path fog

The fog settles and all falls silent, hushed, reluctant to disturb the tendrils of mist. She softens her step, aware of the swollen quiet, unwilling to end it.

There is the odd noise but never an echo, never resonance, never the expectation of an answer. The odd chirp, snap of a twig, rustle of a leaf, gurgle of a stream - they linger disembodied in the air, adding to the quiet and never breaking it.

She cannot remember how she got here. The fireplace and friends around it, the warm house and bustling kitchen are all obscured by the fog and the memory of their laughter silenced by it. It may have been minutes ago or hours.

Looking behind, from whence she came, she seeks a glow in the haze, the hint of a lit window or of a building.

Something.

But there is just the path, lined with hedgreow, and the odd shadow of a branch hinting at the trees obscured by the opaque vapour.

the jumper

His room lay in disarray, clothes strewn here and there. Mail - opened and unopened - on the floor just to the right of the door. The curtains let a weak beam of the grey daylight through, sucking the colour from everything it touched. It wasn’t so much illumination as it was a source of contrast against the darkness.

He saw the jumper amidst a pile of others atop his unmade bed. It was black and thick-knit. Bobbles of wool clung from the elbows down to the cuffs. The turtleneck still had the indent from her chin.

He lifted it delicately, as if not to wake it, by the shoulders. The turtleneck fell forward, empty. He held the indent to his nose and closed his eyes, drawing in the air. His eyes stung and a torrent of bittersweet memories flooded back. Her scent remained and for that moment she was there.

Just for that moment.

autumn

Wind scrapes the fallen leaves along the pavement, this way and that they dance. Sometimes it whips them into a vortex, a mini tornado that chases along the road a few metres before it collapses. There’s always movement. A stray breath of air drags the odd bronzed leaf just a foot or two. Even when the wind’s still the leaves tremble.

The mornings start grey and dreich. The light draws up later and the afternoon light deceives. It’s a warm light, rich and golden. It draws the colour of the world out, bringing intensity to everything - saturating the landscape. It looks like a special effect. The illusion of warmth lasts until the sun drops below the south west corner of the horizon. The sunset lasts for hours.

Then the cold comes.

chill air

He balls his hands into fists and plunges them deep into his pockets. His thumb rubs the knuckle of his index finger, desperate for some heat to come from the friction. The cold brings tears to his eyes. The mist of his breath lingers - there’s no breeze to blow it away. When he inhales he can feel the tendrils of frigid air as they touch every corner of his lungs. His scarf is tight. He hopes it stays that way.

He looks towards the end of the wooded trail and there is nothing.

The tears fall down his cheek.

He leaves them.

He won’t take his hands out of his pocket.

hazy

The giggles, the uncontrollable giggles gripped them until tears fell and their faces hurt. The boy with the beard grabbed the rugby ball and performed a strange dance while the blonde girls giggled and drew pictures. The deaf boy played guitar and the bald man pounded the bongo out of rhythm. They sang and poured wine. They ate ginger cake.

They giggled.

And still he felt alone.

mist & rain

Mist and rain. Shapes appear and fade in the middle distance. Everything is muffled. The only echo is silence. It is a dream, or the memory of a dream. The damp stone pier shines with the dull reflection of the cloud and mist around. The water laps it gently, without rancor, deceiving, hiding its size, the vastness of sea that stretches out beyond the haar that clings to its calm surface.

The walker heads to the end of the pier, looks out to the mist and sees what he wants - there is nothing else to see.

flinch

The girl stared at the glass for a moment before picking it up by the stem and lifting it to her lips. She sipped it with a kiss. A light smear of lipstick remained on the glass as she set it on the table. Her eyes flickered for a moment, but locked on him again.

He saw the flicker. He wasn’t meant to, but he saw it and he felt himself slipping. He read everything into it, everything that was there and wasn’t. He saw the night disappear. He gripped his bottle of beer and swallowed. His eyes shut for a moment.

She watched him and sipped with a kiss again.

Her eyes didn’t flicker a second time.

on the trail

She hummed to herself. No tune in particular, just the odd snippet of melody. Her own personal soundtrack. Sometimes it turned to a whistle. The trail turned north and then east with the wind gentle from the west, lightly pressing her back and tussling her dark hair around the sides of her face. She shoved her hands in her pockets. The air hummed back with a cacophony of countryside sounds. The rustle of hedgerow, the waves of grain, the scurry of small things and the odd bird call gave her a backing track. Her beat up trainers kicked the odd pebble into the tall grass. The wind calmed and the sun emerged from behind the perfect cotton ball cloud. She took her hands out of her pockets and tied her jumper around her waist.

She kept humming and whistling.

an atypical conversation

her “You screwed it up.”

him “How? How did I screw it up?”

her “You screwed it up because you don’t get it.”

him “That’s why. I asked how.”

her “You told her. You’re never supposed to tell her.”

him “Tell her what?”

her “You told her you liked her. You just came out and said it.”

him “Of course I told her. I’m bored of all the bullshit. The waiting, the teasing, pretending not to care. I liked her. I told her. What the fuck is wrong with that?”

her “Everything. It goes against nature.”

him “Nature? Fuck you. This isn’t a fucking Friends rerun. If I like someone I should be able to tell them. It’s honest. It’s being upfront. It’s not insulting someone by feigning disinterest and ignoring them. It’s not pandering to some stupid and primitive ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’ bullshit.

her “But that’s how it works.”

him “That wasn’t how it worked with us.”

her “And now there is no us.”

He looked at the whisky glass and took a small sip. It didn’t burn enough, so he gulped and felt the fire at the bottom of his throat and the sting of tears.

him “No. There isn’t.”

her “You have to learn to play the game. Be selfish.”

him “It’s not a game.”

her “It is.”

him “It shouldn’t be.”

her “That doesn’t matter.”

him “It does. It’s who I am. It’s a matter of principle.”

her “Principle? You’re not going to get laid because of principle? You’re going to be alone for the rest of your life because you disagree with the unwritten rules of dating?”

him “Yes. Because it’s got to work out. Eventually.”

her “That’s what you said about her. “

He closed his eyes and held the empty glass to his forehead.

her “You just don’t get it.”

bus ii

The bus stopped and he raised his head. He’d not been asleep, just dreaming. The sign outside said Tulsa. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the taste. Maybe he had been sleeping. Maybe his dreams led him to sleep. He knew it should be the other way around. With the punch of pistons the door opened. He watched folks get off. Some walked around, stretching their legs, others grabbed their bags and wandered towards the terminal.

He closed his eyes again but could not sleep or dream without the engine’s hum.