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.

                

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.