Sunday, 25 March 2012
She fell in love with him because of the poems that he wrote, and she fell out of love with him because of the poems that he didn't write, and in the end it was all the same thing anyway.
He hid the first one in her bag, and when she read it, she smiled and put it back in the envelope, knowing that this was something she would want to keep. She had never been into poetry but when she thought about what it would be like to be a girl who was into poetry, she quite liked that, and when she thought about what it would be like to be a girl who had poems written for her, she liked that even more.
He didn't over-do it, just one now and then, sometimes at a moment when their relationship just needed a little push on. Sometimes just after it had pushed on, to recognise the moment. She'd find a small cream envelope that was hidden but meant to be found, and her breath would catch and she would open it and take out the single sheet of paper, folded once, the fold so sharp you could cut yourself on it. When he wasn't around she would light a candle and read them all again, one after the other.
It all came to an end at a family wedding, with a casual conversation with a cousin. He was studying English at university, she told him that she was getting really into poetry, he asked her who she was reading, she said no-one you'd know, he gave her some recommendations and then the band started playing and they all went to dance. On the way home from the wedding she had time to kill before her train, and she went looking for somewhere to get decent coffee, and next to the place that sold decent coffee was a Waterstones. They only had one of the collections in her cousin had recommended. She bought it to read on the train, and then between two small suburban stations she turned a page, and there it was, that first one, the one that had been hidden in her bag.
She stared at the page for some time without really seeing it. She took her phone out of her bag, but couldn't get a signal so she swore and everyone looked. Then the land dropped away around the track, the signal bars appeared on the screen, and she googled one of her favourite lines, and then another, and then another.
She texted him, and told him to meet her the next day.
He was late, like he usually was. She let him buy her a coffee, although she didn't plan on drinking it. When he sat down opposite her, she opened up her bag and took out a bundle of small cream envelopes. She put them on the table, and slid them across with the tips of her fingers.
"They're not your words," she said.
He looked down at the envelopes, then back at her. He liked to think of himself as pale and interesting, but he was flushed red now.
"And if they're not...." She got up, pushed her chair back under the table and walked away.
Posted by Iain at 10:15
Saturday, 24 March 2012
If you like short fiction, and you like music (and if you don't, what the hell are you doing here?), then check out Neil Schiller's excellent 7" fiction project. Original post here, first B-side here, an update here, and a new A-side here.
Come back to 52 Songs, 52 Stories tomorrow for the next week's story - this one inspired by a Tricky song.
Come back to 52 Songs, 52 Stories tomorrow for the next week's story - this one inspired by a Tricky song.
Posted by Iain at 11:35
Sunday, 11 March 2012
He first saw the hands when he crossed the iron bridge over the river. The whole arch of the bridge had been wrapped in sheets of white plastic for months, while it was repainted. Barker thought that it looked like a giant piece of modern art, or maybe an over-sized wedding present.
It was late November, and dark by four o’clock. He was on his way to a meeting on the company’s riverside site and had decided to walk as part of his strategy for losing weight and becoming fit enough to do other things that he had not yet decided upon. The wind stole in from the sea along the black river and tugged at Barker as he trudged along the footpath. There were a couple of women walking in front of him, and there was no room for him to get past so he had to reduce his pace and walk behind them. This made him feel uncomfortable, as if any minute they were about to turn around and look at him as if he were stalking them.
To solve his dilemma he took a great interest in the bridge, even though all that there was to see were great white sheets of plastic, flapping and rattling in the breeze, the name of the contracting company printed on them in blurry blue letters. Every now and then the end of a scaffolding pole jutted out, and high up a frayed blue nylon rope had come adrift, and danced about in the window like a snake chasing its prey, first this way, then that. High up, from the top of the bridge, a pale white arm waved down at Barker.
A torn piece of plastic, he thought, or another loose rope. It did look very much like an arm though, waving at him with a sense of purpose, not a greeting but an urgent beckoning. He laughed to himself, feeling foolish, and immediately choked the laugh off in case the women heard him. When the pavement opened out at the end of the bridge Barker scuttled past the women and kept up his faster pace until he was well beyond them. He wanted to look back at the bridge again, to see if the flapping plastic on the top still looked like an arm from this new angle, but he did not want to be stupid so he just walked on until he reached the pedestrian crossing, and by that time he was too far away to see.
The meeting meandered on in an over-hot room, and Barker felt the beginnings of a headache. He contributed once or twice to show that he knew his stuff, and then sat back in his chair, and drifted. He thought about someone trapped on the top of the bridge, unable to move, pinned by fallen scaffolding, voice snatched away by the wind, able to do nothing other than wave desperately, up here, look up here, come up here, help me. Perhaps later that night the arm would stop waving and simply hang limply, above the world, unseen by everyone who passed. It wasn’t the arm of one of the workmen who had been painting the bridge though - it wasn’t an arm at all, Barker reminded himself – it was too thin, too pale.
The meeting finished well after six, and Barker was tired and hungry, so he caught the bus back into town, bought a fried chicken takeaway to bring home, and ate most of it before he got to his front door. On the bus he had looked idly up at the bridge but it was raining, and the windows were a mosaic of water and dirt. He could not see anything much, and then they were into the long white tunnel inside the bridge.
That night he woke, tangled in his blankets, from a dream of fingernails tapping on his window. He turned over and pulled the sheets around him, annoyed that he would be tired at work the next day because he hadn't bothered pruning the branches of the apple tree. It was when he woke again an hour later, this time for no reason, that he remembered that he had cut the tree back only a month before. He threw back his blankets to go and look, then thought to himself that it was stupid, he would sort it out in the morning. But he knew that it was one of those thoughts like had he left the heating on, had he locked the door, had he left the tap running in the bath, and he would not be able to get back to sleep if he ignored it. Barker stumbled out of bed, walked across to the window, and drew back the curtain. The branches of the apple tree shivered in the wind a foot or more away from the glass. There was a full moon, and the night sky was unnaturally bright, as if someone were training a searchlight upon it, marbled streaks of cloud racing from darkness into light and then into darkness again. Barker let the curtains drop and climbed back into bed where he slept fitfully until morning.
He walked to work the usual way, down through the tree-lined avenue of graceful Victorian houses, past the sprawling secondary school, along the street of decaying Victorian terraces now turned rented flats and student accommodation. The path banked down low at the end of this street, and ran alongside the dual carriageway that was choked with cars as usual. Halfway along the path, not long before he reached the dull slab of his office, a concrete underpass tunnelled beneath the wide road to reach the flats on the other side. As he walked past that morning he glanced to the side, as he always did. He disliked underpasses and subways, felt claustrophobic and nervous whenever he had to walk through them, always thought about muggers and gangs of truculent youth even though he had never been bothered by either. The underpass was the same as always. Cream painted concrete, covered in graffiti that would be painted over within a year and then back again within a week. Flickering fluorescent lights that gave the air a chill blue cast. An emptiness that was threatening, waiting, the way the world felt just before a storm breaks. And at the far end, where the light of day spilled down onto the bottom of the steps out, from round the corner, a pale arm waving.
Barker walked on, stopped, pretended to look in his pocket as if he had forgotten something. It gave him an excuse to look back along the path. No-one was there to witness him acting strangely. He walked back down towards the mouth of the underpass and then stopped again. This was foolish. He turned to walk away but is curiosity got the better of him.
“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, and took two long strides and looked down the underpass. There was nothing at the other end.
“See?” he said to himself. “Fucking waving. Fucking idiot.” He stomped off to work, and was in a bad mood all morning because despite whatever he might say to himself he had seen something there, waving. By lunchtime though he had managed to successful transfer the blame onto his sleepless night. As he passed the dark mouth of the underpass he pointedly stared straight ahead, refusing to look to the side, and almost walked straight into an elderly woman who had just come out of the tunnel. The shock made him jump, and even though he apologised he wanted to swear at her, tell her that she ought to look where she was going. A double decker bus rattled past ten feet above them, sending a cloud of stinking diesel exhaust drifting down, and as it drove away into the night and he walked down the path in the same direction, something moved in the back window of the bus, and Barker looked away down at the wet pavement and did not look up again until he was home.
He dreamt again that night, and woke sweating and sick. But he couldn't remember what his dreams had been about. The next morning he had the same thing for breakfast he did every day, dressed in his usual clothes for work, and walked the same route. This time, he looked down the underpass. There was nothing, and then there was something, a pale wave. He wasn't so sure it was an arm any more, wasn't so sure that it ended in a hand, but it waved to him, a gentle beckoning. He thought about being late for work, about going to the doctors instead, but he turned into the underpass, knowing that he always was going to anyway. The pale arm waved once more and then withdrew.
Barker walked through the underpass, and the sound of the traffic above him dropped. The air felt very still, like just before a storm. He got to the end of the tunnel, and as he turned the corner, the arm came forward, and then another, and then another, and the arms took him and drew him deep inside. His last thought was of a sea anemone that he had seen in an aquarium as a child, graceful tentacles waving in the currents, waiting, waiting.
Posted by Iain at 18:06
Sunday, 4 March 2012
(These Days: Nico)
He fell in love with every woman that he saw, but it was not the women he loved, just the idea of them. He loved them because they remained an open question, not something pinned down by routines of leaving things out or putting things away and turns to do things and arguments and that moment when you start to notice other people again.
So he fell in love with them all, one by one or several at a time. Sometimes he would steal a casual glance across the train carriage, or just before they passed one another on the pavement, and eyes would meet, the same quick glance even quicker averted. On his good days he thought that it was because they had seen something in him, but on his bad days, which were much more often, he thought that they were probably just wondering who that pervert was who was staring at them, and whether he would follow them, and if he did how quickly they could get help.
Even on a good day, his optimism only lasted until he caught sight of his reflection in a window, and then the thoughts of ifs and maybes and possibly perhaps all melted like snowflakes on a warm car and it was back to a bad day again, and crossing the road so that they wouldn't think that he was following them.
Sometimes he wondered if he was being too harsh on himself. He looked back at photos of when he was younger, and the girls on his arm dressed up for parties, cuddling into him grinning on the deck of a cross-channel ferry, lying in the snow making angel shapes, they were all a good catch by any standards. Way above his league, but it happened all the same even if he didn't know quite how. Most of them had come to him, made their moves when they tired of waiting for him to move first. He must have had something then, even when the flattery of the drink and the drugs were taken into consideration. He'd be buoyed by these memories, briefly, and then would crash down again into dull despair when he stood and stared at himself in the mirror and knew that they belonged to another time.
Whatever it was, it was gone.
He looked different now, older and tired, but that wasn't it because he hadn't been what you could call handsome even when he was young and luckier in love. No, he decided. It was nothing to do with looks. Inside him, a spark had gone out. He did not know when, because he had not noticed its passing, but it was gone and that was all that mattered. He told himself that he should accept this and get on with his life, but as with most things he ignored himself, so every day he fell in love again with Schrodinger's women. With each new face there was the chance of something happening, and as long as he didn't try too hard to find out, he could keep believing that.
Posted by Iain at 10:57