That Special Someone

At first, like everyone who's been before, you succumb to her. You don't quite know how she does it, but there is something about her that makes you feel special,  needed, central to her concerns. Perhaps it is the softness of her speech that soothes your soul. Or the tilt of her head as she listens intently to your every word. Or is it the sincerity of her response to you - the way she makes you feel she's always on your side, the two of you against the world?

Other people, older and wiser than you, warn against her wiles. They point out the ways she has misled them in the past. They tell you tales of  broken promises, of roads to heaven paved with wilful deceptions. The lies built on so many lies that  truth is a long forgotten concept, buried deep beneath the ground. But you don't believe them. You won't believe them. How could you imagine that those wide brown eyes might be deceiving you? Or think her gentle voice is really full of guile?

It is only when your paths begin to diverge that the doubt creeps in. The moment you express an alternative point of view you detect a hardening tone of voice, a narrowing of her eyes. For months she has had you wrapped up warmly safe from bitterness and cold, but now you begin to sense a chill is in the air. Still you won't admit your fault. You don't want to admit your fault. Till even you begin to catch the faint criticism lingering behind her words of praise and your faith begins to weaken, your eyes to open.

It takes the arrival of the neophyte for you to finally succumb. To allow the truth to rise from the depths where it has lain buried under so many lies and broken promises. Your fall from grace is as rapid as his ascendancy, as the favours that were once bestowed on you are suddenly granted elsewhere. You try to warn him, but he doesn't listen. You tell him everything, but he doesn't believe you. He won't believe you. How could those wide brown eyes be decieving him, that beguiling voice be misleading him?

There is nothing you can do, except to join the others, older and wiser than you. They warned you once and  though you did not heed their warning they welcome you into their ranks. All you can do is watch and wait for paths to diverge, faith to weaken, eyes to open wide.

Bad Timing - #fridayflash

"I don't think I love you any more."

These are not words a girl wants to hear. Particularly, when the person uttering them is still inside you, and you are experiencing the after-shocks of a deep and satisfying orgasm.

"Then you'd better go." He doesn't move. "NOW." I push him off me. He rolls over to the damp side of the mattress.
"I'm sorry."
"Save it."
"I wish..."
"Just GO."

He makes no further attempt at civilised conversation. Taking me at my word, he climbs out of bed, and grabs his clothes. I bury my head under the pillow so I don't have to look at him. But I can hear the crackle of static as he pulls a T Shirt over the torso that I was just stroking, the sliding of trousers up the legs that were so recently wrapped round my body.

"Bye then." His words penetrate the muffle of the pillow case. If he's looking for a moment of understanding or forgiveness I'm not inclined to give it. I wait till he has left the room before I allow myself to bring my head up to breathe. A sickly smell of sex pervades the room. It makes me gag. The door to the flat bangs. My cue to jump out of bed, run to the toilet and throw up.

I feel better for a second. And then I begin to cry. My body shakes with sobs that seem to surface from deep in my gut. What am I going to do now?

I don't now how long I sit there crying on the cold bathroom floor, my sticky legs rubbing against each other, aggravating my eczema. I do know that when the tears finally subside, and I pull myself up, my face is puffed and blotchy. He used to say I lit up every room. No-one would say that of me now.

The stupid thing is, that I know he is right. He doesn't love me. He never did. And I didn't love him either. We were held together by mutual orgasm and the need for company on a Saturday night. Would it have made a difference if I'd said it first?

I have a shower, get dressed and make myself some toast. It doesn't change anything, so I phone in sick. I put "Casablanca" in the DVD, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle down to watch.

The bedroom will smell of sex for days. The bedsheets will stay stained.

I'm not inclined to clean up just yet.

Blast from the Past #fridayflash

It is all a bit different from her last visit. Way back in the '80's when she was experiencing her summer of love. A personal rebellion against the constraints of South London surburbia - living in exciting sin with Oz in his Liverpool bedsit. A complete success in the appalling-your-parents stakes, made even more so, by her refusal to return home and get a job.  Instead, she and Oz slept all day, and spent the evenings among the pseudo-anarchists he called friends. The men dressed in black trousers and roll-neck jumpers, wore National Health glasses and smoked roll-ups. The women had long dark hair, wore flowing dresses and hennaed tattoos on their arms..They talked till the small hours about the Contra rebellion, the miner's strike, the virtues of free love. And every Thursday, they queued up with the rest of the unemployed in the foyer of the smoked- filled  dimly-lit dole office. The concrete floor was covered in discarded chewing gum, the rug in the corner, marked with cigarette burns. Grey paint peeled from the wall, and the unsmiling staff gave out the weekly cheque from behind reinforced glass. It felt authentic. Real. That they were living the rebellion already.

It's not like that today. Dole in the twenty first century comes courtesy of IKEA. Bright blue sofas adorn the foyer, air-fresh and cleanly-lit with white striplights. The walls are painted pale yellow, the carpet, a soft fawn. The reinforced glass has been replaced by cheery security guards, who take her details and tell her they'll call her for her appointment. She might as well be at the doctors.

Back then, she and Oz convinced themselves they were on the side of the oppressed. Claiming the dole brought them into contact with Thatcher's victims. By opting out of the capitalist labour market, they were refusing to prop up the corrupt system. They were young,  free, in love. They were going to change the world.  Till she came home one afternoon, and discovered Oz practising free love with one of the dark haired anarchistas and realised there was more to life than revolution. She returned to her studies with enthusiasm, graduating, much to the relief of her parents, with a first that propelled her ever upwards.

Until now. It's unreal and unsettling, but here she is. With the redundancy money gone, her savings eaten up by mortgage payments, what choice does she have? She looks around the room, and for the first time, sees her fellow claimants. When she and Oz queued up in the old days, they never thought about the preoccupations of their fellow unemployed. Now, Oz is too busy being a media darling, he wouldn't be seen dead here. It is left to her to look across at the bald man with the bewildered air, and wonder whether he has just lost his job, or has been coming for a while. And is it stereotyping to think that the young mum trying to control her toddler has never had a job?  Or the lads coming in from their quick smoke out the front are boasting about skirmishes with the law? But most of all she wonders about herself. No lover, no parents, no end of degree to fall back on. What is she going to do now?

The security guard calls her name and indicates the lift. Second floor, third desk on the right, Ellen Chapman. She picks herself up with a slight sigh and follows his pointing finger. If this is going to be her life from now on, she'd better get used to it.

#FridayFlash Nobody's Fault

It cain't be my fault. I weren't even there. You cain't blame me. So I made a few off-tha-wall comments. I painted a picture to make ma point. Every right-minded individual knows I weren't serious. T'aint nothing to do with me.

Don't look at me. I'm a teacher,not a social worker. I'm just glad if they make it into school. I can't be held responsible for what they do outside. That's their parents' job isn't it?

How is this my fault? With my slender majority, I can't afford to ignore public opinion. I'm too junior to have a voice. If I speak out on controversial subjects too soon, that's my career down the pan. Besides, it's impossible to legislate for this sort of thing isn't it?

Whatcha  looking at me for? All I did was serve him. I've got a business to run. Gotta feed my family haven't I? I only give the public what they want. What they do with the merchandise after is up to them. So don't you come round here and point that finger at me.

Don't you go saying it's my fault. I gave that boy everything he ever wanted. Love and kindness, all the toys he ever needed, a gun to celebrate reaching manhood. Sure he's spend the last few years in his bedroom in front of the computer. But doesn't every kid? What can you do about it?

Why does everyone always look at me like that? Like I'm a fracking alien? Mum and those bastards at school were always on my case. The politicos pretended to help, but they lied. The Radio Lady was right, Cylons are real. I had to stop them. So I went to the only man I could trust, got what I needed, and hunted them all down. You're too blind to see the truth is'all.

It's not my fault. You can't blame me.

Thanks be to...#fridayflash

It was exactly a year ago that Lovely Husband pointed out the existence of an on-line writing community called #fridayflash. I'd been blogging a few months trying to find other writers to talk to without much success. All that changed when I posted my first #fridayflash on New Year's Day. Within minutes I had a warm welcome and great responses to my work which have continued all year.

It's very easy to be a member of #fridayflash. All you have to do is write up to 1,000 words, log it on the collector here and let the world know via your twitter page. As soon as you do, people come to visit, and always leave a word of encouragement. I've met some great folks, felt completely supported in my writing and more important, the discipline of writing 1,000 words a week has been the best writing class I've ever attended.

#fridayflash has been a bright spot in a very difficult year, so I'd like to raise a glass this New Year's Eve to the very fine writers I have met over the last twelve months. I'm sure I've missed people out, but the list includes Lou Freshwater, Cathy Oliffe, Icy Sedgewick, Simon/Skycycler, Mark Nash, Mazzz in Leeds, Laura Eno, Laurita Miller, David Masters,Tony Noland, GP Ching, John Wiswell and most importantly Jon Strother who came up with the idea and makes it happen week after week.

Thanks to the #fridayflash crowd for a lot of fun, your wonderful stories and the helpful comments you've left me here.

Happy New Year to you all!

#fridayflash Too Close to the Sun

This week's #fridayflash is dedicated to the Our Lady's School Storytelling Club a fine bunch of young storytellers and creative writers led by their inspiring deputy headteacher Mr Edwards-Grundy. This year we've been listening to Greek and Roman myths. The children have then mapped the key points of the story and learnt how to tell them to each other. Here's my version of one of the stories we spent a lot of time on. With many thanks to everyone in the group for their hard work and fabulous creativity. It's such a pleasure to help out.


The sun is high in the sky. It is too far away to see Apollo with his fiery chariot and his flaming horses. Icarus sighs. He wishes he was up there in the heavens, soaring in freedom, not trapped in this tiny tower room with his father. Why did Daedalus have to upset the king so? They should be honoured guests down below where the guards flash red, white and blue as they march up and down the courtyard; gardeners water the olive trees and orange groves; the queen's women shimmer gold and silver on their morning walks. Instead Icarus is forced to watch from the window, as he gathers feathers the birds leave behind on the ledge. His father is collecting them for some strange reason that he has yet to explain. But Icarus is an obedient boy, he picks up the morning offering and brings it back to Daedalus without question.

"Thanks son." His father is crouched in the corner, his back to the grey stone wall. He is sewing feathers together in what looks like an enormous cape. He adds the last few to the bottom and then sits back satisfied. He stands up and lays it on a table next to three others. "Now come here." He picks up a candle and lights it, letting the wax drip from the wick, and build in pools on the base of the candle. "This is going to hurt a bit." He pours molten wax on Icarus's right shoulder, down his arm, and the centre of his back. Icarus yelps with pain.  His father ignores him but quickly picks up one of the feather capes and sticks it onto the wax. The wax hardens and the cape clings to Icarus' back. It is itchy and heavy. Daedalus repeats the procedure on the other side.

"Now do you see?" he says. Icarus moves his arms up and down with wonder. His father has fashioned wings that fan out as he moves his limbs. He helps Daedalus fix his pair and they move towards the window.

"Two pieces of advice before we go," says Daedalus in a stern voice. Icarus nods, but he is only half listening. The ground looks a long way down. Can he trust his father's contraptions to work? He drags his attention back. "Aim for the middle of the sky. Fly too low, and the sea water will spray on your wings, weighing them down, dragging you into the water. Fly too high, and the sun will melt the wax. Did you hear what I said?"

"Not too  high, not to low. Got it."

"Good luck,"  His father pushes him to the edge. "Go, fly. Be free." He shoves him off. Icarus falls forward and sees the ground rushing towards him. The soldiers look up from their marching and scatter at the sight of the boy hurtling in their direction. The gardeners drop their watering cans. The women put their hands over their mouths in horror.

"Spread your wings, Icarus. Spread your wings." Just in time Icarus hears his father's words and spreads his arms out. At once the air currents lift him up. He flaps harder and moves higher, leaving the shouting, open- mouthed guards and astonished women behind. Daedalus dives off the tower to join him. Father and son swoop over the palace, out across the fields towards the sea.

After months confined to the tiny turret, the sheer expanse of sky and sea is a marvel. Icarus thrills to feel fresh air on his face, to be able to stretch his arms and legs. He soars and plunges through the sky. He is young. He is alive. He is free. He laughs with delight.

"Save your energy son," says Daedalus in warning, "It's a long way to go."

Icarus just laughs and leaps above his father's head. The sea stretches ahead of them for miles. The coastline is invisible. Daedalus has a point. The boy flaps his wings and settles into a rhythm. Gradually, Icarus finds his arms beginning to get heavy. A breeze builds up, and he floats for a while. But this brief respite does not last and soon his stiff limbs are forced to move again. On and on they fly, no land in sight, just patches of sea mist, which begins to thicken around them. The air becomes dank and chilly. Icarus shivers. He flies a little higher in an effort to keep warm. The mist swirls about them. He loses sight of his father. Cold drips through his bones. Where is Daedalus? How far now? Perhaps if he can rise above the cloud he can see where he's going. He flies higher, and higher. At last he emerges from the cloud into a blue sky glowing in sunlight. His veins flood with heat, restoring his energy. The coast is approaching. Below him, some distance away he can see his father beating a steady path with his wings. He sighs with relief.

Icarus laughs and soars upwards. He forgets his father's warning. He is drawn towards the smouldering orange sun above him.  Higher, higher and higher he flies. Now he is close enough to see the wheels of Apollo's chariot, the blazing eyes of the horses. He can even see Apollo's gold curly hair and bronzed skin, the concentration on his face as he whips his beasts along, straining in the heat of the fire-ball behind him. Icarus feels his cheeks sizzle and burn. And  something else -  a drip of liquid running down his arm. Then another, and another. Suddenly, he remembers his father's warning. Feathers are falling off him as his wings begin to peel off his body. In terror, he throws himself down, away from the melting heat of the sun. But it is too late. The wax is running over his skin, the wings are falling apart. He hurtles down through the sky, through the sea mist. He calls for his father, but Daedalus is too far to help. The terrified boy plunges down, down, down until he hits the water and is swallowed up by the deep blue waves.

Daedalus flies back to the spot, hoping against hope to see his son's face, an arm, a finger even. The water rises and falls, but there is no sign of the boy. At last, Daedalus feels his wings droop, and he knows if he is to survive, he must fly on to the shore.

He lands on the beach, and stands looking back towards the island. The waves lap at his feet. Across the horizon he can see Apollo's chariot reaching the end of its daily journey. A gull calls out over the darkening sky.  Suddenly he sees a mass floating in the water. His heart leaps for a moment. Then the waves shift and he realises it is simply pieces of broken wings bobbing in the tide. A wave crashes on the beach leaving behind bubbles of sandy foam. And something else. Daedalus stoops to pick it up and sighs.

This is all that is left: a small brown feather, caked in sea foam and marked with spots of red wax.

Brush Strokes.

It's the fiddly bits that get you when painting. The parts between wall and ceiling where you can't rely on your rollers anymore. Where you have to stretch arms, strain your neck, stand on tip toe to ensure your paint brush doesn't fleck the ceiling or corner wall as you attempt a neat finish. A perfect line between purple, white and green. It helps to have a bottle of turps and wet rag handy, ready to wipe away splodges and mis-strokes. You've been doing this for years now, you know the score. Still, these days you come down with lower back ache, sore calves and aching shoulders. You are not as young as you used to be.

Later in the bath, as you sip a glass of wine, you remember watching Jim paint that first house in Blenheim Yard. You were hugely pregnant, happy to watch him as he turned the nursery blue for the boy you imagined you would  have. As he came down from the step-ladder he tripped, knocking the paint which splattered blue stains across the new white carpet. He fell in it, rolling around till his face was covered with blue woad. You laughed, and laughed. You could not stop till your waters broke and the next blue was a flashing light. Jenny was born at three in the morning. You never did have a boy. Perhaps that was part of the problem. And when you arrived home two days later (for these were times when mothers were allowed recovery time) Jim had cleaned the carpet and the walls were perfectly pink.

It was when you moved house to accomodate the expanding family (Alex, two years after Jenny, then Sophie, and finally Emma) that you needed to take up the brush yourself. Jim was too busy earning a crust so you could all eat. You didn't begrudge his trips abroad, the long evenings by yourself. It paid for ballet lessons, drama clubs, school trips. The least you could do when you were alone and the children were sleeping was give the girls' bedrooms the makeovers they deserved. Pink, purple, red. The colours changed with the ages, and the fads they went through. Though you drew the line at black when Sophie and Em went all emo just before they left school.

It's funny, you think, as you get back to the job the next morning,  in all these years, the one room you never got round to was your own. It takes a husband leaving to do that. Now as you finish the final corner, you step down from your ladder and look round with pride. Purple, green and white - suffragette colours.

Life begins.