My mission had been to submit my story by the deadline. I was failing fast.
I had to write something. My head was stuffed with a myriad of ideas, but none of them seemed to work. I sighed as I looked at the pile of screwed up papers overflowing the waste bin.
I reread all the other submissions for what seemed like the tenth time. What did they have that mine lacked? Even my analytic powers seemed to have deserted me.
I tried some displacement activities to look for inspiration elsewhere. My e-mails and You Tube displayed the same as when I had looked before. I came up with no fresh ideas for the story.
What struck Julian were the silvered eyebrows half-way down an oblong face. Most people’s eyebrows are a third of the way down. This displacement, together with a high hairline, left a disconcertingly blank expanse of forehead skin, broken only by a stray wisp of hair escaping diagonally from an oiled and groomed coif to gently caress the outer arch of the right brow.
They had met in Drawing Class five years previously. A common love of philately and the search for the missing, presumed stolen, “Inverted Jennies.” -so named because the stamps’ bi-planes had been printed upside-down, -had propelled an initial halting comradeship into friendship, to them sharing a flat together, then more.
Shane was ostensibly the more extrovert. A favourite entertainment for both was him regaling Julian with colourful yarns of adventures with his “alternative” friends; the “Famous Five” he called them. Sometimes, without warning, “You go out and enjoy yourself. Come back any time after 10.30pm.” Shane would say in his appeasing voice, letting Julian know he had to be out that evening and what time he was permitted to return. Shane would shower, apply aftershave, don his grey and pink checked, 3 piece suit, and complete the “look” so carefully cultivated with a fedora. Julian guessed these evening assignations were with the “Famous Five”, either singly or in various combinations. Him meeting any was out of the question. Not permitted.
The university park stumbled down to the sea, imitating the crazy lurching of the terraced houses on the same giddy hill. Sam scuffed about the paths round the flower beds, vaguely aware of daffodils in bloom.
He had a
sharp, stabbing pain at the side of his stomach that wouldn’t go away. He was
utterly miserable. Three years he’d stayed away from the town, but as soon as
he’d entered the park – following the route he and Nicola had often walked –
the sense of oppression had just welled up from within him. Memories from the
past pushed up a bit like bulbs in the
soil.
My name is Stephen Sacks and I’m a complete faggot.
Oh, I know,
I know, bluntness is discouraged these days and words like that reek of
self-loathing but I’m not pussy footing around, tonight I aim for honesty.
I’ll tell
you about a revelation I had last week which stoked the embers and relit my
passion. I was at an outdoor pool party, held by my sister’s in-laws. A
celebration over the fact they had stuck it out for fifty years.
So, there I
was, meekly maundering by the barbecue when I became aware of somebody’s
nephew, Johnny whatever, wafting by the swimming pool. And as that handsome
youth, wearing nothing but tight trunks, beer in hand, talked to another Adonis,
dear reader I felt the desire.
“Can you picture her face?” My words tumbled out of my mouth as soon as my sister picked up the phone.
“Huh? Whose face?” Evelyn replied.
“Mum’s,” I said.
At sixty years old, I had just learned that
most people possessed a superpower. They could visualise objects, places,
events and people in their “mind’s eye”. I could not. Suddenly the darkness of
my mind seemed blinding. What’s more, I felt the loss of my mother more acutely
than ever.
Our mother had died six months earlier, after a
long battle with cancer. Evelyn and I had nursed her until the end. Now there
was a gaping hole in my life. It was Larry, my husband, who had suggested
giving meditation a go.
I first met Jose Luis Vercas on the concrete apron jutting out into the mouth of the Targus where the splendour of the Manueline Port of Lisboa ends and a wide expanse of river divides the city from Alcântara. He was short, but well-muscled and possessed of that curiously Portuguese combination of a mane of swept-back, black and wavy hair; and a forehead so high it begged to be labelled, “domed”. He said he too was a teacher, but offered no hint of subject or at what level he taught and, to be frank, my interest did not extend that far.
“Do you have it?” I asked in my formal Portuguese. He smiled
and nodded – a slight movement of his head, causing a lock of stray hair to
struggle free. Patting his messenger bag, he said in accent-free English, “It’s
here.”
Jane almost skipped out
of the clinic. She had been told by her
consultant that she was free of cancer.
Striding down the road, she passed the travel agents with its tempting array
of holidays. Telling herself that she
could do this on her own, she went into the shop and bought a train ticket to
Athens and a ferry ticket to the incredibly small island of Halki.
A month before the
all-clear, Jane received a letter from Stella who now lived on Halkii. Jane had opened the letter with shaking hands
and felt slightly sick. Stella and Jane
were the best of friends in the early 80s but in 1987 they had a row to end all
rows, on a cliff top of all places! Jane
told Stella she did not want to see her and Stella cut all contact.
Orlando’s
Café was a dreary downmarket affair, hardly Mr Barings’ idea of a meeting spot.
Pimply
youths lazed idly behind the counter, a toothless black woman drowned in a
million shopping bags and a blonde floozy hunched over her cup of coffee whilst
her boy, one irritating snot nosed tyke waddled from aisle to aisle thumping
anything with his fists.
Worst, a
lovey-dovey couple, shared a Sunday with a single spoon, breaking off from time
to time for a quick peck on the lips or an ear splittingly giggle which made Barings
long for a shotgun.
In their 23 years of cohabitation, Mel and Ron had reached achieved
an efficient level of consensus. Holiday, theatre and cinema choices had all
passed without rancour. Co-operation in the upbringing of son Ben was effective
(although Ben was unlikely to return to the family home once his college days
had expired).
They had reached deep agreement over the marking of high
days and holidays. Birthdays were briefly acknowledged, Christmas was not much
different from other days in the way of festive food. New Year resolutions were
beneath contempt – that is, until quite recently.
Look at yourself man! Paunch soft enough for a bouncy
castle, out of breath, and you smell like an outbreak of leprosy. New year’s
resolutions: get fit, have a healthier lifestyle, use deodorants.
That very
morning Atkinson jogged on the prom.
After a hundred yards he thought cardiac arrest was imminent. The next
day the exercise bike his girlfriend, Jackie, had bought him for Christmas was
set up in the spare room of the flat. He pedalled furiously for thirty seconds,
then coughed and spluttered so much he had to lay down.
By late
September, the cement in the foundations of the Christmas plans was setting
nicely and the scaffolding was under construction for our two families. Shared
festive traditions had evolved through their years of friendship. Each
purchased a tree bauble for the other during their holidays and each had amassed
a collection of these items which came to include German figures capable of
appearing to puff smoke, and smoked glass globes with holiday place names. Food
was always exquisite and achieved courtesy of the Marks and Spencer pre order
and pick up service.
We were up at dawn. I
was so excited I was nearly sick, but I still managed to eat a bowl of
porridge. This was our Christmas trip we were embarking on … to have Christmas
with my grandparents and my uncle and aunt in Cardiff.
‘Come on, Glynis,’ my
mother shouted. ‘What on earth are you doing?’
I came downstairs
wearing my pink fairy dress which I insisted was the proper outfit for
Christmas.
She had dreamt of winning the really big fortune And now she had finally done so she had also won The lottery and she had also finally learnt about politics And got to marry her sweetheart but it was not how She imagined it would be or feel. She was living the dream it was not all it cracked up to be. She had thought it Would be living the dream it was living the dream but not living it at all it, it was not like living at all.
As I reach to put my key in the front door, my husband pulled it open from inside. He shouted “You’ve won, you’ve one, we’re going on the cruise.” I was taken aback by the word “we”, I had had no intentions of taking him, as he had been getting on my nerves quite a lot lately.
He explained that he received a phone call whilst I was out, and had already given the lady all our details. We were to board at midday on 30th June, everything else had been taken care of. Not everything I thought to myself. I would have to go with the flow for now.
Me and my wife wanted a nice special holiday. So we said we will save and look for nice hotels. So we went to get some brochures to see what looked the best and we saw a lovely hotel with a nice pool and a nice bar. Sun tan and beer at the pool, sports bar to play pool, bowls, and bingo and all other things.
Her husband was a Strictly Come Dancing addict. You couldnt get his attention when the programme was on. But when she said, Malcolm, I think Im pregnant, he turned the tv off immediately, and danced her around the room. Theyd been trying for ten years and now shed conceived. When the first scan revealed a girl, Malcolm began drawing up a list of necessary purchases such as a cot and a baby car-seat. Do we buy pink clothes, or is that sexist stereotyping nowadays? he asked solemnly.
It was to be the most exciting evening of my life. A gala dinner and night in a five star hotel in London all expenses paid, a reward for all my hard work. Time spent in the spa at the hotel, then the full beauty treatments. Hair, nails all perfect. My outfit the most expensive I’d ever bought. Walking into the ballroom I noticed people smiling, as I went past feeling good. A waitress sidled up to me, ”Madame you have your dress tucked in your underwear.”
“I once found a magic lamp” said Brian “and a genie popped out of it.”
“Oh yeah?” Susie replied in her nasally croak “Was it a big burly man, naked from the waist up or was it a beautiful lady calling you master or some up?”
“It wasn’t like anything you could imagine,” Brian snorted “Didn’t look remotely human.”
“Was it pink?” yawned Susie “Did it have tentacles.”
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