walk in white

The snow crunched and squeaked beneath his tattered boots. He felt his ankles and shins tense, this way and that, keeping his balance. Once every hundred or so yards a foot would slip, and he would steady his weight by grabbing the dry stone wall to his right. Each breath he felt fill every space in his lungs, the air viscous, creeping through the network of tubes, channels and chambers. His face stung on his cheeks and the borders where his lips met his skin. He could feel the hairs in his nostrils turn brittle and feel as though they would shatter with impact. Tears grew in the corners of each eye, brought forth by the weather.

Or that’s what he told himself, anyway.

bonfire skeleton

She looked among the charred wet remains. The blackened circle surrounded by damp sand. Green glass, melted, deformed, twisted into abstraction lay buried in part under the ash. She saw no smoke but she smelled the memory of it. Her fingers ran through her hair and grains of sand fell free, their landing a whisper. She shivered slightly and put her hands in the belly pocket of her hoodie. Her hair fell in front of her eyes but she didn’t bother brushing it aside.

About 10 feet away slept a boy. Or maybe he was just passed out. Half his face was covered in sand and his mouth was open. She could hear him breathe but tried instead to hear the sea.

The sky above her loomed low. She felt she could touch it. It brightened though there seemed no source for the brightness through the cloud. It sucked the colour from all around her. The sea lapped and looked of slate. It seemed a dead dawn.

A half-empty bottle of port sat in the sand a few feet from the scorched patch. She sat down next to it and peered down its neck, judging the remains. A small sip, to see how it sat. A deeper sip. It was sweet and hot in her mouth. It burned a little as it went down. She gasped and her eyes watered. She laughed at herself. Composed again, she looked out to the slate sea and the smattering of rocks that peaked through the high water, studying the ripples as they spread out from the stones.

A half-burned plank lay next to her feet and she picked it up and threw it into the pile of ash. Another sip. She felt a drop of rain and then another. She looked up, as though she needed to know from whence it came. It was a light drizzle, and it made a light hiss as it hit the water. She looked towards the sleeping boy and the rain did not move him.

Another sip and she stood and brushed in vain at the sand, trying to dislodge it. The rain fell harder.

She looked again towards the sea and stared and drained the last of the port.

Then she turned around and walked away, leaving the scorched sand and the sleeping boy alone in the rain.

an old road

He slings the handles of the duffel bag over his shoulder and slips on his headphones. The sky hangs low but it’s dry and mild. There’s no breeze, for a change. He pulls his hat down low and turns the volume up a little. The ripples lap the harbour walls but he doesn’t hear them. The handles tug on his shoulder and he shifts the weight a touch. Within the bag sit a costume, a shaving kit, some other bits and pieces he might need along the way.

He looks out towards the sea and pulls out the earbuds. The odd gull hovers ahead. The boats sit quiet. The tide’s receding and the lobstermen are nowhere to be seen. He hears the lapping now, and a gull squawk or two.

He’s been here before. He turns up the road he’s walked so many times. He hugs the duffel with one arm. It’s uphill now, and steep. He puts the headphones back in and chooses a song, something with energy.

crunch and slip

The sound of the snow pleased her. It crunched and it squeaked at the end of every step. Her boots slipped a little as they compacted the fresh powder. For each of those precarious split-seconds her heart jumped. Just a little. There wasn’t any real danger. Just that momentary slip – an inch or so, maybe less.

She breathed heavy and watched the steam of it drift away among the falling flakes. It was thick and turned the world around her into a winter mosaic. Everything familiar was different, temporarily veiled.

She stopped to kick a drift, giggling as the powder exploded from the tip of her wellie boot.

Her mittened hand waved at old man walking his spaniel; the animal amazed, confounded and delirious at the strange new medium that surrounded it. More laughter as the dog chased the falling snow.

She scooped with both hands and shaped a rough sphere. The ‘phap’ as it hit the stone wall echoed: a satisfying punctuation to her throw.

Before long she heard branches dripping, and saw above a sliver of blue sky.

She walked a different way home, listening to the crunch of her boots and the jump of her heart with every slip.

quiet sea

Sometimes he felt the sea too quiet. It lapped the butterscotch sand with a soft whisper next to him. He closed his eyes and the whisper gave no hint as to the vastness of it. His feet sank slightly. Cool damp seeped through his trainers. He clenched his toes against the cold and opened his eyes again. A fine ripple crashed and raced a foot or two up the beach.

There were no stones to skip. He couldn’t bring himself to look harder for any.

The sea whispered and he wanted it to shout, and to shout back at it. She wasn’t there with him. He crossed his arms and kicked a haggard clump of seaweed towards the water. He remembered the concentric ripples as her perfect skimmers danced across the opalescent water.

That was a different sea.

His feet sank again as he stood still, feeling the chill touch of the whispering water.

She wasn’t coming back.

walk away

He placed his empty pint glass on the bar and watched for a moment as the foamy remains of the head slipped down the glass and collected in the bottom. A nod at the barman. A thanks, a short one.

The bar filled up. The regulars sifting through the awkward doors and taking their usual seats. Laughter rose from the table in the corner, where he’d been sitting. He didn’t look back.

At the door he let a couple of familiar faces fall into the pub before sliding out. A gentle rain met him with a soft hiss as it hit the cars and cobbles. He blinked at it and heard the laughter again. The doors shut behind him and he stepped down the two short steps. He blinked again and there was only the hiss of the rain.

wedding chat

She was beautiful.

She was crying.

But it was the middle wedding, so I sort of brushed it off as such.

I was a bit drunk, so I’m not sure I remember her name.

In fact, I don’t.

But we had a lovely chat.

She was too lovely to be that upset at such a great party, and I told her so.

Her boyfriend didn’t like that so much.

listening. soon.

He listened as he walked.
Hands shoved into his pockets.
Scarf wrapped tight.
Sepia lights cast
spiderweb shadows of
bare and skeletal
trees.
The whispers in the dark echoed.
Words unspoken.
Unwritten.
For now.

apologies

Apologies for the lack of activity on this blog. Writer’s block followed by medical issues are at fault. Both issues should be resolved shortly. Thanks for popping by.

on toast ii

‘You’re wet. Soaking in fact.’

He sipped the tea softly, with a whispered slurp. Brewed strong with one sugar and a dash of milk. It warmed him from the inside, reminding him how cold he’d been.

‘Yeah. Got caught in the rain. It was nice.’

‘I watched you. From the window. You sat in it.’

His bit into his toast with a satisfying crunch. He grinned as he chewed.

‘Just felt like it.’

He wiped a crumb from his mouth with his thumb. They heard it, the percussion against the windows, the roof. There were bursts that shook the building, or so it seemed. The noise of the rain drowned out the howl of the wind. Almost.

She tugged her bathrobe, closing it tighter, the roar of the torrent carrying a chill.

‘Hot shower?’

He said it with a mouthful of toast, his face pale with the cold wet. The corners of her mouth turned up a touch.

‘That sounds perfect.’