Hung Words Too

(I seem to have posted a piece under the name ‘Hung Words’ before and yet the writing with it is not what I recall as the ‘Hung Words’ piece. Odd. I must have mis-copied with the mouse somehow. Anyhow, here is the writing I remember as ‘Hung Words’, written back in May 2017, edited today. Oh, Happy New Year for 2020!)

Hung Words

My sword thrust forward, point piercing mid-way the word ‘TRUST’ which hung taunting across the path. The ‘u’ mewed, tears seeped onto dry ground parched by years of the antonym. Each drop reformed, reared and roared a date, a time, a lover. The sounds cleaved the outer coating of my shield, stuck darted on layered wood and leather, each forced a back step in the slow stride of my denial.

Slashed right and left, letters tumbled without meaning across the musty air, voices escaped from nicked sides and surfaces, each whispered accusations and Siren symphonies of desire and deceit. Names cascaded across years, places, times, excuses, all timetabled in linear formation, each stabbing through armour to draw my guilt in blood-coughed confessions.

The path steepened, with fog-banked slopes treacherously entreating mis-steps. Five letters swung back and forth, hide and seeking through the gloom, ‘BLAME’ pendulumed with teasing tautness, red flames of embarrassment licked letters. Shield raised to block the blaze of an accusing sun I pressed on, a single-manned phalanx. Heat seared through, burned black my faults. But remember, remember, she did not talk, she did not give time, she did not make the efforts demanded of shared lives. I pierced the ‘B’, shredded the double curves, left ‘lame’ a mocking commentary on my own excuses.

A soft glancing blow fell, a caressing killer rested on my shoulders heavyweighted with weary worries self-inflicted, ‘TOUCH’ featherlight alighted, wrapped around a body shivering to loosen itself from feared intimacy after the bed-bounced closeness of another forbidden love. I parried open-bladed, countered these tease-touching accusations: for she had stepped back too, withdrew skin from contact, lips miss-kissing half-hearted offered cheeks, back turned on a bed once consummated with the passion of the innocent. Who stands now in the glasshouse with stone in hand? My stab caused ‘TOUCH’ to convulse. No one-sided defeat here.

Forward stepped I deflected and bounced harsh truths into the gutters of regret, found my way blocked by ‘SELFISHNESS’, long strewn as a Cheshire cat with grinning teeth foul fetid, dripping tales of familial dates ignored, commitments uncommitted to, evenings long consumed in matey orgies of alcohol and unbrave bravado, late long working hours stretched to incredulity as slipped masks for backslapping heartiness and raucous chauvinism, chasing skirt-clad victims across glass-lined tables.

Hacked letters fell, ‘fish’ causing a rueful smile under cheekguards which chaffed with swivelled wariness. ‘S’s snaked my legs, hot forked tongues nipped infected bites into veins long since dead to empathy and sympathy. I stamped, hobnailing the vicious barbs into powdered pleas.

And lastly LOVE dangled, glossy, shredded and abused. It flickered images thought lost in memories stored behind cold-hearted locks. The true love of first meeting, recognition of soulmated possibilities, tingles of eternity surfacing when touch touched more than skin, eye contact finding depths impossible to measure. LOVE hung, shamed my defence, drunk dry a moat of liquid lies, crumbled paper-thin walls of self deception, undermined a castellated keep of rusted excuses.

And I fell, in a final act of reconciliation and recognition, upon my upturned sword.

 

 

 

 

The last mince pie

(first written a few years ago when I ran a blog under another name, and kinda appropriate for this time of year)

The last mince pie sat in its little box in the cupboard, all alone, with just the crumbs of its former neighbours for company.

On Christmas Day it had sat proudly on the decorated table at coffee time along with a plateful of hopeful companions. Being at the bottom of the carefully arranged pyramid its chances of consummation were perhaps limited but hope sprung eternal. The hour passed. Grasping hands removed brothers and sisters. Disappointment reigned when it and a few others returned despondently to their cardboard home.

Tea-time brought fresh expectations but sadly too much turkey and stuffing had negated the desire for titbits after a round or two of sandwiches. Boxing Day came and went. A journey to the table surrounded by sausage rolls, cheese biscuits and other savoury delights proved equally unsuccessful.

Festivities slowly evaporated and the little mince pie lay pitifully in the darkness of its box. The ‘Best Before’ date came and went. The door opened and closed many times. Foods went and never returned. Still the last mince pie sat in pathetic isolation.

The time of Clear Out arrived. Sighs and regrets accompanied the jettisoning of stale or unwanted edibles. Slipping towards the looming dark interior of the black waste bag, the mince pie accepted its doom and awaited days of decay and breakdown.

Suddenly the careless hand of Fate intervened, and the mince pie fell, spinning, glancing off the outer edge of the plastic chasm. It bounced once, twice, three times across the carpeted floor then came to rest by a large, very large, wicker basket. A shiny wet nose sniffed the air close above the mince pie, sniffed again, lips began to dribble, and in one gulp an eager mouth swallowed it up.

And, dear reader, if you could have looked closely at that very moment, I believe you would have seen an enormous happy smile upon that little pie’s crust.

Hung Words

(another oldie, from early last year)

There is something I need to remember.

There is something I need to remember, something that keeps slipping away from the cliff edge of my mind, toppling away into the depths below, crashing down among all the other lost forgotten words.

It is nudging me again, a letter here, a syllable there, never quite shape-shifting into a complete word. My mouth starts to form the sound, gags on the unemitted gasp, swallows the crumbling letters, and the word tumbles away again over the yawning fall.

Down there with all the broken neglected words are the broken neglected people, the ones who made mistakes, never learned their lessons, never considered they had done wrong, and a few who tried to find the word before it trailed away, the same one I am losing all the time.

Once, very long ago, so long ago there is no known segment of Time to describe it, I knew the word. That, I can recall. I did used to know it, could utter it, could give myself a second chance.

Never taken, of course.

Of course.

That would have changed everything, would it not? Maybe for the better, maybe not, strange as that may seem. Would He have survived so long, if I had remembered the word, or would He have gone the way of all the others, cast aside once His diatribes grated once too often in minds fast becoming equals to His.

It is in here somewhere, flitting around, hiding behind the longer words, the ones which have many meanings, unclear, confusing, misread and miscued, and easy, so easy, to deceive with. Many of those I have used throughout the ages of my time. To mystify, to trick, to ensnare. This elusive word is smaller, difficult to catch among the multitude of letters strung together into the many syllable definitions of deceptive ideas and motives.

For a moment there I thought I glimpsed it, trying to inch forward, to let its first sound sneak onto my tongue. Once there I am sure I could catch it, speak its name, before it slips away. Or is it being pulled back? Is that the problem? Is something tug of warring with me, pulling the word away, jerking on its long tail, flinging it over that precipice, down again into the pit of churning bones and burning vocabulary, from whence it starts the long struggle back up, fingernails scratching holds on blood-rinsed rocks, weak muscles hauling upwards over shredded tissue and deleted sounds, its eyes ever locked up high at the prospect of rebirth.

Time is short now. He will not wait much longer. This is the final time.

I know.

He knows.

He has won.

But he is waiting to see if the word can be remembered. If my blackened lips can form the two syllables they have never pronounced together. At least not since the Beginning, when I broke one way, and He broke the other. Will my mind still be able to format the two sounds into the one word? Or will it fry my being like sunlight on a mythical vampire?

Wait. Wait. I see it. Crouched behind a concept hidden in the very darkest of the dark quarters of my dark mind.

I have it! It is trapped there, a mistake made, left itself no way out but toward me.

That concept, lying never used, irrelevant to me, a false god to worship if ever there was one. Until now. Yes, I have the word. It cannot back away. It sits, naked, exposed, fearful now of rebirth, scared of its implications. But I have it. My tongue snakes around the concept named Truth, pincers the shivering syllables, swallows first that notion to ease the speaking of the word.

I gorge on the feeling, warmth streaming throughout me. The word follows it, up into my mouth, rolling around between my red-dripped teeth, and is spat forth with the conviction of one realising rebirth can be.

‘Sor-ry.’

 

 

 

Decaf scribble

(again, long time no write here, too busy with life and trying to edit two short novels, but here’s something written today, encouraged only by a decaffeinated latte…)

THE COFFEE HOUSE

Friday morning early, a coffee house faking Italian charm in a fake seaside town, historical fame long lost with the rising tide and crumbling cliffs.

Three sit with eyes fixated on screens, fingers tapping messages to no-one and blogging viewpoints to a readership only clicked through for reciprocated likes.

A barista chatters nonsense to a line of young women, eager for quick takeaways and even quicker getaways from chat up patter outdated in an age of legal minefields.

Older gentlemen sit, beige-coated, staring at passersby, remembering themselves long gone, chances not chanced, decisions wrong decided; pretty women bring a resurgence of desires with no hope of satisfaction.

A rush retreats, the room sits quiet, each seat an island of discontented content, preferred loneliness here to sat alone in a home no longer homely. A loud voiced conversation begins, phone to ear, private exchanges made public with deliberate intent, a proof they live a life unlike the other lost souls adrift in this coffee ship. Machinery hisses and spurts, milk tops pop, dregs disappear drained, one shot, two shots, extra shots, sprinkles and caramel, a vocabulary voiced across a counter stacked with packaged snacks rated red and red and red, all sold unwarned and unwary.

Classical strings harmonise a background, ill-fitted to a clientele dressed for pubs and clubs, layering the atmosphere warm with the unseasoned heating system soft hummed.

The hour hand stretches up straight, feet shuffle from different corners, timings timed to reach platforms as trains slide home and doors slide open.

Outside hot hand held cups are carried across a precinct still quiet as offices buzz alive with phones and bright screens, elderly women drag two-wheeled trolleys to catch the market full fruited and full bloomed, children toddle coat-clung to cigarette smoking mothers, too young for schooling, too old for early morning sleeps. Retired singles wander life lost, companions lost too early or never found among the rush of chasing money and reputations, shops and malls the only workplaces for them now.

The loud-voiced barista conducts his audience, half appreciated, half detested, a last day employed doubling his volume of adrenaline. Queues ebb and flow, each wave wavered in decisions of beverage and seating, no desire to share a stranger’s life, no wish to change their routined day, for better or for worse; no risk of failure brings no risk of success.

The coffee house churns out another day, another latte, another mocha, another another.

 

Opening Gambit part 2

(Just continuing this opening, and giving you three alternative endings which would lead on to three quite different stories/novels.)

What to wear to a bar named the Pink Feathers? Did the name hint at the clientele to be encountered? I went biker jacket and black jeans. Good call. The three foot wide guy guarding the door would have bounced me off the sidewalk in anything else; the ‘four feathers’ were painted on the club’s logo atop a dancing girl with curves Monroe defined decades past.

Inside masses mingled. By the time I made the counter I’d rubbed shoulders, literally, with more people than I would in a month of Christmas sales throngs. Ages varied; breaking teens to broken fifties. Encouraging. I hadn’t wanted to seem cradle-snatching if Lilly the shop assistant turned up.

8.20 p.m., I’d got here late, lost myself on a freeway to anywhere out of town. Now I searched with eyes wide. Ten minutes, or Lilly might do a glass slipper thing on me. And I wasn’t a prince, I couldn’t spend Sundays putting shoes on every female this side of the Hudson.

‘Robert.’

A voice connected over the hubbub of nonsense deafening my ears.

‘You came?’

‘Just in time, Lilly. Got lost. Story of my life.’

‘Getting lost or nearly getting lost?’

‘Still trying to work that out.’

‘Drink?’

‘Sure, that’s why I came. Claim the free offer.’

‘Not because of me then?’

Lilly looked blank. She wasn’t acting it, she seemed surprised I hadn’t said she was the reason. Her hair hung straight now, fresh washed and smelling sweet among the stale breaths and alcohol. She matched me in a leather jacket and dark jeans. Discounted from the store? Little make-up hid her face; she looked even younger than in the blazing lights of her workplace.

‘And you. I’ll take a rye and soda.’

‘Biker jacket and rye? Reliving your teenage years?’

‘Ouch, below the belt, Lilly.’

She smiled lazy.

‘Looks good on you, the jacket, hope the drink does too, paying for a taxi home isn’t part of the offer.’

She squeezed through to the bar, bought the drinks, a gin and something for herself, I think. I rescued the glasses on her return trip as two floppy-haired twenty-something guys fell across her path.

‘It’s quieter by that alcove.’

She nodded left. I held the glasses high to get through, found stools and perched the drinks on a shelf showing football stars with toothy grins and muscles to measure.

‘You’re not wearing the coat?’

‘Too warm in here, but I’ll put it on to go to work tomorrow. Thanks again.’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Something you do every day? You a millionaire?’

‘Ah no, so if you’re looking for a sugar daddy, try the best suited guy in here instead.’

‘I don’t want to be kept by any man.’

‘But you accepted my offer?’

‘It didn’t seem like something you usually did.’

‘How could you tell?’

‘I guess if you’d come in and thrown a pile of cash on the desk, or bought up the whole rail of coats.’

‘Maybe I didn’t want to overwhelm you?’

‘I don’t think you’ve ever done that sort of thing before.’

‘You sure?’

‘Pretty.’

‘Why?’

‘Your eyes. They were too alive. A wealthy guy used to throwing money around would have had a tired look there, or a regular ‘just another little person to help’ and make me feel good.’

‘So why’d you think I did it?’

‘Either you hoped it’d lead to something more. Like this. Or your tongue was ahead of your brain. You write?’

‘Ouch, shot me down in one, straight between the eyes!’

‘You’re a writer?’

‘Ha, no, not really. I don’t earn money from it, I tap keyboards, make up tales now and then.’

‘You sure? I’m not gonna appear in some sordid novel? I’m not a kind of experiment?’

‘Hell no, I’d never do that to you.’

‘Why not? You don’t know me? Do you? We’ve never met before?’

‘Never. I’ve been in the store a couple of times, never seen you in there.’

‘You tried this on the other girls there?’

‘No.’

‘So why me?’

‘As you guessed, just went with the moment. None of the others ever said ‘It’s cold today, isn’t it?’’

Lilly drank long from her glass, her eyes fixed on mine. There was noise and movement all around yet it seemed we existed in isolation, unhearing, unaffected by everything else.

‘And I’m enjoying the free drink you offered, so all’s well.’

‘A $99 drink?’

‘I hope that’s not how you see it.’

‘And how does this end?’

‘A polite thank you maybe. A shake of the hands. Or…’

‘Or what?’

Lilly’s voice dropped low, her guard came high.

‘Or…we live happily ever after.’

I smiled, and couldn’t help breaking into a laugh as Lilly’s eyebrows shot skyward and she snorted liquid.

‘You serious?’

‘Being silly, I guess. Make a great tale to tell our grandkids though.’

‘Lol, we got grandkids now.’

We both laughed. Her face blushed, her eyes sparked. I noticed for the first time the slight gap between her front teeth. She flicked a loose strand of hair away, waved her glass side to side.

‘Another?’

‘Still free?’

‘No, you’re paying for this one, Robert.’

She took the glass from my hand. Our fingers grazed. The first time we’d touched. She took a step away then turned back.

‘While I’m getting these…I think you’re an intelligent man…see if you can think how I can dispose of my husband’s dead body. It’s lying on the carpet back in the apartment.’

ALTERNATIVE ENDING

‘While I’m getting these…I think you’re an intelligent man…see if you can work out how I divorce my husband…without him putting me in the morgue first.’

ALTERNATIVE ENDING

‘While I’m getting these…I think you’re an intelligent man…see if you can write the next chapter of our relationship…I want to know if the book’s worth buying.’

 

 

 

Opening gambit

(Long time no write here. Been busy with life, no time or desire to write. Here’s something anyway, just a start, based on a real moment. Well, the opening four lines…)

‘It’s cold today, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, forgot my gloves too.’

‘Remembered mine, but I was still freezing.’

‘If you get cold, at least you got a choice of clothes to wear here.’

I nodded towards the racks of women’s coats strung like dead turkeys along a metal bar.

Can you fall in love over such a banal conversation?

The shop assistant checked her screen. Blue eyes flicked left, right, up, down, wavy light brown hair braided at the sides, purple tipped fingers stabbing. She looked up, saw the coats I’d indicated.

‘Oh, they’re too expensive for me.’

A light chuckle crept nervous up her throat. Her eyes glanced mine. I waved a hand at the racks of clothes.

‘Choose one, I’ll buy it for you.’

Her chuckle broke surface into a quiet laugh. Saturday 9.10 a.m. it wasn’t ready for head back raucous.

‘I mean it, choose one.’

She folded her arms, looked more direct at me. Movement to her right suggested a junior had found my click and collect order in a backroom.

‘Sure, choose one and you’ll pay for it?’

‘Yes, then I’ll give it to you. Be quick, the offer expires in about one minute.’

My heart was calm. Strange, it should have been stretching the fabric of my jacket to its limit. Half asleep still on a weekend morning? Still daydreaming the reckless character I’d read about the last two days in a hard boiled crime paperback?

The young woman stepped out from behind the desk, half halted, low heeled loafers scuffing the vinyl tiled floor. She moved on, more determined, fumbled coat hangers, found the size she wanted, slipped off the fake fur collar coat from the hanger, put it on.

I held out both hands like a seasoned salesman.

‘Perfect fit. Would madam like it gift-wrapped, or in a bag, only 20 cents extra?’

That gravel chuckle coughed up again. She stuck her hands into the pockets of the suede coat, pouted in doubt. At the coat choice or my offer, I wasn’t sure.

‘Here’s your order. Perhaps we should deal with that.’

She walked back behind her screen, took a bright yellow bag from a colleague who eyed up the coat with a quizzical look, and typed fast as she studied details on the package’s label.

‘Here you are. Robert?’

It was a curious routine of this store that they checked you were the right collector of a delivery by querying your first name not your surname or email address or card number.

‘That’s me. You are?’

I screwed up my eyes at the woman’s badge which hung on her chest. She probably thought it was part of my feeble act of chat up, but truth was I needed to, to make out the small print on the white shiny piece of card.

‘Lilly, is that?’

‘Might be.’

‘So, you want that coat? The offer’s close to expiry…’

‘If you’re serious, that’ll be $99, please.’

‘Of course.’

I took out my wallet, thumbed a credit card, passed it over. I’d felt Lilly’s eyes on me as I did this. She was still looking at me as her small fingers accepted the card.

‘You absolutely certain?’

I nodded.

She passed the card machine across. I placed it on the desk, tapped in my numbers.

‘You can change it for another colour, or another style if you want?’

‘And you can cancel your card payment too.’

‘No, the coat’s yours. It’s my good deed for the day.’

‘Oh, I’m a charity case now, am I?’

I gave a half-laugh.

‘No. It makes me feel good. And, you’re pretty and charming and, and, just nice. I, I, just felt it was the right thing to do.’

Lilly slipped off the coat, folded it into a bag and hung it on a peg behind her. She turned back, her face more serious.

‘That’s it? No follow up, no, ‘well, let’s have a drink later’ or ‘what time do you finish today?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Coat’s yours. No catch.’

She crossed her arms again. It seemed to be her standard stance; maybe at work, maybe in life.

‘You bought me a coat. I’ll buy you a drink. Okay?’

‘You don’t have to.’

Lilly’s eyes moved to the right, she nodded to acknowledge someone’s words or gesture.

‘I got to go. I’ll be in the Pink Feathers, Cambridge and 222 Loxx, tonight, around 8.’

‘Right.’

‘If you want a drink, that’s where I’ll be.’

‘Sure. I can, can probably make that.’

I had an image of me standing like a fool, holding a glass of iced orange, alone in a crowded bar of couples, waiting for the no-show sales assistant.

‘Have to check with the wife first?’

‘No wife.’

‘Don’t be late. Offer expires at 8.30.’

Her eyes flashed. She scooted around the desk and disappeared among the hanging jeans and jackets.

 

 

Coffee people

(not a poem today, just a list of the people seen coming into one of my local coffee houses while I start the day there with my one shot latte…)

 

…a woman typing on her phone, not looked up once since sitting down; a man reading his book; an older man studying a newspaper, eating dunked biscuits; a woman outside reading her small screen and smoking; two men talking out there, smoking nonstop; two young female assistants chatting; a businessman buying a cappuccino, paper pad in hand with old fashioned pen clutched; an older man coughing, with two bags, with a double espresso looking like he needs it; a man on a mobile, very polite, disproving his dishevelled appearance;a  lady with a dog for takeaway coffee; a young man with skinny jeans buys a takeaway too; a woman with a child in a push buggy; two young women talking, one now on her laptop; two middle aged women taking up seats on the leather sofa; a short sleeved gentleman paying with notes from a wallet, with an American accent; each person’s order separated by ‘enjoy’; and a pigeon slaloming the chairs and tables outside…