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.

No Filter

Writing Short 7. Exactly what it says on the tin. Brain flowed and this came out. Apart from the odd fixing of grammar and adding of words here and there to help with flow, I'd say this is pretty much it. No filter. No crossing out or taking anything away. I'm hoping to write a few book reviews over the next few days. I've not really been on top of it all but I'm getting there... Too much reading, not enough reviewing and editing. So many great books out these days.

No Filter

From: http://rebloggy.com/post/photography-animals-trees-green-animal-dark-skull-fall-nature-forest-autumn-dead/68681318796

           The haunted, hated, echoing silence, cries; wallowing endlessly with no reply. She seeks help, something to drag her from her dark, deep, depths of sadness. She’s running, feet moving faster than her legs can carry her, faster than her brain will respond. The twigs creak, snap and crack under the weight of her urgency.

There must be someone to help her; eyes searching desperately for something, anything, to save her from this enveloping, all-encompassing end. The winter-bare branches scratch away at her face as she tries to get away. Her arms flail dramatically in front of her, shielding and protective. It knocks her off balance, her centre of gravity lost. She trips in slow motion, and a loud thud, to the floor. Scurrying, clawing, clambering away at the roots, rotting leaves and mud caked thickly over the floor.

She doesn’t know where she is. Nothing is familiar. No memories are evoked from this place; she just knows she needs to get out of here.

Her jeans are soaked, full of damp, freshly watered mud. The dirt clings to her trainers and her fingernails as she digs her toes and hands into the sludgy mess; trying to gain enough friction to pull herself to standing. Her hands claw at the chaos in front of her, searching desperately for something to aide her in her quest for freedom from this nightmare.

The blackness is following her, desperate to refuse her any sanctuary, and it encircles her; blocking any way out. All she can see is woods, thick branches, twigs, wet rain-sodden leaves, thick shoe-squelching mud; sucking the soles of her shoes from her feet.

Gaining momentum, she lunges herself from the floor; body now in full vertical position. Her head whips around, body following, a graceful ballet twirl; under different circumstances. She can see no-one. She stays stock-still, retrieving her balance and equilibrium, taking down a mental, less-distressed, note of her situation.

Besides the thumping of her heart, pounding in her ears; and her breath, deep and heavy, begging for serenity and calm before her lungs break her ribs, she can hear nothing. No birds, no animals or people chasing away.

She got away? 

No. It’s never been that easy. Yes, she’s outrun it this time, and sometimes the pills help. But, other days, it drags her in; and down, chanting phrases of worthlessness so deafening into her mind that she can’t get rid of them. Sometimes it’s just too exhausting to run from it; even after the pills give her a head-start, and she’s had a good day. There’s just no stopping the big, greying, dark fog taking over her mind. It controls all her senses, debilitates her and freezes her body away from doing anything productive. The sludge in her mind makes it almost impossible to move any of her limbs. They’re so heavily weighed down that even the small motion of eating and keeping herself alive and functional to the world outside her is exhausting.

If she pretends it’s not there, it doesn’t help. It won’t go away. It never does. Always present, laughing at her, mocking her useless defence systems every time it breaks them down. Brick by brick. Chain by chain, until she’s running. Falling. Tripping over the muck and mank in her life.

 There is no release.

                

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. 

Apple - Writing Short 4

My Mum likes to taunt me with random words. I chose a nice noun, window. She chose apple. It's taken me a good few days to get my head around this. I couldn't decide on an angle that wasn't romantic. I wanted to try and do something a little different. So, here we go. I hope you like it. Doing these shorts have also prompted me start notes for a novel. It's in very basic mode right now so might take years to sort out. We'll see. 

Apple

  

“I can’t do it,” Casey sighed.

“What? What’s wrong?” Mina was confused.

“Well, look at it! It’s a mess. The lines are all over the place, the colours don’t match, my eyes are blurring from staring at this for too long. It’s such a disaster.” Casey drags her fingers over her eyes, rubbing them in circles to shake her tiredness.

“It’s not a disaster.”

“Easy for you to say, Case.”

“Look…They didn’t say it had to be life-like or perfect, did they? They gave you a subject and told you to be ‘artistic’ with it.”

“Yeah, but an apple? Seriously? I mean really…” said Casey.

“There’s nothing wrong with using the word apple. You’ve got plenty of work done out of it.” Mina turns, spreading her arm wide, showing her friend the expanse of work she’d produced in only a short few months.

The light from the morning sun shone through the floor to ceiling industrial windows of the artistically explosive studio. Paint splashes and clay lay strewn about, thick and dry, pasted on to wooden tables; engrained from years of creative use. Art easels were propped open, holding finished canvases, drying on their stands.

Mina turned back to her friend, “You can’t say all of this isn’t amazing?”

Casey sighed, “Can’t I? I’m the artist. I’m allowed to be self-depreciative. It’s in my artistic genes.”

“Hmm. Sure,” sighed Mina. She looked around at the rows of drawings, sketches, paintings – oil, acrylic, pastel, chalk; papier mache and clay models of apples. All different shapes and sizes and colours. Her view was of a rainbow of greens and reds, some even slightly yellow. Casey’s work was incredible. Mina walked over to her favourite piece of Casey’s work and stared at the delicate details laid out before her. The clay model was of a bowl of apples. Each apple individually shaped and coloured. They almost looked real enough to eat.

“How did you get them to look so real?” She stared closely, eyes only inches from the masterpiece.

Casey shrugged, “Spray paint… with varying nozzle sizes”

“You’re a genius, you know that, right?”

“So, you keep telling me…” Casey says, rolling her eyes. She looks back to the current almost finished piece of work in front of her. She’d had enough of apples to last her life time. If she never saw, ate, or smelt another apple again that would be quite alright with her. This one was red, deep burgundy red, the ‘Snow-White’ kind of, poisonous apple, red. Only it wasn’t just burgundy. In her mind and on her canvas the apple was flecked with black to portray shadows and baby pinks were used to convey the light shining on its glossy surface. She’d painted it, on its own, on a table in the middle. The background was a blank white space. It gave the apple a look of authority, standing out from anything else in the image. As much as she was never really satisfied with her work she was proud of her latest achievements.

Before her lay, fifteen, if not more, pieces of apple artistry. She hated it and loved it, all at the same time. The focus of one subject matter had given her mind free reign to pay attention to details in her work that she would’ve overlooked when pushing more than one subject matter into an art assessment. Even she had to admit, to an untrained eye, her work was exquisite.

She looked at her aptly named ‘Deathly Apple’ and decided adding more to it would ruin it, so she jumped up, grabbed her friend by the shoulder and headed towards the door.

“I seriously need a drink. My tutor is coming in the morning. My work here is done. Let’s go celebrate!”

“I couldn’t agree more. But first, you should probably go get a shower,” Mina laughs, looking at Casey.

“What? Why?”

“Burgundy, black and peach splotches aren’t great colours for contouring make-up these days.”