Paper Heart - Part 2

Sorry this has been a little late coming. I've been editing among other family things going on. I got a little side-tracked. I also need to do a few book reviews so they'll be appearing over the next week or so. I'm trying to write a little every day so Sam and Lucy don't get lost in the never ends of my brain. They're trying to talk to me though. Just the other day Lucy told me she's a Pisces and her birthday is March 19th. She kinda reminds me of my youngest sister a little :)

Sam

He held the last post-it up against the wall with his left hand, with his right he balanced the tape between his teeth and pulled it, yanking it, snapping it through his teeth.

“That’ll do,” he said to himself, admiring the work around him. He eyed the sky, slightly worried about the weather. It was windier than he’d anticipated so he hoped with all hope that the post-it’s would hold out. If she missed even one, it might mess up the whole trail. He sent a little prayer up to the Gods, hoping the fates were on his side.

But, he knew in his heart of hearts that when the girl of his dreams came around that corner she would see the flowers and the effort. Lots of them, all intertwining over and under the, little-town, gazebo. The flowers were purple; all different shapes, shades and sizes. He didn’t have a clue of their names… gerba somethings and orchids? Maybe? He was only half-listening to the florist when she started spurting names. He nodded to her suggestions. All Sam knew was that he needed purple ones; her favourite colour, the women at the shop could work out the rest. That’s what he paid them £100 for.

He knew it all looked kinda corny, but he hoped she’d see the romantic side. He didn’t care though, she loved over-romantic gestures. He just hoped this was the right way about it. Sam had been planning this whole thing for weeks. He knew she was the only girl for him. She was sweet, kind and sexy; if not a little scary sometimes. She had determined direction and knew what she wanted in life. Sam enjoyed that about her, especially when her goals were so ‘up-in-the-air’ sometimes.

“Morning, Sam!” A voice called from across the street. “So, today’s the big day then?”

Sam blushed. As well as planning this thing for weeks, he’d also been telling everyone in the village for weeks. He looked up and covered his head with his hand, blocking out the morning sun. He smiled, recognising the woman’s sweet, elderly face.

“Hi Claris. Yep, today is the big day. She should be coming over this way from her Aunt’s this morning...” He checked his watch, “…Anytime now I reckon.”

“You nervous?” Claris smiled at him.

He laughed, lightly, at the small but bold little old lady, walking her dog on this far too cold, frosty morning.

“Nar, I’m good. It’s not like this hasn’t been coming for a while. I just needed to get on with it.” He shrugged, desperately trying not to show the little nervousness edging its way into his system. The longer he waited the longer it felt like she wasn’t coming. He ignored the feeling.

Claris saw his confidence falter, “It’ll be fine henny I’m sure.” She walked over the empty street, slowly stepping up the white metal gazebo steps. She looked up into Sam’s young, hopeful eyes.

“Samuel Parker Washington. I’ve known you since you were little boy. I’ve watched you grow-up and become the great incredible man that you are. If she says no then she’s a fool.”

“If only you were 50 years younger Claris. I would’ve asked you to marry me right here right now.” Sam laughs, bending down to pet Claris’ little Bichon.

“Pah Sam. Get away with you.” She patted his shoulder, swiftly brushing off his comment with a smile.

“Thank you though Claris,” he bent a little and squeezed her into a big over-bearing hug then waved her off and rubbed his hands together, adjusting his scarf.

Taking a mental inventory of everything he had sorted for the gazebo, Sam, walked around the gazebo, staring at his feet. Suddenly, wondering if should’ve dressed up a little, tried wearing a suit and tie or at least some smart shoes? She liked it when he dressed up. But he wanted to be relaxed and be himself, so wearing his trusty converse and jeans it was.

Sam stopped pacing. He knew he needed to calm down. She always came this way to his place, all he needed to do was wait. He started pacing again. Looking up, Sam noticed a flower, wilting and browning at the edges. It seemed to mirror his exact feelings right now. In a rushed assault, he ran to the railings and pulled the imperfection from sight, then turned full-circle and admired his handy work. He had to admit, although he didn’t choose the flowers he certainly knew where to place them and how to wind them to make them look engaging. Purple flowers and foliage twisted and turned around the ageing gazebo. It’ll only took him the best part of 4 hours. That alone would impress her since she knew how much he hated mornings.

He’d thought of putting the words “Will you marry me” separately on a post-it each so she had to twirl around the entire gazebo admiring his work before noticing him down on one knee with the ring his mother had given him. But he wanted to say those four important words, hear them come from his own mouth as she replied with a resounding yes.

Thinking of what was about to happen Sam slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the old velveted red box, and sprung it slowly open. The gold band was slim and delicate, shining in the morning sun, perfect for her beautiful fingers. The large mesmerising oval opal sat circled by twelve smaller diamonds. They sparkled and glistened as light from the morning sun bounced off them, bringing small dark spots into his eyes. He loved this ring.

He’d seen his mum wearing it for years and she said his grandma had worn it too. He loved multi-generational objects like this. Items, memorabilia, photographs all with a story behind them. It made him want kids so badly. Not lots, but a few at least. Especially a little boy, one his future wife could give their engagement ring to, when he came to her to tell her how much he loved a girl and wanted to ask her to marry him; just like Sam did with his mum last month. That’s when she’d given him the ring.

Suddenly realising he’d been caught in his own head for a while, he snapped back to the present, and searched the street corner he knew she’d been appearing from.

As he did his phone vibrated in his pocket, he put his hand into his pocket and replaced his phone with the ring box.

‘B @ urs a little l8. Auntie’s had sum emergency wiv her nails. Sigh. Hr @ mst. Luv u X’

           He cringed at her text speak. He hated that she typed like that, especially when she was so intelligent. Her messaging habits made her seem stupid, and like her life was so rushed, that she didn’t even have time to message properly. He sighed, and slumped into the bench on the gazebo, staring into the sky. At least this gave him time to calm down a little.

Helen - Writing Short 6

So, I'm a little nervous about this one. It's my first, first person narrative in a very very long time. I'm talking probably about nearly 10 years. I've had this idea in my head for a while and read a few novels that helped me out with my idea. They were all written in third person though so I hope I've done it justice.

Helen

I’m awake. The sun is shining through my window, making my eyes clench shut from the onslaught of light. I think it’s morning, the birds are singing harmoniously. It’s beautiful. Time to get up, I’ve got work to do, people to see and things that need doing.

Rolling out of bed, I stumble to balance my feet. Dizzy. That’s strange. I don’t remember going out last night, nor do I have the remnants of a hangover, luckily. Those things tend to kill me for the day. Adjusting my eyes, the room doesn’t look familiar.

Where’s Paul?

This room smells strange, medical and stagnant. I can’t place myself here.
What’s going on? Where is Paul?

My eyes search the room, grasping to find the familiar; a soft plump chair, that looks comfortable. The confusion of the space is halting. I need to sit down. My butt firmly in place I run my hands over the soft, brown arms of the chair. I was right, this thing is comfy.

Okay, what was I doing?

Keys, keys… keys.

Where are my keys?

I don’t want to be late for work. Paul must’ve gone ahead, I can’t hear him walking about. I glance over at the bookshelf. I love that photo of us. It’s my favourite, our wedding day. No time to waste, must get to work. Heading for the door, I brace myself mentally for the day.

Pulling the door open I see a long and carpeted hallway. It’s bright from the sunshine gleaming in from the windows at the end. There are doors on my left and to my right; even in front of me.

Wait, this can’t be right. Where am I? What…erm?

My eyes flicker between the faces in the hallway. Who are these people? I don’t recognise any of them. Was I in a car crash, is that why I can’t remember where I am? That must be right. There’s a nurse. She’s smiling. She must know what’s going on.

“Good morning, Helen!” Oh, she’s smiling at me, pearly whites beaming from ear to ear, prompting a response.

“Erm, good morning. Hi. I’m sorry, I’m late. I need to get to work”, I feign a friendly glance her way. I need to get going.

My head is so fuzzy, but it’ll pass. I need to get to work, there are papers that need filing, new clients to talk to then meet Paul for lunch. A nurse passes.

“Morning Helen. How are we doing today?”

“I’m fine thanks.” He was friendly.

Okay, how do I get out of here?

Long corridor, green sign, white man, white arrow. Exit. Perfect.

I walk quickly to the doors, my arms reaching out in front of me to force the weight of the double doors open. But my hands collide with my shoulders as my body slams against the tough metal barrier. I push my weight against it again. Nothing, still locked. I stand back, confused. It must open inwards, what an idiot. Pull not push. I roll my eyes, embarrassed. I look around, but the only people looking my way are two nurses. I shrug at them, with a guilty smile, and pull the door. It’s doesn’t move, again.

What the heck?

I turn to the nurses, “Sorry, excuse me. The door seems to be jammed… locked? I really need to get out”.

One of the nurses walks over, another follows closely behind; the nice gentleman from earlier.

“Helen. Where are you going?” He smiles at me, sympathetically, a sad look on his face.

“I need to get to work”. I plead, weary of the deeper meaning to the look on his face.

Why isn’t he letting me out?

I need to get out. I push on the door again, then pull at the handles with no affect.

“Please. Come sit down Helen. Don’t worry about work for now. Please, come. Take a seat”. His eyes watch me intently.

“But, I need to go?” I go to thumb my keys towards the door. I don’t have them.
Where’ve they gone?

Dizzying pain appears in my head again. The other nurse comes to stand next to the nice man. She’s smiling softly at me too. But their eyes are both full of sadness.

This time, the woman asks me, “Please, Helen. Come sit down.” Her eyes give nothing away but she asks me so softly, I comply. As I walk to a chair with the lady I see both their shoulders drop in relief.

Relief at what?

I see the nice man signal to some other nurses to stand down, a few of them are wearing uniforms I don’t recognise.

The lady places me into a chair. It overlooks a sea of springtime gardens, splashes of colour ignite my senses. I smile, involuntarily, at the scene before me.

“Hmmm, flowers. They’re beautiful. I like this a lot.”

“I know Helen. This is your favourite spot.”

It is?

“Would you like a cup of tea, Helen?”

“Yes please. Thank you, Nurse...?”

“…Mavern. Nurse Mavern, and you’re welcome, Helen.”

I smile at her, pleased with our conversation, then glance to the sea of flowers outside. My mind wanders; roaming over the blades of grass; birds, splashing in the water from the fountain; the leaves moving, floating around in the wind. It’s peaceful. Beautiful.

“Here you are Helen. Your tea.” My mind snaps out of the garden and into the room.

“Oh, tea. Lovely. Thank you.” I take a sip, it’s perfect; especially when I’m such a pain for how I like my tea. Music.

Where’s that coming from?

I turn my head trying to use my ears as antenna to pick up the musical signal.

Where is it coming from?

A small stereo on the table in the corner, by a vase of flowers. It’s nice music. I know this song. My eye-lids drift close, they’re so heavy; I hum to the song, moving my fingers in a little dance to the music. I can’t remember its name though. But it makes me feel happy and warm inside. I like it.

“Helen?” I open my eyes to a tall, older man, standing in front of me. He looks friendly.

“Can I sit?” He gestures to the chair beside me and I nod. I like new people.

“Hi,” I smile at him. “My name’s Helen. What’s your name?” He smiles, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They look sad. I wonder why.

“Hi, Helen. My name is Paul.” He says.

Paul…Paul…That’s familiar. Isn’t that? No. Who knows… it’s gone. I look out to the garden, the notice movement beside me. I turn to the chair and see a man sat there.

“Hello.” I say, trying my hardest to be friendly. I don’t like strangers. They’re unknown.

Who is he? What is he doing here?

I can’t breathe, he’s panicking me. I don’t like it. I look at him, eyes wide. He can see my distressed confusion.

“Nurse?!” He shouts someone over. “She’s panicking.”

“She’s not having such a good day Mr Bensham,” she sighs.

My eyes dart between them.

What are they saying?

I’m Helen. Helen Bensham. But, he…he’s not Paul. He’s not my Paul.

“I don’t know who he is! Get him away from me.” My voice is high pitched and screeching. I hope they can hear me. They need to listen to me. “Get him away from me!”

“Helen, please? It’s Paul. It’s me Paul. I’m your husband. Remember me?”

I stop shouting and search his eyes, they’re green like a forest. I stare at his face, his ears, taking everything in. He sounds like Paul. But he… he isn’t him. This isn’t my Paul. He’s holding his palms up towards me, in defence, and I notice Paul’s wedding ring.

“Get him away from me!” I scream.

“Mr Bensham, I think you should leave. Today is not a good day.” The nurse tells him.

Not a good day? What?

I get out of my chair quickly, off-balance, and knock it to the ground.

Why won’t they listen to me?

Suddenly, I’m pulled backwards into a metal chair, nurses surround me, holding me.

“Let me go!”

What's going on?

Through the folds of uniform I see the ‘husband imposter’ talking to a doctor. They’re nodding in agreement over something. Then one of them walks over to me.

“Sharp scratch Helen. Everything is going to be okay.”

Why wouldn’t it be?

The dizzying has stopped, now I’m just tired. Work today must’ve really worn me out. I didn’t see Paul though. He must’ve been busy at lunch-time. He’s always busy these days. My eye-lids are so tired, I need sleep. I’m drifting off. There’s that music again. I like this song. Stars shining bright above me.

‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’.

Paper Heart - Part 1

Just a little something I've been working on. Hopefully it's going to build into something a lot bigger. But we'll see. Lucy is my leading lady though. I want to build on her a bit.

Paper Heart

The door vibrated with a loud bang as she shut it heavily. She turned back to it, making sure it was locked, then high-tailed it down the worn concrete steps of her apartment building. Her heels clicked on the stairs, echoing up and down the empty large stairwell. Almost running, she grabbed the banister for support, smoothing her palm down the wooden ledge, piling warm buttered toast into her mouth.

She rounded the corner to the bottom foyer and mumbled through a mouthful of toast, “Crap, crap, crap”. 
Upon hearing the racket outside her door a short, older lady, sporting a pink fluffy dressing gown, matching slippers, and hair curlers, slipped out her doorway and leaned against the frame, arms folded.

When she saw Lucy, she smiled. “Morning, Lucy,” she called.

Lucy looked up, abruptly stopping her assault on the stairs. “Morning, Mrs Finchel,” she said, through a mouthful of toast. 

“Lovely day isn’t it, deary?” Mrs Finchel smiled, barely containing her laughter at the normalcy of Lucy flying down the stairs, desperate to get to work on time.

“Yes. Yes, it is Mrs Finchel” Lucy’s voice faded as she resumed her attack on the hallway, knowing her neighbour was amused by her tardiness. “Sorry! Can’t stop, I’m going to be late for work,” Lucy said, tapping hurriedly down the stairs. She pushed the main door open with both hands, squinting her eyes at the onslaught of the morning sun.

Her nose tingled and her cheeks froze as a blast of cold winter air blew into her face. It sent shivers down her spine and pimples rising all over her body. She drew her hands up and wrapped her very long self-knitted, blue, purple and white striped scarf around her neck, cocooning it from the bristling air.

She stood, dancing on the spot, adrenaline rushing through her at the prospect of being late, yet knowing she needed to take steps to shield her now shivering body from the harsh cold air. She hated winter. It drove her insane. The constant need to always stay warm, life-threatening if you didn’t. The rise-in-the-dark and go-home-in-the-dark short winter days grated on her self-preservation. She longed for summer and flowers, and warm air kissing her face. Winter seemed so devoid of life, drab and dreary.

Her eyes followed her coat zipper from her thighs to her scarf. She burrowed her face, up to her nose, into its warm woolly barrier, then shoved her hands into her pockets, ready to take on the day. If she didn’t walk quickly then she’d be stuck in rush-hour tube station traffic into the city, and that was never fun.

She rushed past a building window, glancing at her reflection. Her eyes flew wide-open, seeing the mass of hair protruding in fuzziness out of her head. It enveloped her face in a circle of mousy-brown, half-curly, half-brushed tresses.

“Urgh, seriously?” Lucy groaned, out loud. Suddenly aware of the eyes in the shop, staring back at her. She smiled at them embarrassed. The male audience, shook his head and tipped his mug to her in greeting, smiling at her in amused response.

She rushed off, wanting nothing more than to turn around, head home, and hibernate under a pile of duvets, cushions and aromatherapy – in the form of hot chocolate or coffee.

Lucy swung her bag from her side and delved in, desperately trying to find a saviour for her hair. Her stride quickened as her fingers searched frantically into the depths of her black-hole of a bag. No bobble, but an elastic band. Anything was better than nothing. She looped her hair up into a messy bun, tendrils of fuzz and curls fell by her ears, loose hairs too short to fit into the bunch on top of her head. It made her ears cold and she realised she didn’t bring a hat. But it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

She rounded a corner, checking her phone for the time. The stupid useless thing betraying her this morning is what got her into this late mess in the first place. Everything was forgiven when she realised her mad dash out the flat, and quick on-the-move breakfast put her ahead of schedule. She sighed in relief; white cloudy mist permeated the air around her. She looked up to get her bearings, taking in where she was and how long it’d take her to get to the tube station. Just a few more streets.

That’s when she noticed it, a little note, tacked to the lamp post. It couldn’t have been there long, otherwise it would’ve blown off in the wind before now. The post-it sized fluorescent pink paper had a heart drawn in the middle, covering the whole square. She frowned; her brow furrowed in confusion. She stepped closer to inspect the paper, sure she could see something written on it.

Lucy read out loud, ‘Start here. Follow the pink hearts.’ Funnily enough this wasn’t the oddest thing she’d ever seen on a lamppost, namingly her brother, naked, the morning after his stag do. Not an image she liked to recall often. She looked around and couldn’t see anyone. The street wasn’t abnormally quiet for this time in the morning. Sure, other people with jobs lived in the area but she had a slightly later start time than most and the only school kids she’d seen walking around were either late, or skipping school. Her eyes searched up and down the street, focusing on windows and doors, looking to see if anyone was peeking out, watching her fall for their trick.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted it. Half way down the street, on the other side of the road, stuck to a lamppost was another pink square. Lucy smiled, knowing curiosity would get the better of her. She tried defending her nosy interest – the next lamppost was still on her way to work. But, she knew, if there were more that veered her off the monotonous walk to the station, then she was going to follow them. 

Worry - Writing Short 5

I think my mum has forgotten to do hers and I've been busy with editing work so didn't finish mine until today. My mum bought me a new posh writing pad and pen to put all my work in and I'm almost half-way through it. I'll be asking her to send me another one soon! This writing short is based on the feeling - worry. My hubster, Adam, chose the word so because I didn't have any ideas in mind on how to write it, it probably took me a little longer. :) I'll probably put all of these together at some point. Print them out, make them look fancy. That'd be nice.

Worry

from: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/24/13/c0/2413c0823c8128c1c6c6211100fbf13c.jpg

This was such a bad idea.

Freya knocked on the familiar door and sighed with no answer. Marne knew she was coming over so she knocked again. She knew this was insane. Why on earth had she come? Even as she asked herself she knew why. So, did he. Even after ten years had passed since she last saw him she knew as soon as the divorce was finalised she had to see him. He was always there at the end of every relationship she’d been in. And once her divorce had come through she knew this was exactly where she needed to be.

Marne opened the door in a rush, their eyes met and Freya smiled at him, trying to conceal her feelings. He looked as he always did. It warmed her body.

“Hi. Hey. Sorry. You’re early. Come in.” Marne’s hair was tousled and wet from his recent shower. He was dressed but his neck still glistened with beads of water. He must’ve rushed out of the shower to answer the door.

“Hey. Yeah, I know. My train got in on time for once and it didn’t take me long to walk up from the station.” Freya looped her scarf from around her neck and wrapped it over the bannister, hanging her coat over the top. Her eyes scanned around the open plan room, “This place hasn’t changed at all. Which is weird…considering the last time I was here was ages ago”.

Marne smirked in amusement, “Want a drink?”

“Rosé, please.” Freya pulled her boots off and kicked them to the floor. She slid over the laminate in her socks to the sofa, dropping down into the plush leather with a thud. The atmosphere was so awkward the tension could be cut with a knife. It was nauseating and made Freya feel a little sick. Now she was here she was terrified and so, so, nervous. Just like she always was around him. Right from that first kiss years ago, the one Marne planted on her in the soft rain, with one arm holding an umbrella trying to shield them from the March spring-time weather.

He never made her feel bad or awkward. He just made her feel. If he judged her back then or even now, he never said. But she did. Freya judged him, and her, and what they had together. She mostly judged herself. She never felt like she was good enough for him or that she deserved him, so, she pushed him away. That was back then. Years ago, and this is now. Freya, sat watching the fire. She remembered back to all those years ago, when he first got it installed. When he was still in the final stages of renovation on his house. Freya turned to Marne, admiring the way he poured her a glass of wine. The way, he coolly walked over and sat next to her. He handed her the glass and put his arm onto the back of the sofa; one knee folded onto the sofa whilst his other leg was placed, firmly, on the floor; keeping his balance.

Marne smiled at her, “So, how are you?”

Freya sighed, moving her attention down to her glass of wine, swirling it around in the glass as she said, “Things have been interesting…and hard. I know we made the right decision though”. She smiled, weakly, before taking a gulp of wine.

She mirrored the way he sat. Her fingers moments from touching his. The tips could brush his if she was brave enough, and ready for rejection. Why was she so worried about this? Marne didn’t say she shouldn’t come down when she asked to see him. She’d been here so many times before. Yet this time was different, they didn’t know where they ‘stood’ this time. Last time it was an agreement, one in which Freya let go of more than she’d bargained for. But they knew what they were last time. This time nothing was certain. But, at least this time, they were both in the same place, mentally, at the same time.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Marne cocked his head to one side, leaning on his arm that was on the back of the sofa. He stared into her eyes, as though searching for something, “You haven’t changed a bit,” he sighs.

“Ha! I’d like to think I have, a little at least.” Freya boldly moves her hand, to emphasise her point, lacing her fingers through his. She knew she had to be the one to make the first move this time. She couldn’t do this full of alcohol if she wanted him to know she was serious. Alcohol always used to relax her inhibitions enough to help her through her fears of being with him. “You’ve changed.” She stares at Marne. “Not in a bad way though”. God. She was skirting around this whole thing and messing up so badly. Marne meant so much to her. Too much. To Freya he’d always been the ‘one that got away’, her ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. Back then she thought he was too good for her, even though he never gave her that indication, hindsight was so cruel sometimes.

“Really? How?” Marne cut into her thoughts, up until then she hadn’t realised her attention had moved to the canvas above his fireplace. She ignored his question.

“I still can’t believe you really painted that, even if you did use masking tape to keep the lines straight, and then tried to make me believe you painstakingly drew each line really slowly with a tiny brush.” Freya rolled her eyes, looking back to Marne and to their colliding, dancing fingers.

She only just noticed he hadn’t stopped her, or pushed her hand away when she started caressing his fingers. She needed all the positive vibes she could get. It wasn’t that this felt wrong. It just felt so right that it scared her. The quietness in the air electrified her body, making her heart race. She needed to do something about it before it jumped right out of her chest. She wondered if Marne felt the same way but worried about the rejection. Just the thought of him backing down from this was killing her. It stopped her moving forward, back then and now.

Sparks ignited through their fingers; their only point of physical contact. Marne moved to stand up, withdrawing from her touch, crouching to start some music on the PC. Kings of Leon surrounded them and she closed her eyes to the song. It’d been years since she’d heard it. The wine warmed Freya’s throat as she took another long slow sip. She opened her eyes and gazed at Marne’s back as he got up and walked to the kitchen, grabbing the food from the hob. She loved this house. The open plan downstairs was so different to all the other houses in the area. She loved Marne’s personal touches on the house; knowing he’d done most of it himself. Freya looked at him, knowing what she’d always known, she loved him.

She watched as he had his back to her sorting plates and gathering utensils to sort food. She adored his back. Freya used to sit, cross-legged, on the bed in the spare bedroom, as he laid across the bed, on his stomach while they watched a film. She knew Marne liked it when she stroked his back, she liked being able to do that for him. So, whenever she could, she would. He never knew it, but she’d always trace “I love you” onto his back. She was so scared back then, of what being with him might mean, so always pushed it away.

‘Revelry’ played through the speakers whilst Marne served dinner. She stood, reluctantly, feeling the bobbled rug under her feet, she once joked that walking on it felt like tiny bobbled hamsters. It was a gorgeous rug. She went to perch herself on one of his breakfast bar stools as he came around the counter to sit down next to her. Their faces were so close Freya could smell his breath; fruity and alcoholic, his cologne; strong and dizzying. In less than a second she moved forward to kiss him.

His hand came up to cradle her face as he gently kissed her back. Slowly to emphasise everything she was feeling through their interlocked mouths. The kiss wasn’t half-assed as it sometimes had been in the past. She knew Marne, and knew when he was just going through the motions. This wasn’t one of those times. Freya put her arms around his back, pulling him closer. She arched into him, moulding her body to his. Just like they used to.

They pulled back, faces flush and her lips were tingling. She smiled at him. He searched her eyes and kissed her again, his hands on either side of her face. It was everything she’d dreamt of over the years, everything she remembered. They moved apart at the same time.

“Your eyes are still as green as I remembered them.” Marne ran a finger over her lips, her mouth parted slightly.

“Thank you,” Freya smiled, widely. He remembered her eyes? Suddenly, she wasn’t as worried as she used to be. Her fear of him leaving and rejecting what she’d always wanted, was almost gone. It still niggled in her mind but that kind of worry is what she’d lost in her ex. The kind that keeps you on your toes, trying to do everything you can to keep the other person happy. Freya had lost that with her ex because every time she fought to keep him happy he never did the same for her. But, with Marne, she already knew how considerate he was. She’d burnt her hand once at work, and went by his place afterwards to chill-out. He noticed her burn and walked over to the ice-dispenser in his fridge, balled it up in a towel and popped it on her burn. She’d gotten too drunk one night and he nursed her back to sobriety.

The worry of wanting him to be happy was always there but the worry of unreciprocated love wasn’t. She knew he loved her. Marne knew how Freya needed to be loved, shown and not told, and he did that for her. Ten years ago, and now. The words weren’t needed.

Window - Short 3

This time I chose window. I had an idea in my head that I was going with then halfway through writing, my brain kinda went away and my imagination was like, "Hey, what about this idea?" I wrote it and read it and loved it. I hope you do too.

photo from: www.homestratosphere.com/entrance-hall-designs/

Window

                “Do you like it?”
                “It’s beautiful”, she looked up, above the entrance way.
                “You’re sure?” He came behind her, wrapping her in his arms, his chin resting on her head.

                “Yes. Honestly. It’s beautiful.”

                “Beautiful…But you didn’t say you liked it”.

                She turned to face him and sighed, “It’s just bigger than I expected it to be”.

                He brought his hands from the small of her back to her shoulders and lowered himself to look straight into her eyes. “We can change it if you want?”
                “No. No…honestly. It’s big but it’s fine. You’d have to tear the wall down to change it, wouldn’t you?”
                “Yes. But that’s not an issue. You know cost isn’t a problem”.
                She sighed and looked into his eyes, “It’s times like these I wish we could go into some sort of virtual reality machine to see what the window would’ve looked like before it was all built in.

                “It’s really that bad?” He asked, dejectedly.

                She turned back to the window above the doorway in the foyer of their new home. The house was finally finished. This was the first time they’d stepped inside since it was complete. The rooms still bare and undecorated. Her heels clicked over the concrete floor.

                “But we’ve changed the plans so much already. I think our architect would hate me if I did it again”, she looked his way, her eyes betrayed how she really felt.

                “If it’s what you want then she’ll have to accept it. I don’t see why she’d complain. It’s more money for her in the long run.” He smirked, money wasn’t the question, making her happy was.

                She wafted her hand towards his face, pushing his idea away, “It’s just a window. I’m being far too picky and silly”. She walked over to the bottom of the stairs and twirled her fingers around the deep oak bannister at the bottom, looking up into the open plan foyer, lost in thought.

                He was stood, watching her, by the front door, hands in pockets and smiling at her. She was beautiful. She’d always been his dream. This house was hers. He’d been living his dream for 25 years and the kids were all grown up and had moved onto their own lives. She’d put her dream aside for him, and them, so now it was her turn.

                “I’ll call the architect in the morning and get the window changed. It’s nothing my love”, he reassured her.

                She turned to him from the stairwell, “The light hits the window at the perfect spot to make the entire space glow. Imagine the colours that would bounce around in here once we have the chandelier up. Imagine the sunsets…” She walked to him, “…it’s perfect”. The sun shone behind her, filling her body in a glowing light.
                He smiled, “Yes, it is”.
                His phone rang, interrupting their moment, “Hey, Sweetie!” He smiled.
                “Hey, Dad, how’s the house? You like it?”
                He looked at his wife, “It’s perfect”
                “I’m glad…” she breathed into the phone, she must’ve held her breath until she’d known the house was okay, “…It took ages but we finally got there. I’ll be over tomorrow with Ben and the kids. Got to make sure you don’t starve”. There was a smirk to her voice and he laughed.
                “I’m not going to starve”, his wife smiled at the remark from their daughter.

                “I know, I know. But, living in a caravan on the lot can’t have been easy. I’m sure the meals haven’t been the greatest”.

                “It’ll do for now Liddy. The decorating will be done in no time”.

                She sighed, resigned in her father’s hope, “Okay, Dad. Well, we love you okay?”

                “I know. Me too. I’ll see you tomorrow baby girl”.             

                “Okay, and Dad…”
                “…Hmm?”
                “We miss her too”, she sighed.

                “I know. Me too. This is her house more than mine.” He looked at his wife, smiling and looking at him in pure adoration, the sun bouncing off her beautiful face.

                “You think she’d have liked it, Dad?”

                He smiles back at his wife, responding to his daughter on the phone, “I know she would have done, sweetie.”

                “Good. We’ll see you tomorrow then…”, strain was laced in her voice as she whispered, “…I’m sorry it had to be this way”.
                His body relaxed into the call, “Don’t be Liddy. Nobody saw it coming. Your mum fought, just as any survivor would, to see this place finished. We just put her getting ill down to the exhaustion of waiting for this place to be done. We didn’t even think it could be the Cancer coming back”, he was saying what he could to try and calm his daughter’s voice with his words. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll love the house. Bye sweetie”.

                “Bye, Daddy”.

                He put the phone down and placed it back into his pocket and looked up at Elizabeth. She was stood on the bottom of the stairs, light now shining in through the same window she’d said she wanted changing.

                Her hair dazzled in the Autumn sun. Her eyes wide and full of promise, and her smile was the most beautiful he’d ever seen. She looked happy, at peace. It was almost as though they were 25 years younger and right back where they began. Life full of love and promise.
                He choked, “I’m sorry you couldn’t be here with me to see this place finished”.

                “I’m here”, she smiled, looking up to the window, “Don’t change the window, Stephen. I love it”.

                He looked up to the window behind him, “I won’t. I promise”. He turned back, she’d gone. His face fell and his body crumpled under the weight of her absence. He walked to the steps trying to gain back the feeling of what it would’ve been like to have her standing there with him. He fell to the bottom step and sat hunched over in grief. His head between his hands resting on his knees.

                “I miss you so much”, he cried to the air around him.

                It whispered back, “I’m always here”. 

Writing Short 1 - Tree

I've just recently started working freelance on editing a friend's books and helping out with the publicity and promotion of her latest work and it got me thinking with a writing head again. I used to write a lot. Didn't we all at some point? I'm sure we've all penned a little ditty or two over the years... Anyway, I digress. I showed my mum something I'd written ages ago, when Adam and I first got married. It's not long, nor perfect. But she liked it - and my mum is not afraid to voice her opinions. So we decided to write. Both of us. I know she's been working on a book for a while trying to get her ideas together, her fibro brain being a pain. We thought it'd be good to base a short story around an inanimate object and my mum chose tree. I won't post hers here as this is a place for my shorts but if she doesn't mind me doing so then I put it up at a later date. Anyway, without further ado, here is mine.

Tree

She closes her eyes against the summer sun, air whistling past her ears as she goes higher and higher, her body almost horizontal. She opens her eyes as her body propels her backwards, face pointing towards the floor as she holds onto the ropes tightly. Loving the feel of the suns hot rays beaming down on her face through the trees; the way the fields of flowers, corn, wheat and barley intoxicate her nostrils.
            This place is home, always has been. The sun, fields, trees and this little part of the wood, all collide in her heart, making it home.
            She swings again, not touching the ground; using her legs to push her forward. She’s always loved this place.

“Hey”, a voice comes from behind her, she puts her feet down towards the ground, slowing her pendulum free-fall.

“Hey! I didn’t think you were going to make it. I was just about to leave”. She studies his face, his chest rushing to fill with air and quickly emptying again. She realises he’s bent over slightly, trying to catch his breath. “Hey…You okay? If I hadn’t seen you this afternoon I would’ve just come to your house at some point this week, you know.”

“Yeah…Yeah, I know…I just wanted…to see you...today” He breathes in quickly, trying to answer her question without being too urgent with his answer.

Aside from the almost dying, breathless, look he has on his face, she can see something else in him today, something…different. Grown-up, maybe? Her reflection into his appearance is giving him some time to catch his breath, glad of the silence. He needs to do this today. He can’t wait any longer, this is killing him.

“Mum’s cooking up some apple pie for when we get back. I told her you were coming with me, not like it wasn’t obvious.” She smiles, glad he seems to have regained his composure.

He straightens up, hands on hips, “Oh man, I love your mum’s apple pies” smiling at her in response.

“I know. Why do you think she’s making it?” She winks, swinging slowly back and forth, her feet scuffing the floor.

“Dad’s got my ass in a grinder this week, working me until my head explodes with all the information, about the garage, he’s trying to shove in there.” He walks up to her, pausing his hands on her back, pushing her forward into the air. Her golden hair splays backwards at him as she moves through the wind up to the sky, like an angel. The sun, doing nothing to quell his thoughts, each time it hit her hair it sent a bright shot of anxiety through his mind, telling him he couldn’t do this right now, knowing in his heart that he should.

After pushing her back and forth a few times she says, “Well, you did agree to work for him so it can’t be that bad. If I remember correctly, you did have the opportunity to go to Uni, you know”.

“You did too. Yet you stayed to work with your mum in the flower shop”.

“C’mon, you think I could’ve really left this place? I mean look at it”, her voice gets slightly quieter every time he pushes her away…pushes her away – how ironic.

“Yeah, it’s not all bad I suppose”. His body goes into auto pilot, slowing down the thrusts hurling her into the sky. He has rehearsed what he’s wanted to say to her so many times and yet he falters. It all sounds too dumb, now that he’s here with her. She interrupts his thoughts, obviously aware that he’s slowed down in his task of pushing her on the swing. She’s looking around at the tree.

“Remember when we used to come here as kids? Your sisters, you, my brother and me? We’d climb as high as we could on this thing”. She looks above at the gigantic tree, towering down on her, blocking the sun, except for little trickles of summer air falling through the cracks.

“Ha, yes. I don’t think my old bones could make it past the first branches now. Either that or I’d snap it with my weight!”

“Seriously, Noah? You’re not old or fat. If you’re old at the age of twenty-two, then what the hell does that make me?”

“Uhm…ancient?” She stops the swing and stands, turning to hit him on the arm; hand meeting soft cloth with a loud thud.

“Hey! That’s not fair! I’m younger than you!” She laughs at him and looks up. Her eyes are the brightest green he’s ever seen, no flecks of any other colour, just pure emerald green. He loved them. He loved her, and the freckles that crowded around her nose.

She is looking at him confused, while he stares at her, because he’s gone silent and his pupils have gotten bigger. She’s never noticed them do that before. She’s noticed him before, always has. They’ve been through their young lives together, grown up in school together, passed exams and gone on double dates with each other’s significant halves. But, since their teen years she’d stepped back and aside, watching him from afar. Loving him more deeply each day, yet too scared to lose him if she ever mentioned the slightest idea of romance between them. But here he was, looking down on her, differently, in a way she’d never seen him do before.

He knew it was now or never. He knew if he didn’t tell her now then he’d mess it up forever. What was he thinking? Even if he did tell her it’d still mess things up forever. But her eyes, her face, her body, all leaning into him, pleading for him to say something. Their close stance making her temporarily mute.

He gazes into her eyes, knowing he can’t say anything. He just can’t. Everything he’s practiced for months to say just goes out of his mind, flying away in the wind, with one look from her. That look. The one he’s always wanted from her. He moves a hand up to her face, catching a stray curl waving in front of her eyes, blocking his view. He pulls it down and tucks it softly behind her ear. She closes her eyes at his touch and opens them, looking up at him with deep desire.

The summer breeze flows up around them, pulling them out of their trance. She looks away and he knows he’s lost his moment. It was gone. She moves from him towards the tree, running her hands over it’s rough, mossed edges, staring at the details in the grain, staring at anything but him. Sighing, she says, “I wonder how many lives have been lived under this tree. This swing was here way before I was. I mean, sure, it’s had a few rope replacements over the years, but I couldn’t ever imagine my life without it”, she looks up, lost in the tree’s over-bearing awe, handling the wood delicately under her fingers.

“I couldn’t ever imagine my life without you in it”. She snaps her head back quickly to face him. He realises that what he was thinking he must’ve said out loud. The shocked look on his face must’ve made her nervous because she replies with a quick laugh.

“Well, of course not, Noah. I’ve known you forever! You’re like this tree. Ha. Always in my life. I’m grateful for that, you know…” She smiles at him. Her back now leaning against the hard, unforgiving surface, legs out in front of her, perching against the tree.

The elation he’d had at telling her how he really felt about her quickly dissipates when he realised she’d laughed it off. But, having half told her what he’d desperately wanted to for so long, he couldn’t stop the thoughts in his mind from splurging out in front of him.

“No, Sophie. That’s not what I meant. I couldn’t ever imagine my life without you in it…with me. Together. Not just friends…I need you.” He takes a deep breath, realising he was holding it in, the whole time he spoke.

She looks at him, stood a few feet away from her. He’s holding on to the swing’s rope for support, balancing himself after relieving a massive weight from his heart. She realises, that’s why he looked different today. That’s why he asked to meet her at their favourite childhood spot. This place reminds them both, of the amazing times they’ve had together.

He's blown it. He knew this would happen. She’s staring at him and hasn’t said anything at all in so long. The air grows thick around them and from the shocked look on her face and the fact that she hasn’t replied to him makes him realise she doesn’t feel the same way. But, he feels better knowing that he’s said what he came here to say, and even though she doesn’t feel the same way at least he can move on now. Stop obsessing about this. Constantly building up this dream-like vacuum in his mind where they’d be together. Together, with kids and a cat, maybe a dog, or both. And, they’d come here with their children, for picnics under the tree, just like their parents did with them. The air starts to feel constricting and tight, he needs to say something, anything, to leave and collect himself. He rushes, “I’d better go. It’s getting kinda’ chilly and I didn’t bring a jacket”, deflated, he kicks at the floor and turns, walking away into the wood to his house on the other side of the clearing.

“I love you, Noah.” She says it so quietly he only hears it through the passing air, riding on the wind to his mind.

He turns and stares at her, mouth breaking into the widest smile she’s ever seen. He comes storming towards her, pulling her face into his hands as she is pushed, hard, against the tree. She grabs his waist to steady herself against his onslaught of masculine power.

Neither says anything. They know they don’t have to. He searches her eyes and follows her freckles down her nose, looking at her mouth as she breaks into the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen.

“Say that again, Sophie.” He whispers, breathing onto her face.

“I love you, No…” Before she can finish he kisses her, moulding together like it was always meant to be. He moves his hands from her delicate face, whilst still kissing her, and wraps them behind her body, shielding her back from the harsh bark protecting the tree digging into her. Her arms come up to fold around his neck, pulling his body closer. She never wants to let him go and knows he’ll never make her.

Their mouths slowly part; his warm breath tickles her lips. Their eyes open, finding one another, and he moves back slightly so her arms fall from behind him. He pulls her forward off the tree and guides her over its thick roots protruding out of the ground.
He releases a little laugh and smiles at her, “I love you too, Sophie” holding out his hand he beckons her to take it. Gladly, she obliges, slipping their fingers together like they’d never been apart.

“C’mon. We’d better get back. I heard your mum’s got apple pie on for me, and nothing is going to stop me from eating that!” He winks back at her, she beams at him as they walk back to her house, hand in hand, looking at each other and the world in a completely new way, smiling at everything.