, splashed by scattered light, bathing in the warm glow of the rain, capturing every detail that he can. Processing them quickly in a vain hope of capture, knowing that few will remain with him but one or two will penetrate deeply enough to stick. Moments of beauty to add to the collection, fractured and precious he holds them dear. The very phrase echoes of her.

Almost as soon as they part the clouds start again to weave together, a blanket of gloom restored, drenching all beneath it.

Off he goes once more, without direction. Something that is neither required nor sought, instead he trusts he will find his own way. He has been lost before and found his way back.

The streets are quieter now and he fills his head with sound, pulling memories of pain and pleasure (never pleasure and pain) to keep him on track. Other times his head remains empty with nothing but the dull echo of his thoughts to keep him company.