Girl on a bridge

(written a little while ago with a female narrator, something I try occasionally)

Summer time beats up lives, and consequences spread far beyond autumnal fall. The heat, the laziness, the empty time, all too tempting, days galloping into others, no boundaries of occupation or study, no barriers to emotions, no decorum. But maybe just dulce et decorum est mori.

He found me whiling away life in a coffee shop of no repute, serving capricious cappuccinos and  lecherous lattes to smooth-leering son-of-bitches, lazing louchely in chairs, cigarettes suggestive, gold chains goading, eyes tracing legs and rears like hunters at a waterhole.  Tapping tabletop with platinum card he beckoned, no words, a glance at cold gritted remains deep engrained in a cup. I smiled, wondering what dust he inhaled at night on that card.

His eyes crawled after me, felt their way up stockinged legs, across bloused top and I shudder where else. The tip beneath the saucer suggested caffeine was not the only stimulant he sought. Tucking it discreetly, knowing he watched afar, grin growing at the little girl gratified, I ran a hand through locks of auburn light and walked unturning.

Expresso became lunch, light and oiled, refusing service unless me. Dodging withering words mouthed by fly-by-night waitresses, I attended attentively, drawn by eyes and attitude, and money and freedom. A wrist caught signified stakes updated, long fingers encircling skin and bone, a clasp of ownership.

Eyes met; mine questioned, his laughed.

A finger unwound, grazed hairs, electrifying erotica. Eyes remained; mine unsure, his demanding. Hand slid up, curling under elbow, drawing down, no resistance encountered.

Eyes burned; mine curious, his victorious.

Words whispered, swarming inside my ear, twisting and seducing, curling up at home. Releasing, he knew the answer, before me, as I moved violated yet beguiled.

Returning relentlessly, his table my world, each visit vicarious, each order a slice off my life. Hands clasped, fingers resting on hips, arms encasing shoulders, my personal space became his, my time bought, my freedom confined.

An evening stroll, warm breeze humming with hubris, he promised his world; travel tantalising on heated horizons, clothes wardrobed along streets of couturiers, villas visualised reflected in Mediterranean blue. I fought sense and sensibility; and lost, lost in a world unknown, a world portrayed in magazine gloss, a heart smothering worries, a summer long odyssey of love’s many ports beckoning.

Crossing the bridge, from my world to his, my Rubicon step one late simmering evening, I met his stare, breathed in the embrace, intoxicated with worship. The path walked on, deeper to his sphere, no villa unveiled, no yacht’s yawl bobbing, no jewels jousting in fingers. Darker the wood, my heart shrank back, lifting the layered rose-tint. I felt his hands true at last, the touch severe, the skin coarse, the rapid throb of veins beneath.

Querying the quest, his eyes turned, honed for violence, pretence pretentious, grip swung sharp. I fell, as deception fell away too, a victim awaiting.

Now I sit upon the bridge, the prodigal returned, unsure if innocence can be re-won, bloodied stone resting in deep depths beneath, cast off like my foolishness, resting wet and cold, as he does, under a tree, life-blood feeding the earth.

 

 

Music to write by – 4

 

Listening to the beautiful voice of the beautiful Amy Lee is the perfect way to find inspiration for writing. Especially if you writing is on the dark or melancholy side. I rediscovered Evanescence while working on my novella set in 1950s America and their music fitted perfectly with the main character’s worldly mood. Check them out, and in particular watch videos of their live performances – even better than their recorded music!

Dark cradle

(a poem I wrote a few years ago)

Dark cradle

Sombre lullabies enwrap the latticed air,
Long laced fingers rock and hold,
Purple painted lips like ice kiss and recite,
Pleading cries matriarchally soothed by hushing cold breath;
Mascara dripping eyes bleed love,
Tears drip,
drip,
drip,
Time’s unending pendulum;
Dust grimed drapes float ruffled,
Mobiles of ne’er seen imps twirl and dance,
Shadowed room creaks with history unwritten.

The black frocked baby gurgles,
And candlelight flickers with fear.

“Come now, little one, fear not the light.”

 

Hung words

 

My sword thrusted, point piercing mid-way the word ‘TRUST’ which hung taunting across the path. The ‘u’ mewed, tears seeping onto dry ground parched by years of the antonym. Each drop reformed, reared and roared a date, a time, a lover. Sounds pierced the outer coating of my shield, stuck darted on layered wood and leather, each forcing a back step in the slow stride of my denial.

Slashed right and left, letters tumbled without meaning across the musty air, voices escaping from nicked sides and surfaces, each whispering accusations and Siren symphonies of desire and deceit. Names cascaded across years, places, times, excuses, all timetabled in linear formation, each stabbing through armour to draw my guilt in coughed confessions.

The path steepened, with fogbanked slopes treacherously entreating mis-steps. Five letters swung back and forth, hide and seeking through the gloom, ‘BLAME’ pendulumed with teasing tautness, red flames of embarrassment letter licking. Shield raised to block the blaze of an accusing sun I pressed on, a single manned phalanx. Heat seared through, burning black my faults. But remember, she did not talk, she did not give time, she did not make the efforts demanded of a shared life. I pierced the ‘B’, shredding the double curves, leaving ‘lame’ a mocking commentary on my own excuses.

A soft glancing blow, a caressing killer rested on my shoulders heavyweighted with weary worries self-inflicted, ‘TOUCH’ featherlight alighted, wrapped around a body shivering to loosen itself from feared intimacy after the bed-bounced closeness of another forbidden love. I parried open-bladed, countered these tease touching accusations: for she had stepped back too, withdrew skin from contact, lips miss-kissing half hearted offered cheeks, back turned on a bed once consummated with the passion of the innocent. Who stands now in the glasshouse with stone in hand? My stab caused ‘TOUCH’ to convulse. No one-sided defeat here.

Forward stepped I deflected and bounced harsh truths into the gutters of regret, found my way blocked by ‘SELFISHNESS’, long strewn as a Cheshire cat with grinning teeth foul fetid dripping tales of familial dates ignored, commitments uncommitted to, evenings long consumed in matey orgies of alcohol and unbrave bravado. Late long working hours stretched to incredulity as slipping masks for backslapping heartiness and raucous chauvinism, chasing skirt-clad victims across glass-lined tables.

Hacked letters fell, ‘fish’ causing a rueful smile under cheekguards which chaffed with swivelled wariness. ‘S’s snaked my legs, hot forked tongues nipping infected bites into veins long since dead to empathy and sympathy. I stamped, hobnailing the vicious barbs into powdered pleas.

And lastly LOVE dangled gloss shred and abused. It flickered images thought lost in memories stored behind cold-hearted locks. The true love of first meeting, recognition of soulmated possibilities, tingles of eternity surfacing when touch touched more than skin, eye contact finding depths impossible to measure. LOVE hung, shaming my defence, drinking dry a moat of liquid lies, crumbling paper-thin walls of self deception, undermining a castellated keep of rusted excuses.

And I fell, in a final act of reconciliation and recognition, upon my upturned sword.

 

Music to write by – 3

Poco – Rose Of Cimarron

Rediscovered this tune only yesterday when it was played in Simon Mayo’s programme on Radio 2, as part of his ‘Five minute or longer’ section. What an astounding song.

In fact having listened to it again this morning maybe it isn’t a good song to have on in the background as you write – my eyes blurred over within seconds and all hopes of writing disappeared into a handkerchief.

 

Slow edit

Just an update on the editing of my novella. It is hard-going, particularly when you’ve gone over the story several times before. And there are so many other things to be done and you’re in the middle of a house move where the solicitor moves at the pace of an arthritic snail. I manage a couple of pages a day, usually in the morning, then that’s it. I may get to the end by Christmas…

Once a fortnight I go to a local writers group. Usually they are fun, a welcome break from sitting in front of the laptop and the source of many good ideas. Unfortunately you do need a strong chairperson for the meetings to be worthwhile. if you don’t then the people who are there primarily to have a good gossip dominate and others sit there becoming increasingly annoyed and frustrated, so much so that you start to wonder if it’s worthwhile attending. I hate to define these people who waste our time but they do seem to be widows. They are often members of various other activity groups and I get the impression the socialising is the main reason why they go. Chairing the meetings can be hard work, keeping everyone on the agenda and making sure everyone has a chance to comment and read out their stories or poems. I can see me fading away from the group unless the house move goes through which will necessitate a change anyway.

Presently listening to Yes’ The Yes Album on YouTube, bringing back happy teenage memories of the ’70s. Having got rid of my vinyl albums some years ago I have started looking to replace some. I think going round boot sales and secondhand shops may be the cheapest option as online the records seem very expensive, understandable I suppose.

Going back to the editing…as I remove the made-up hyphenated words in this ‘edition’ of the book I am realising that I could lengthen the story up to novel length, but I don’t think I have the appetite for that right now. With the hyphenated version I think 100,000 words would be too much to endure, both for the reader and the writer! I shall plough on as I am.

 

My Cold Heart

(a poem written back in 2010, one of my ‘dark’ poems)

My Cold Heart

 

My cold heart

Calls for you,

Speared by the icicle

So eagerly thrust there,

Torn apart fervently

With glee by your hatred,

Flayed repeatedly with

Spiteful decaying words.

 

My cold heart

Shivers me,

Fearful and excited

By your touch and aura,

Soulless tears frozen still

In icy meander,

Torments scattered nightly

By cruelly wicked mouth.

 

My cold heart

Seeks reheating,

Your kisses to renew

Its bright bloody red flow,

Your dark eyes to long gaze,

Endearingly revive,

Your arms to encompass

My blizzard-blown winter.

 

My cold heart

Slides away,

Alone in its death,

Old, strong, wild beat stilled

By bitter sweet reply,

The last spasm convulsing with fear,

The deafening pulse of my life strangled,

The searing hot lifeblood chilled alive.