Vincent

I have now completed the second 10 week Creative Writing Course and am due to start my third (and final) 10 week course on the 13th April 2015 and that will be it for this year.  Our final task was to produce a genre specific piece of work (anonymously) and us as a class will read and mark them all.  A task within a task!  I got to read some amazing stories and also managed to secure third place.  A fantastic end to stage 2 of my Creative Writing.  

VINCENT

Short Story Fiction:

Genre: Psychological Horror: A sub-genre of literary horror which relies on the characters' fears and emotional instability to build tension and unsettle through in-depth use of psychology.

I hurried along the beaten path, panting heavily.  My chest ached and my throat was dry.  “Come on James, can’t you go any faster?” Vincent chastised.  I pulled my inhaler out of my pocket and drew on it long and hard.  “Where are we going Vincent?” I gasped.  

“Put that thing away James, you don’t need it.  I told you before, I will look after you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”  Vincent stopped and together we sat down on a cluster of earthy bedrock and my breath began to steady.  

It was an early autumn morning and a wintry chill hung in the air. Autumn leaves from the ancient trees lay discarded on the forest floor. The dry ones crunching underfoot, whilst the dew damp papery remains, burrowed deep into the soft soil. The autumn sun rose hurried as if trying to make the shorter days appear longer, blossoming into the pale sky with a deep mellow glow, slivered shards of warmth piercing through the voluminous trees. As the morning developed the sound of young birds filled the air chirping, twittering and warbling incessantly.

“Come on James, let's go.” Ahead the forest trees began to thin, a clearing perhaps or a glade? As we drew closer we could see that it was neither. The firm ground gave way to a swamp of tall reeds, the dark soil submersed in water. The autumn sunlight fell directly onto a felled tree trunk, imitating a bridge. The drop wasn’t unsafe, just a sloppy marshy landing. With one cautious boot I tested the bark. It was damp with a smattering of moss. It wasn’t too slippery, but certainly not secure. I took a deep breath and set off.  Eyes trained on my feet and the next yard of tree, arms raised, a balancing tightrope walker. Steady. Steady. One footfall at a time until I was safely over to the other side.

Beyond the bank we hear the sound of laughter and we crouch and watch the family.  I recognise Daisy immediately.  Apart from Vincent, she is the only other student at school that has ever remained kindly towards me. I could see her tresses of silky blonde hair fitted neatly into a loose ponytail. I imagine her deep-set chocolate brown eyes looking at me. Her pixie-like nose turned up indignant against the bullies that taunted me on a daily basis.  

I was a sickly only child, a burden, or so my mother told me. Much smaller than average and coupled with my chronic asthma fuelled the belligerent bullies. I was pitiful and would amount to nothing, my father declared before slamming the door out of my life.

“Why are you looking at her like that for James? Don’t be taken in by her, she doesn’t give two shits about you, not like me, she is just as bad as the rest of them.  Well, worse in fact as she is nice to your face and then laughs about you behind your back.  I have heard her James, she is a lying, sneaky, deceitful BITCH!” Vincent’s voice was cold and cutting and as his unabashed truths punctured my beliefs, tears collected.  “Oh for god sake James, don’t start blubbering, come on let’s teach that whore a lesson”.

As we watched Daisy’s parents go back to unload the car, Vincent stood and called out to her “Hey Daisy, over here.” She turned towards us and her radiant smile lit up her beautiful face, she smiled gloriously and skipped towards us.  “What are you doing here” she asked and I noticed her dimples, tiny indentations in her creamy complexion.  I was nervous and started to fidget, as I opened my stuttering mouth to respond Vincent immediately interrupted “Daisy come and have a look over here. A whole family of tiny rabbits, you are not going to believe it, they’re delightful Daisy and soooooo cute”.  Before I knew it we were all running and laughing through the forest, Daisy’s laughter an intoxicating melodious breeze.  All of the time wondering where on earth we had seen those rabbits.

We reached a clearing, slowed down and stopped.  “Oh James, where are those rabbits” Daisy said twirling around gleefully, some of her golden curls escaping from her ponytail.  “Over here Daisy” Vincent said happily and together we peered behind a large imposing boulder. Vincent suddenly grabbed Daisy’s hair and hurled her head down, her skull making a sickening thud against the cold grey stone. Again and again he pounded until all that was left of Daisy’s perfect face was a bloodied mass of sticky pulp.  “What have you done Vincent, what have you done?” 

I fell to my knees keening like a wounded animal. “I told you James I was going to teach her a lesson” he said calmly, too calm.

“But you’ve killed her Vincent, why have you killed her?” Shock and grief washed over me as I collapsed on her, holding her, inhaling her.

“James. James.  We have to go, we need to get home and clean up.  I did this for you, you’re all that matters and she was evil James, you didn’t know it but she was and I will not allow anybody to hurt you James, no one will ever take you away from me, do you understand?” Vincent’s commanding voice drowned out my moans and I suddenly realised he was afraid of losing me.  I never thought Vincent would be afraid of anything, he was too brave and too strong, the complete opposite of me, but with clarity I saw him, Vincent needed me more than I needed him and for the first time in my miserable life I felt what it was like to be wanted.

We hid the body behind the boulder and covered it up with as much forestry as we could find and set off home.  “James, it’s just you and me now, nobody else, promise me that you won’t tell anybody about today?” We retraced our steps through the forest, the snapping twigs suddenly sounding like gunshots.  “Vincent you’re my best friend, you can trust me” but no matter how I tried the image of Daisy’s beaten and crushed face, the putrid smell of her congealed flesh, haunted me every step of the way.  As I quietly let myself in, mother still sleeping off last night’s litre, I surreptitiously slipped to my room.  As I laid down on my bed I began to weep. The tears fell freely, for Daisy, for Vincent, for me.

“James, can you hear me James?” I was disoriented and sluggish like I had awoken from an eternal sleep. “Wh..wh..what happened” I stuttered.  Dr Lavelle sat, with her legs crossed, on the chair opposite.  “What did you do to me? I feel funny.”

“It’s called repressed memory therapy James, part of your treatment, it helps us understand what you did” her voice was low and sincere.

“B..b..but I didn’t do anything Miss, I don’t understand.”  Suddenly my chest became tight, my breathing rapid.  I fell to the floor coughing, gasping and Dr Lavelle left the room returning merely minutes later with my medication. She held the inhaler to my mouth, whilst holding my head protectively. I illiberally breathed in the powdery substance feeling it settle on my lungs. “That’s it James, deep breaths”.

Dr Lavelle helped me back into my chair “James we need to talk about what you did to Daisy, I need to understand what made you hurt that little girl.” I thought of the promise I made to Vincent but it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“It wasn’t me Miss, it was Vincent who killed Daisy. I was there but I didn’t touch her I swear” I began to cry and Dr Lavelle took my hand in hers.  “James, Vincent isn’t real, he is just a figment of your imagination.  Somebody your mind created to adapt to your terrible upbringing and tumultuous childhood.  It’s called multiple personality disorder, but we can make you better James, we can help you.  But you need to understand that Vincent does not exist.”

I looked into Dr Lavelle’s kind brown eyes, so similar to Daisy, and as my hand closed around the letter opener I had covertly taken from her desk, I leant forward.

“No Dr Lavelle, it’s you who doesn’t understand, Vincent is real, very real.  It’s James who doesn’t exist.

The End.

First Cut is the Deepest

Aaron stared out of the window, lost for a moment.  The sky never failed to enrapture him, filled with mystery and endless amounts of space, another world. The sky was ever-changing, it’s various colours of cobalt blue, sinister black, pearly grey, turquoise and his favourite, a fiery tangerine melting into a crimson cloak. Sometimes the clouds were bloated.  Other times they were no more than mere strands, weavings wisps dashed across the sky by some erratic artist. At night the twinkling stars dangled from the sky, the luminescent white moon acting as puppeteer.

As far back as Aaron can remember he sought solace in the sky.  Growing up under the regimented dictatorship of his father, a military man, he would escape, climb out of the skylight in his attic bedroom and lay on the cool grey tiles fascinated by the enigmatic magnitude above him. One hot summer evening his father had found him out there and in a disciplined rage hurled Aaron off the roof.  He was 8 years old.  His leg was broken in two places and he never walked without a limp again.  Aaron never stopped going out there and his father never entered his room again.

Aaron’s father died when he was 12 years old.  Aaron envied his father’s escape and repeatedly told his mother that he wished it had been him.  His mother interpreted this as Aaron’s devastation at losing his father but it was actually Aaron’s palpable yearning for death, to disappear from the life he detested.  As a woman who had been dominated and controlled first by her father and then by her husband, Aaron’s mother found great difficulty adapting.  She immediately took Aaron out of school and her despondency only served to smother and suffocate Aaron. His father continued to burden him even in death.

Aaron escaped his paternal prison at the age of 15.  He wrote his mother a short note and just as spring blended into summer he left and never looked back.  It was at a hostel deep in the north he met Amber, another lost and damaged soul adrift in the harsh passage of life.  Aaron and Amber became inseparable over the ensuing weeks, months and years.  Their love initially embodying elements such as flawed innocence, naivety, secrecy, and then being consumed by an intense overpowering emotional bond.  Both unconditionally bound to the other.

Aaron was brought back to the present by the key in the door and the familiar tinkling tone of Rosie.  “Morning Aaron, you’re up early my love.  It is a beautiful day isn’t it?” Aaron didn’t turn he continued to gaze through the window “It is Rosie and look at that sky, it’s Amber” Rosie went to him and squeezed his hand “I do believe it is Aaron, it is an Amber sky”.  She saw the glisten of tears held in his eyes and her heart ached for him.  “I am nothing without her Rosie, we belong together. She will be lost Rosie, she will be searching for me”.  Rosie set down his breakfast and left without him turning away from the window. Aaron thought of Amber.

Aaron and Amber were exhausted of life, they needed to escape.  Together they would lie on their backs counting stars and counting down their days.  Some would call them tragic, but there was nothing tragic about their quest for amity.  The real tragedy was the misery of life they both had to endure for such a long time.  They talked of new beginnings of the vastness of space awaiting to encompass them both eternally.  Together they would cross over to the afterlife and become an intertwined spiritual energy totally disconnected from this world leaving all their hatred, anger and fears behind.

It was on a warm summer evening that Aaron and Amber finally gave up on life.  They walked to their favourite place, set down their blanket and with meticulous movement Aaron severed Amber’s pale wrists before cutting his own.  They lead together for the last time watching with an unwavering gaze, as the fiery maroon sphere of light slowly sank beneath the horizon. Threads of light lingered in the sky mingling with the rolling clouds until all that was left of the sunset was a milky mauve, which melted away as darkness took over the sky. As they both drifted away the sequin-silver stars like the glowing embers of a dying fire winked down on them, illuminating the atramentous curtain of sky, and then suddenly the clouds parted, and they found themselves looking at a lustrous, argent orb casting brilliant rays of moonlight.  

Aaron awoke in a hospital bed.  His mother asleep in a chair next to him.  Her eyes red and swollen. Aaron momentarily believed he had gone to hell and expected his father to walk through the door at any moment.  Instead a doctor in a sterile white coat entered the room together with a police officer. Aaron had failed, he had failed at life and now he had failed at death.  Amber was gone and he was still here.  They were found at dawn by a walker and as the doctor explained to him Amber had died but Aaron’s wounds were not as deep and he had been found “clinging to life.” Aaron laughed at such a ridiculous assumption.

When Aaron went to Court he told them openly and honestly that he had killed Amber.  It was done with certainty and forethought and the only justifiable sentence would be the death penalty. However a field of Doctors, Psychiatrists and his meddling mother intervened and cast doubt on his mental capacity.  They infiltrated his testimony and implanted doubt in the jury's mind.  He was found not guilty by reason of insanity.  Aaron was broken but he was not insane.

Aaron finally turned from the window and sat down to eat his breakfast.  He had now been here for two years.  The Doctors who had been so vivaciously vocal at his hearing, rarely attended anymore. His mother visited every week and every week he refused to see her, but she never gave up.  Only Rosie understood the pain he was in.  He finished his cereal with the white plastic spoon, everything in the institution was white.  As he pushed the white plastic dish away from him he heard an unfamiliar scraping noise.  He picked up the dish and there taped to the bottom was Aaron’s escape. With incredulous wariness his eyes frantically searched every inch of his 10 by 10 room.  His suspicion was replaced by euphoria, this time no mistakes, the first cut is the deepest.  Aaron closed his eyes and as his life haemorrhaged out of him he saw her.  Amber.

Hayley Mars.

Accident & Emergency

I have been trying to understand split-narrative and nonlinear narrative.  

Split-Narrative - A split narrative is when a story is told from different perspectives. Even separate stories that intertwine can be considered split narratives.

Nonlinear Narrative - Disjointed narrative or disrupted narrative is a narrative technique, sometimes used in literature, film, hypertext websites and other narratives, where events are portrayed, for example out of chronological order, or in other ways where the narrative does not follow the direct causality pattern of the events featured, such as parallel distinctive plot lines, dream immersions or narrating another story inside the main plot-line

I am not quite sure if I have actually grasped the concept but we were given a task to identify the seven types of plot and match each one with an example.  To apply knowledge of deconstruction to various prompts. Overcoming the monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy and finally Rebirth.

I am not entirely sure whether this would be considered split-narrative or nonlinear narrative (you decide) but I have attempted to identify the seven types of plot and incorporate them into my story.

ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY

FRANCES

Today was the day Frances was going to die.  It had conclusively arrived and she welcomed the finality of death with greedy gaping arms.  The past torrent of frustration, outrage and self-pity had dwindled and eventually diminished.  Pain had overtaken the disappointment and bitterness that had been all consuming and ate away at her hungrier than the poison swimming through her body.

Squinting at the sun swamping the cloudless sky, she felt at peace.  It was a beautiful spring morning and the slight lungs of the starlings outside her bedroom window burst with harmonised joyous melodies that can only be savoured with one willing to appreciate the same.

She wondered where Henry had got to.  Probably out for his morning stroll.  She would be indebted to him forever and wished with all her heart that they could be together always.  In a way they would be eternally entwined through the harsh journey of her death.  Together they fought fiercely but now it was time to surrender gracefully.  A quest for dignity in death and a decision they made together.  Always together.

She could barely move.  So heavily sedated by the platoon of pain absorbents administered to her by the various nurses assigned and ultimately dismissed by her darling husband. Henry was a retired Doctor and nobody could take better care of his beloved wife as he could. As hard as she tried to recall, she could not remember the last time she had seen a nurse.  Was it yesterday?  Was it last week?  As well as every other deterioration her mind was failing and her memory fading.  The ravenous disease was now ingesting her brain like maggots on meat.  

She awoke suddenly aware of the increasing pain and the decreasing medication.  Where was Henry? A shadow had fallen over her room and she was unsure how long she had been asleep.  The afternoon gloom that encroached her bedroom would suggest a couple of hours or so.  Her throat was dry and the pain had become monstrous. As she attempted to call out to Henry only a gasp tarnished her stale lips. She was alone and afraid.  Was this the end?

HENRY

After checking on Fran, Henry left home and travelled the three miles on foot.  It was a scenic yet surreal journey decorated by the occasional passing tractor and gentle neighs of the horses in the fields.  He walked through the village past the clutch of tiny cottages and took the rutted paths through the woods.  The woodland seemed ominously quiet, just the intermittent susurration of the fresh spring leaves being lifted by the morning breeze. The majesty of the old growth trees looming above him.

He thought of Fran.  He thought of Fran all of the time.  She consumed his thoughts, his actions, his life.  He loved her unconditionally and the thought of life without her tore at his very core.  Life was unfair and callously cruel.  As his footfalls reverberated he silently reminisced their life together.  Fran was his sweetheart, a delicate butterfly who had captured his heart and held on to it still.

They would often walk this path, hand in hand, back when they were young, adventurous and without a care in the world.  They would bring picnics and Henry would be studying reference books whilst Fran would be studying wildlife.  This woodland was her life-blood. They built a life, raised their children and created their own perfect little world that nothing or nobody could penetrate.  Until now.

Henry reached the outskirts of the wood and increased his pace.  The road ahead would lead him into the nearest town and it was still early.  The traffic increased and as he reached the bridge he glimpsed the rooftops of the Georgian Mews below.  

From nowhere a familiar black BMW hurtled towards Henry, and before he had chance to grasp the severity of the black beast descending upon him, Henry was hit and thrown mercilessly into the fresh spring air and just for a second he was weightless, soaring, before everything went black.  The last thing on his mind was Fran.

VICTORIA

Victoria peeled herself off the bathroom floor.  Every part of her ached and ugly purple bruises were already blemishing her skin.  She clutched her ripped clothing to protect her modesty which had already been horrendously violated and her actions seemed futile.  Her life was futile.  She grasped the sink and pulled her tortured body into a standing position and painfully contemplated the damage to her face.

There was a cut above her eye and another angry bruise looming over previous semi-healed atrocities.  Salty tears stung her wounded skin and with shaking hands she turned on the cold tap and splashed water  over her broken soul.  The sting made Victoria cry out and suddenly a beautiful blond head appeared as if from nowhere “Mummy what is the matter, what’s happened?” her darling daughter Emily cried, her face filled with confusion and concern.  “Oh baby, mummy slipped cleaning the bath, but I am okay, don’t worry” she consoled her.  Victoria saw her tiny little face scrutinise her, from top to bottom, taking in every cut and bruise.  She hated herself for lying to her.  She hated herself full stop.

“Mummy, you keep falling, you need to be careful.  Do you need me to hold you hand?” she pleaded.  Victoria took her perfect plump hand in her own and said “You know what Emily, that’s a wonderful idea”.  She smiled at her mummy contently but Victoria could see in the deep dark lustrous of her eyes that it was Emily humouring her rather than the other way around.

Victoria hated him.  He was a monster.  If she didn’t leave he would eventually kill her.  His attacks were becoming more frenzied and all of his uncontrollable rage was savagely hurled at her.  How long would it be before Emily fell victim to his foul fist?  She had to leave and she had to leave now.  Therapy, anger management were of no use, that is if he attended at all.  Victoria had no doubt in her mind that he would return later, devastated, inconsolable with empty promises of change and feigned remorse.  

Moving quickly she packed.  Gathering armfuls of clothes and toiletries cramming them chaotically in a small hold-all. She kicked away the almost empty whisky bottle, used as weapon only moments ago. Sweeping Emily up into her bruised arms she laughingly sang “who wants to go on a holiday today” swinging her around Emily giggled gleefully “me mummy, me mummy, meeeeee” she serenaded.  “Okay darling go and get Jay-Jay Bear, because I think he wants to come with us too” she hinted and off Emily went singing at the top of voice.  The shrill ring of the phone punctured Victoria’s swirling mass of exodus and she contemplated ignoring it whilst she was caught up in their frantic escape but it was persistent.  Victoria picked up the phone and a polite impersonal voice asked for her by name.  “Yes speaking” she responded and as she listened to the muted tones of the stranger on the line, just like that she was back on the floor.

JAMES

James awoke to find Avis wrapped around him.  Her bronzed lithe limbs encompassed his own.  Velvet blond hair fell like a waterfall over her freckled shoulders and perfect heart-shaped face. He nuzzled her with his dark beard tickling her neck making her purring snores splutter then stop.  She blinked her eyes unfocused with sleep.  “Mon cheri, watcha doin to me” she teased. James gathered her petite naked body and laid her on top of him, heaping handfuls of her luxurious mane whispering in her ear “let me show you” just as he covered her mouth with his own, the door to the van flew open and Rich bounded in completely nonplussed but obviously appreciative of the spectacle before him.

Avis screeched and pulled the duvet over her finery “Mon dieu Richard, do you knock?” Rich grinned “oh don’t flatter yourself sweetheart, nothing you have, as good as it is,  interests me” he teased.  “However that fine specimen of a man beneath you is certainly sunshine on a rainy day”.  Avis threw back her head with exaggerated indignation, wrapped the duvet around her and flounced out of the van.  James was suddenly acutely aware that he was naked and Rich was appreciatively ingesting his exposed anatomy.  He threw a pillow at him “give over man” and they both erupted in boyish laughter.

They had been travelling now for two years and it was shortly coming to an end. They were back in the UK. Four of them finished Uni in the spring of 2013 and set off with a pocket lacking cash but a head full of dreams.  It had been a voyage of discovery. They had travelled copious miles, digesting the sights and sounds of each new destination. They had grieved for the impoverished children of Kosovo and showered them with food and gifts, their genuine gratitude breaking their hearts.  They had revelled in the splendour of the amazing architecture of the Szczecin Philharmonic. Were dazzled by St Basil’s Cathedral and the Winter Palace in Russia and in Italy, well in Italy James fell in love.  Whilst basking in the enormity and grandeur of the majestic Colosseum, Avis entered his life.

They fell in love and Avis joined them on their escapade.  She was spirited and exhilarating.  Intelligent and intriguing.  She could be hypnotic one minute and wildish wacky the next, Avis was weirdly wonderful and James loved her with all his heart. Soon he would return home and Avis was going with him.  James had proposed to her almost a year ago on a deserted beach in Normandy and Avis had said yes. He was the happiest man in the world.

Rich left and Avis returned, casting Rich what James assumed were innocuous profanities with her lilted french tongue. She giggled and returned to James arms and let the duvet fall into a river beneath their feet.  They tumbled together on the bed, indulging, delving and just as James gathered Avis into him, once again, Rich flew through the van door, ashen clutching his phone in his shaking hand.

ALASDAIR

Today was a good day it was Alasdair's day off. Since reducing his hours at work the good days were more frequent and he relished each and every one.  Alasdair lazily shuffled around his beautiful townhouse admiring the beautiful acquisitions he had procured over the last two years.  Everything was working out just as anticipated and in his opinion was no less than what he deserved. No more anguish and sleepless nights wondering how he was going to pay the mortgage or subsidise his wife’s expensive taste.

Growing up had been tough.  His son would not know of such hardship. His son wouldn’t be hidden under his bed awaiting the wrath of his father when he had blown everything they owned at the bookies.  Then drinking himself to death leaving his mother to walk the streets to pay off the sharks, always knocking on the door, always circling menacingly. His childhood was littered with dirty memories and depths of unhappiness, the scarcity of the emotional bond of normal family life still gnawed at him today.

When his mother finally gave up on her pathetic life he vowed he was not going to tread the same ruinous route.  Alasdair scrimped and saved, he studied hard, sacrificed his youth and genuinely believed he would prosper.  How wrong was he? Oh he got the degree, got the great job, but what for?  Working ridiculous hours for a half decent wage but nothing substantial, not what he felt he deserved and so he diverged.  He did it so well that his home and everything in it was his.  Bought and paid for. He didn’t have to battle the demon he became the demon. Morals and integrity would not bring him the comfort to blanket the memories of his rotten upbringing.

Alasdair prepared himself a leisurely brunch and enjoyed the magnificent spring morning through the opened french windows.  The carefully cultivated garden was brimming with an abundance of springtime activity.  He smiled whilst mentally planning the remainder of his day. Aimee was no doubt beautifying her already impeccable appearance and Harry would have his nose buried in a book in his established, privileged private school classroom.

He glanced at his watch and realised his Client was late, very late.  Alisdair checked his messages to see if he had missed a text whilst basking in his brunch time slothfulness, but there was nothing since the message at 7am to confirm he would arrive at 10am.  Alisdair needed to ensure that both Aimee and Harry were out of the house.  It was now almost midday and just as he was silently cursing the tardiness of his timekeeping there was a brisk knock at the door.  Better late than never he thought to himself and chuckled.  He opened the door and his world came crashing down.

PIERRE

The dull grinding pulse of the Highways Agency outside Pierre’s window lulled him out of his alcohol induced coma.  He groaned in self-inflicted pain and pulled himself into the fetal position and burnished his dry lips with his carpeted tongue.  He felt something or somebody stir beside him and  stiffened in dreaded forethought as to what or who he would find lead beside him.  It wasn’t good.

Pierre silently alighted from his disheveled sheets and covertly slithered as quickly as possible out of his bedroom.  With his throbbing head in his hands he moaned manically making his way to the kitchen.  “Hey hey hey, how’s lover boy this bright and beautiful morning?” his lodger Mike greeted him as he stumbled into the kitchen.  “Dear god mate, whatever is up there is not bright and not beautiful” Pierre returned as he fell into the nearest chair.  Mikey laughed out loud whilst shoving burnt toast under Pierre’s sensitive nose, along with a black coffee.  

Pierre pushed the toast away and gulped greedily at the hot coffee, relishing the bitter scald on the back of his throat. “Why Mike why? Why do I go out and get myself absolutely shitfaced, lose all sense of moral decency and wake up next to godzilla? Not waiting for his answer he continued “I am a good guy, what’s the matter with me and how on earth are YOU going to get her out of our house?” Pierre looked up at Mike and winked.  Mike began to laugh and shook his head “Pierre, Pierre, this is your fire you put it out!” Pierre groaned as Mike leaned in to him continuing “she probably isn’t even that bad, what with a bit of makeup, tad bit more dress sense and some hair-straighteners”.  

Pierre shook his head furiously “oh no Mike, no way. Try what you like but you just can’t polish a turd” they both collapsed laughing into a heaped mess on the kitchen table and Pierre started feeling last night's buzz return for the Second Coming.  Mike threw the burnt toast at him “get this down your neck Romeo and we will come to some sort of mutually agreeable financial arrangement for me to dispose of your latest mistake”.  Pierre grinned at Mike “this is why I have no money and no friends”. Just as they high-fived there was a gentle knock on the kitchen door and godzilla walked in.

“Well hello there beautiful” Mike complemented her as soon as she was through the door. “Would you like some breakfast? Pierre you need to go and pick up my brother, you are already half an hour late, come on get yourself moving.” Pierre glanced at godzilla whose face was hidden by a wiry mass of matted frizz.  Looked up appreciatively at his loyal lodger “god yeah I completely forgot about that, well best get my pants on and hit the road, catch you guys later” and with that he sheepishly scurried from the kitchen and took to the stairs two at a time.

Mike had come through.  Although Pierre knew it would cost him dearly.  He punched the air in triumph and just as he hit the top stair his foot slipped and he came hurtling back down the trodden steps and just before he lost consciousness he remembered thinking Karma is most definitely a bitch!

LUCY

Lucy slipped the resignation letter into the front of her uniform and entered A&E with a heavy heart.  She was at a crossroads and was ready to digress.  Her heart was broken and the only thing that would get her through today was knowing he would not be here and very soon neither would she. Lucy felt foolish and used. He was married and Lucy became disposable.

The hand-over lasted merely minutes.  The strain and frustration showing in her colleagues faces as they finished their 12 hour shifts. Escaping to their loving families too tired to enjoy them before it all started again.  Dr Shaw held back to tell Lucy about the fatality he had experienced earlier.  As he told her the story of his patient who, despite his best efforts, he had been unable to save, Lucy could hear the anguish in his voice.  

Henry Gilmartin was a retired Doctor and was hit full force by a drunk-driver.  His injuries were so severe that he died only 30 minutes after arriving at hospital.  Upon checking his records it was discovered his wife Frances Gilmartin was terminally ill with cancer.  When the paramedics attended their home, they found her dead. “Lucy, her family are still here, they are obviously in shock as it would appear that it was his daughter’s husband who was driving the vehicle that killed her father”.  Lucy looked at Dr Shaw, digesting what he had told her “what do you need me to do?” she asked.

“Lucy, you are one of the best nurses we have, go and speak to them, take them their father’s belongings.  Your compassion is without doubt a blessing to this department.  I know what has happened between you and Dr Reynolds, he is a prick, please don’t let him ruin your career”. Lucy reddened instantly and bowed her head.  Dr Shaw patted her shoulder and left omitting to tell Lucy the names of the bereaved.

Lucy took the phone from the box of the late Mr Gilmartin's belongings and checked his contacts.  She was shocked to see a familiar name. Dr Alasdair Reynolds.  Curiosity got the better of her and as she investigated further Lucy was horrified by what she found.  According to what she was reading Dr Alasdair Reynolds had been abusing his position in this hospital for his own voracious need for quite some time.  He had used his stance to peculate drugs and medicines from an already overstretched, crumbling NHS to sell to the desperate, to the hopeless.  Henry Gilmartin being one of his victims.  That’s where he was going, when he was killed.  

Lucy looked through the window of the private room and saw Henry’s family.  His daughter Victoria, still beautiful despite exhibiting the abuse she had obviously been suffering at the hands of her husband.  Well she would no longer flinch at his clenched fist, he would be going away for a long time. Her delightful daughter was tucked possessively into her, exhausted weeping eyes now sleeping in her mother’s bosom.  James, Henry’s son, running masculine hands through thick dark hair, his handsome tanned face looking lost and desolate.  His stunning girlfriend holding him protectively.  All of them engulfed in a black cloud of grief.  

“Lucy is that you, is that really you” she heard her name and turned away from the window and saw Pierre McKenna hobbling towards her, his left leg encased in a plaster cast.  “Pierre, oh my god. How long has it been?  I would ask you how you are but looking at you, not too great” Pierre laughed, Lucy noticed that the cheeky young boy from Kingston Primary had grown into a rather quirky cheeky young man.  “Don’t ask, terrible lifestyle, terrible choices. This has been a wake up call I can tell you.  Lucy you look great, I can’t believe after all these years I bump into you here.” Lucy didn’t know if it was his charismatic smile, or his cheeky demeanour but she found herself saying “I have just started my shift Pierre, but I get off at 8ish, do you fancy a proper catch up?” Pierre looked like he had won the lottery, which only nurtured her new-found equanimity.  “Really? Sure that would be great.  It would be better than great” and off he hobbled with the biggest smile she had ever seen.

Lucy turned back towards the door and watched the grieving family for a few moments more and knew what she had to do.  Lucy took Henry’s phone from her pocket and telephoned the police,  she told them everything and confirmed she would leave the phone with reception for them to collect and would attend the station tomorrow to make a statement.  Secondly she took the letter of resignation out of her pocket and tore it into confetti and finally Lucy entered the grief filled sanctum and spent the remainder of her shift cushioning their sorrow, soothing their anguish and striving to succour a heartbroken family.

Hayley Mars

The Long Journey Home

THE LONG JOURNEY HOME

(Short Story by Hayley Mars)

Annie sat back in her seat.  The carriage was bursting at the seams.  Sardines came to mind and she smiled at her own cliche.  The pungent air caught in the back of her throat and she stifled a cough.  Nobody noticed. Annie’s gaze fell upon the bag lady, Annie’s nickname for the colourful, dishevelled old lady who appeared to keep the same timetable as Annie.  There were a sea of nameless faces, but the bag lady intrigued Annie. She was a colourful vibrant character whose presence illuminated the black and white of the long journey home.

The following evening Annie sat down at the back of her carriage and was relieved that the train appeared to lack the customary home time rush.  She glanced to her right, expecting to see the bag lady, but was disappointed to see her usual seat taken up by a weather stained man engrossed in the Daily Mail.  Just as Annie feared the worst a flash of colour caught her eye and there she was a field of cornflower yellow, approaching her.  Much to Annie’s delight bag lady plunged herself down next to her.

That’s how it began.  A wonderful friendship was born. Annie and Evie (aka the bag lady) journeyed home, same time, same carriage every night.  Annie soon discovered that Evie’s personality was just as colourful and vibrant as the clothes she wore.  She told Annie vivid tales that made her laugh out loud.  Evie’s laughter was intoxicating and Annie drank it up greedily.  Annie told Evie all about her life.  She shared stories of her childhood sweetheart Daniel and their twins Oliver and Emily.  She adored her family and as time went by she began to adore Evie.

Evie became her shoulder to cry on, a confidant with whom she could share her deepest fears and anxieties. Annie was always anxious.  With Evie she felt her troubles flow into the departed miles. Evie always had numerous bags, which were always empty.  Annie never asked why.   When the days were hard for Annie, once in Evie’s presence, the tension knotted up deep in the pit of her core would soften.

Soon the harshness of winter melted into Spring and as the days stretched wide Evie’s attire became more bizarre.  Together, rocking in time with the motion of the train, they would scrutinise their co-travellers. Imaging what lives they lead and what secrets they held.  Who they were going home to and the houses they lived in.  The spotty students who sat together in silence, each one surgically attached to their smartphones. The plump lady who had no contours and just seemed to thaw into her seat.  They whispered and giggled, judged and sympathised.

One beautiful spring evening, when the crimson blood red sky was partially cloaked by the dripping clouds, Evie didn’t appear.  Annie strained her panicked head taking in each and every colourless character collected in the carriage.  Evie was not here.  Annie was stricken.  What had happened?  Where was she?  Did she tell her she was going away and Annie had forgotten?  Anxiety quashed the lightness in her heart and smothered her . She suddenly felt adrift in a knitted fog of fear.

Evie didn’t return the next day, nor the day after.  Evie did not return for two weeks.  Annie felt helpless she missed her so much she ached.  She missed the beautiful pearls of wisdom that dripped so effortlessly from her lips.  She missed her colour, her spirit, her soulful soothing eyes.  Looking around her nobody knew of her anguish, nobody cared.  Annie appeased her troubled mind with self-reassurances that Evie had just changed routine, perhaps she had gone on an impromptu holiday, but deep in Annie’s heart she feared the worse because that was what Annie did. Her anxieties returned and her hope became a fragile seed.

After sixteen days Evie came back.  Annie was elated.  Evie didn’t say where she had been and Annie didn’t ask.  Annie was so overwhelmed with unimaginable relief she didn’t want to intrude.  Evie was behaving oddly and seemed distant.  For the first time it was Annie making the jokes, Annie instigating the conversation and when a mother with two young children boarded the train, Annie effortlessly fell into sentimental anecdotes of her own children's’ growth.

Evie looked at Annie and in a pensive voice began to tell Annie about the child she once had.  Annie was shocked yet fascinated, she relaxed into her seat as Evie revealed personal details about her life that she never had before.  Annie saw tears collect in Evie’s hypnotic eyes as she told Annie about how she never got to see her child grow.  Annie took Evie’s warm wrinkled hand and they continued on their journey in a reflective comfortable silence.

When they had reached Annie’s station, they both got off the train and walked together, still hand in hand. Annie didn’t question why, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. As they walked through the park towards Annie’s home, their eyes rested on children at play. Annie’s heart swelled with Evie’s grief.  They stood, silently watching them play until the air began to chill and Annie pulled gently on Evie’s hand.

As they reached Annie’s house Annie stopped and smiled.  Daniel was getting out of his old faithful Ford Escort.  His pride and joy.  Two heads appeared simultaneously from either side of the back seat and Annie’s heart leapt unrestrained into her open mouth.  She let out a small gasp and shouted their names.  Her melodic voice was carried away in the spring breeze unnoticed.  Oliver and Emily were unaware they were being observed.

Realisation soaked into every pore and Annie looked frantically at Evie who just gently nodded her head and Annie knew it was time.  Time to say goodbye. For two years she had made this journey.  For two years she had watched Daniel, Oliver and Emily grieve, unfold, repair and renew.  She would one day become just a withered memory and her death would no longer burden their existence.  Their lives would become rich, filled with adventure and passion, obtainable ambitions and nurturing families of their own.  Without her.  Annie looked at Evie and in those aquamarine pools she saw love, real love.  Annie turned and let her mother take her the long journey home.

CREATIVE WRITING

We have been planning a short story as part of our weekly classes.  How to do it?

Main Idea:-

• Title
• Plot
• Characters
• Settings
• Writing Techniques
• Extended Vocabulary
• Chapters

It makes sense, before I go hurtling into writing a 40000 word epic, how about trying a 1000 word short story and “The Long Journey Home” is my first attempt.  For anybody who knows me the inspiration came from my daily commute and the loss of my mother last year.  We are still planning but I am going to use the classes to assist me with my bigger project and hopefully my first draft will be sooner rather than later.  It  is not just about writing a story it’s about all of the above and more.  Before last week I had never heard of a rhetorical question.  My head is buzzing with metaphors, similes, adjectives, repetitions and much much more! I need to work on pushing my vocabulary and exploring all aspects of language techniques. It is all very exciting.

I have had another of my poems published.  The theme was where you live and here it is.

LIVING BY THE SEA

As the fading sun melts into the sea, I taste the salt

Clinging to me.

The vast dark waters swallow the glow

And into the tide the daytime does flow.

The rickety breakers lean and groan, with the weariness

Of tired old bones.

Buoyant against the surge of the sea, tossing the waves,

creating debris.

A sprinkle of twinkle against a black sky, as the wind roars

Back again they shy.

Murky waters plunge and swirl, treacherous threatening

With each rise and fall.

Absorbing the essence, inhaling the air, the raw sea spray

Lingers in my hair.

I am enraptured by the forces of nature at play,

Encapturing me.

Living by the sea.

Always keen to find inspiration to write I stumbled across this website www.creative-writing-now.com it offers a free ebook “30 Days of Inspiration” which basically sets you 30 challenges.  Definitely worth a look.