Love Hurts (especially at Halloween)

As I write this the randomly creeping floorboards in my house are making my chest pound more than usual, no doubt because my mind has been contemplating all things spooky tonight in anticipation of tomorrow. What better theme for a writing meet on 31st October than Halloween? Well that would be far too straight forward for the Leeds Savages, so instead we went for the potentially related, but also far broader, 'Love Hurts'.

My main effort has definitely jumped on the seasonal wagon; hope you enjoy it....


'Love Hurts'


Last night I met a vampire,
He said his name was Fred,
He declared that I made his heart race,
I said 'how does that work when you're dead?'
He asked me if I'd join him
And bed down in his lair,
I replied 'But you live in a grave, mate!'
He cried 'But the last one didn't care!'
'Well let me take you out somewhere nice to eat,
Just nowhere with garlic or stakes;
Otherwise time and venue are of your choosing my dear,
As long as we're home before the day breaks.'
Other girls may have fallen for his charm,
But I'm really not that kind,
I'm not wooed by such textbook seductions
And I don't believe that love is blind.
Whilst he failed in his effort to commit a crime of passion,
His cape was so 1880 it was a crime against fashion
I rolled my eyes at the cliched old charmer's show
And replied 'Fangs for the offer, but I'm afraid it's a no.
Then I turned on my heels and said 'Your place or mine?'
To the far edgier offspring of Frankenstein



Although the piece above is the most fun and enjoyable thing that I've written this fortnight, I did also attempt another poem on the same theme with an effort to steer away from the standard rhyming conventions that I enjoy but which aren't always everyone's cup of tea.... This is the result as it currently stands; not 100% happy with this but here goes...


Friday Night

Strike once, strike twice, strike flame springs to life
Light bursts, flickers, dances
Across magnolia walls
One by one the candles lit
Paint romance by numbers, picture perfect
Proud magazine spread seduction
Turn on the soft music, arrange the gas station roses
Already beginning to wilt
A spritz of scent
Pillows plumped, chalices filled
I sit back and wait for you
On best crystal glass, fingers tap
Mark each second's passing
Minutes slowly tick by til the cup runs dry
Another hour, slower still; and the second heads the same way
I embrace familiar numbness, wax drips a scar on the floor
As they begin to burn out one by one
And when the music stops and
The last dance has clearly passed
I blow the night away; nothing left but smoke
And the darkness to which I retire
Who knows how long passes before I feel your warmth
Finally pressed, familiar but cold, to my side
And as your arm wraps round me, I am cut by the words I hear
'You could have made more effort my dear'

'Call my Bluff'

The theme of this week's writing group was 'Bluff'. Unfortunately I won't be attending the actual meeting due to the ravages of what seems to be the world's most persistent cold, however I did manage to put together a quick little poem on the topic...

CALL MY BLUFF

When I told you that I didn’t care
I was really just calling your bluff
You should know by now what we guys are like
When it comes to love and all that stuff
Sometimes it seems like a weakness
To admit to falling so hard
For once that truth has been laid bare
You’ve dealt your final card
Far better to act a bit nonchalant
Far wiser to play it cool
Follow your head instead of your heart
And you’ll never be anyone’s fool
So that’s why I pretended not to notice
When you flicked your hair in that way
Why I tried not to rise to the challenge of
Those seductive games you’d play
When you suggested we talk about ‘feelings’
I’d rather stick on Match of the Day
Preferred to focus on 22 men in short shorts
Than face up to what you might have to say
When you questioned where I thought we were going
My shrugs didn’t give the slightest clue
That inside I was screaming, you need not question at all
That I’d go to the ends of the earth for you
So it’s no surprise that you tired of the silent approach
Weren't won over by my master plan
But I’ll never forget those last words as you walked out the door
Be less of a bloke - and more of a man
Now I wait in the hope that one day I'll find
That you were really just pretending
Tell me two can play the bluffing game
And raise me a happy ending

An Argument / Waiting for Spring

For the most recent writing group meetings I've been turning my pen to poetry. Here's my contributions for the themes 'Argument' and 'Waiting for Spring'; as ever all feedback very welcome...

AN ARGUMENT

Sage advice given to us long ago

By one of those ostensibly perfect pairs

“Never go to bed on an argument;” they said
“And if you’ve problems, be sure to share.
Now we’re here and there’s been not a sole angry word
No voices raised, certainly no punches thrown
But laid back to back a deafening silence reigns
Mere inches apart, yet completely alone.

The gentle murmurs of semi sleep
Your heartbeat keeping time
Slow and steady its constant pace
Next to the anxious race of mine.
And I wish I knew where your thoughts go each night
When the whirring cogs of your dreamtime are turning
Could creep into your skull and know once and for sure
Whether the flame I once lit is still burning.

No union is impenetrable
It’s not rare to grow apart
Yet how can we already have reached our end
When we’ve barely passed the start?
You just go through your routines; flannel, teeth, bed
Then slip taciturn under the sheet
Telling me all that I need to know
Through the distance of your heat.

We lived by the advice passed on years ago

By a seemingly perfect pair
But I wish we’d gone to bed on an argument
For at least there’d be some passion there.

WAITING FOR SPRING

One by one russet leaves fall

Cast away on autumns chill
Night consumes day; memories slip
Further and further from reach
And the sun barely tries - she knows her place
When arrogant winter cracks its whip
And I am still, anaesthetized
As frost dances over my skin
Numb is my natural state, these days
So long since I felt anything at all
That I revelled in the simple touch
Of a comfortingly familiar other
So long it seems since I lived a life led
By trusting heart not fearing head
Bathing in the light of those eyes
That used to bathe on me.

The certainty of the seasons has gone
Green shoots seem an impossible dream
How could anything possibly grow
When frost permeates so deep?
Yet through it all; the longest nights,
The challenge of the cruellest days
You are there, not even caring
If your promises fall on deaf ears
Fertile friendship grows stronger yet
In the darkest, most bleak of times    
Telling me there’s no point in dwelling
On that taken, but embracing the given
Whole world spread out, an infinite road
A new life to begin living
A once creative mind begins to stir
To awake from hibernation

And suddenly the clouds disperse
And I look to your smiles and it’s clear
I’ve spent so long waiting for spring
Yet summer’s already here.

A couple of poems

I've not been writing much in the way of short stories recently -whether this is due to a lack of time, the absence of inspiration or sheer laziness isn't quite clear.... Probably a combination of all of the above.

I have however written a number of poems for writing group tasks - here's a couple which were inspired by the topics 'Before and After' and 'Invisible'.


BEFORE AND AFTER

Before
 
The sun shone down
In an illusion of summer
A cool coastal breeze caressing bare arms
Palm to palm, fingers fused
No words.

Silent communication
From smile to smile
Knowledge shared, perfect understanding
This is it, you, me, us
Forever.
 
Airplane trails in the sky
The distant sound of children’s laughter
A discordant ice cream symphony
Other lives, other worlds
Spinning round
 
But I am here with you
In this time, in this place
Cocooned in the safety of impenetrable belonging
In your certain presence
In your certain love
Nothing can touch me
 
After
 
As a handful of ash
Thrown to the wind
Questioning all I held true
Alone in thoughts I stumble through
Darkness
 
Where did it go
That faith once held
The certainty of the seasons
Rebirth, light, life; consumed by endless winter
 
Separate souls spiral
In opposite directions
No longer recognising myself
Through the fractured mirror
Mapped with cracks
 
The sun still shines down
An illusion of summer
The cruel April breeze stings as I see
Palm to palm, fingers fused
You and her



INVISIBLE

Futures mapped only upward
Or treading a steadfast linear path
Through a blinkered lens they do not see
The cracks in the pavement beneath

Or comprehend how easy it is to fall

To a place where neither routine nor ritual holds
The alarm clock without dominion
The night without comfort

Unseen, unrecognised

Hers is an inconsequential existence
Not observed, never documented
Days pass without words

On the town hall steps symmetrical smiles

Embrace the beginning of a journey
Wellwishers wave them off
To that uncertain destination

Unnoticed she glides between

Picks the confetti off the floor

Each scrap, each token placed
Into the crumpled carrier bag that swings from her arm
Next to yesterday’s news.

'The Letter' #fridayflash

Something quite different to my usual contributions, an ultra-short piece of writing inspired by a Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writers group task.


THE LETTER
As she recoiled at the acrid taste of the glue, she reflected on how the letter, in its physical form, was a sadly dying breed. A generation of young lovers were now exchanging ‘billet doux’ instantly through the air, the romance historically borne of distance and separation lost now that constant, instant communication was available to all. In this digital age poetic expression had been replaced with acronyms unintelligible to anyone over the age of 30, and the missive was sealed not with a kiss but with a smiley emoticon.

She folded over the flap and ran her finger along it firmly. The words within this envelope were not for sharing on a blog or tweeting to the world. They were not words to be read on a screen in impersonal Times new roman, size 12 print, but thoughts brought to life on paper, their meaning conveyed not just through the juxtaposition of characters and spaces but through the smudged imperfection of a manuscript speckled with tears.

She carefully placed the envelope in the middle of the open hearth. For a few seconds it sat there untouched, flames dancing around it but making no mark. Then the crackling tongues of fire wrapped themselves around the corner of the envelope, consuming the paper with ravenous hunger. She watched as the name that she had lovingly inscribed disappeared, sucked up the chimney with the other fragments, a memory to be carried on the wind.

Home #fridayflash

An attempt at something a bit different from me - a story of love and loss...

HOME

Although the sign outside the entrance read ‘Sunningvale Retirement Home’, there was, in my opinion, nothing homely about the place. Home, to me, is a place where you feel comfortable and welcome; where you lay down roots, where history is written. Sunningvale on the other hand seemed not so much a home as a waiting room for those awaiting a vacancy in that eternal abode in the sky. The residents seemed happy enough, content with the sub-school dinner meals and seemingly oblivious to the pervasive smell – an unpalatable combination of over-cooked vegetables, industrial cleaning products and decay. Fellow visitors on the other hand seemed to share my agitation. Although I feel bad for admitting as much, every second I was there was usually spent thinking about how much I wanted to leave.


Some days she would just lie in bed, not even acknowledging I was there. On this day however she was sat upright, chatting animatedly with one of the carers. Although the carer turned and greeted me, she did not stop talking – probably recounting some random story to the poor girl for the thousandth time. If I had a pound for each time I had heard the one about the time she met the Duke of Edinburgh then I’d be able to take early retirement. Not that I’d want to if, as the tagline says, Sunningvale is the best that retirement living has to offer.

I took a seat and started to mentally prepare a shopping list for my weekly shop. Beef, pasta...

"I remember it as if it were yesterday, although these wrinkled hands tell me that it must have been long ago as I was just a girl then.”

....eggs, milk, bread. My train of thought broke as I realised that this wasn’t one of the usual yarns.

“The boy in the graveyard - oh, he was the most perfect thing I had ever seen in my seventeen years! I had noticed boys before, of course, but I'd never experienced such a sensation. When he nodded to me it was as if I was frozen to the spot; I wanted so much to speak to him but I had been struck dumb. I wanted to give myself to him; I had never felt more certain of anything, but before we had the chance to meet again the war came and that boy and the rest of his generation went away. All the time he was gone I thought about him and wondered if he had a girl back home. I wrote dozen of letters that were never mailed; I didn't even know his name, just that he had the most wonderful blue eyes and dark hair, and had been placing lilies on the grave of Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938.

The war ended and the village threw a huge celebration for the lads returning, all bunting, singing and tears. There were tears of joy for the men who had returned, though I dare say that on the inside many of them were very different to the boys they had been when they left. Tears of sorrow too, for those who had not come back and never would. I however didn’t cry at all - how could I possibly explain mourning someone to whom I had never spoken?

Months passed and life continued as usual. Although I was not a regular churchgoer, at Christmas my mother begged me to accompany her to mass. Afterwards, whilst mother was milling around with friends in the congregation, I slipped outside for some air. It was then that I noticed a new marble headstone next to Mrs Lucille Portman, devoted wife and mother, 1887-1938. I moved closer until I could trace with my fingertips the engraved text that read ‘Samuel Portman, beloved son of Edward and Lucille Portman, 1922-1944’. In that instant the dreams that had occupied my every thought for the past five years died. I was a woman now, and had to put my girlish fantasies behind me and get on with my life in much the same way as the thousands of grieving war widows. In a way it was even worse for me though - at least they had known the love of their men; I was left with nothing except the memory of him here, in my heart.”

She leaned closer towards the carer, as if to impart a secret.

“But do you know what? I carry him with me to this day.”

Choked, I rose from the chair. She looked at me with confusion.

“Who are you?”

She hadn’t recognised me for months but the clarity with which she had recounted the story she had kept locked inside for over sixty years had made me hope that today would somehow be different. As tears flooded from me the carer gently took my shaking hand and steered me back to the seat. The old memories, so I’m told, last the longest; it was time to accept that the fifty years that we had shared was probably irretrievably erased from her mind.

“Now, Emily, this is Lucy. Your daughter.”

Her face showed nothing, not a flicker of recognition. I continued regardless.

“Mum, its me. Lucy. I was just thinking, would you like to come home with me tonight? The bed is made up ready.”

She shook her head.

“But it must be lonely, here by yourself;" I persisted. "If you come with me I’ll be there to keep you company, and your grandchildren might even pop by?”

“I’m not by myself, love.” She paused and touched her chest. “Did you not hear me? I’ve got Samuel here. “

At the time I had no inkling that that would be the final time that I would see my mother alive, yet in retrospect its seems as if, having spent her entire life teaching and guiding me, the story she shared that day was actually meant as a final lesson. Before then I’d always dismissed the expression ‘Home is where the heart is’ as nothing more than a mawkish sentiment reserved for tea towels or cushion covers. But home, I now understand, is not four walls, a garden, a picket fence, but the destination towards which my mother’s whole life was headed, when her heart would finally be fulfilled. Under the sycamore tree barely one hundred yards from where Samuel Portman has waited for her for all these years, my mother now sleeps in peace, and I myself find peace knowing that she is home at last.