The Door

I have a jar full of story prompts and sometimes I pick one out at random to write a story about. This is one of those stories. The prompt that came out of the jar was - a new door appears in  your home. This is what I came up with...

The door

It was a sleepy Sunday morning when I first noticed the new door. It could have appeared on the Saturday night - I had been out drinking with my boyfriend Robert that night and was pretty distracted at bedtime, I might not have noticed it. It definitely wasn't there Saturday morning.

My house isn't the biggest - just a living room with a small kitchen attached downstairs, a bedroom and small bathroom upstairs. It's not like I have a huge old rambling house where a door might be overlooked.

I walked straight past it the first time, my hung-over brain not really registering it as I stumbled downstairs to make coffee. While I stood waiting for the kettle to boil, I started to feel like something wasn't right, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. My head was sore and my mouth was dry and I just wanted to get the coffee and go back to bed. I could hear Robert moving around upstairs and I smiled to myself. We had a whole day together before he had to go for the working week. I wish he didn't work so far away.

It wasn't until I was halfway up the stairs that I looked up and saw it. A solid oak door, with black, cast iron hinges and an ornate door knob,  right there at the top of the stairs. I stopped dead, didn't know how to react. I didn't even really feel the hot coffee slop against my pyjama bottoms as the mugs fell from my hands and bounced down the stairs. I must have screamed or something because the next thing I knew Robert was charging out of the bathroom asking what was wrong, wrapping his arms around me as I sank to my knees on the stairs. My head was spinning, I couldn't see, couldn't breathe, my whole body was overtaken with waves of shock.
"Oh my God, tell me what's wrong? What's happened?" He demanded but I couldn't get the breath to speak. I just pointed. He looked over his shoulder at the door.
"What? Kathy please, you're scaring me! What's wrong?"
I didn't understand why he wasn't as panicked as me.
"The door" I managed to gasp "Can't you see the door?"
"The door?"  He frowned at me. "Of course I can see it baby. What's wrong with it?"
I stared at him blankly. What could he mean, what's wrong with it? Did he think it was normal for a door to just appear out of nowhere?
"Let's get you off the stairs" he said soothingly, helping me to my feet. He half led, half carried me up the stairs. I couldn't take my eyes off the door. An icy draft hung around it and I shuddered convulsively as we passed it.

Robert sat me on the bed.
"Just take a few deep breaths my love" he said.  I could see it through the open, familiar, white, plywood bedroom door, the new door, just sitting there staring at me over Robert's shoulder.

"What's happened?" He asked, when he thought I had calmed down. I hadn't calmed at all though, I was just trying to concentrate on suckling air into my lungs. What should I do? What are you meant to do when a new door appears in your home? Call the council? The police?
"That door" I said, my voice trembling. I cleared my throat and started again, "that door. It wasn't there yesterday."
He snorted, half smiled and then shook his head a little.
"I don't get the joke? " He said, confused.
"I'm not joking" I snapped "it wasn't,  you know it wasn't.  There has never been a door there." I started to get annoyed.  If this was some kind of elaborate prank it certainly wasn't very funny.
"Babe, you've lived here two years. That door has always been there." He said. "Are you feeling ok? Did you bump your head last night?" He looked genuinely concerned.
"This isn't funny" I yelled at him, "of course I didn't bump my head!"
"Okay, it's okay" he said soothingly, and it just made me angrier.
"Why are you talking to me like I'm crazy? You know as well as me that door wasn't there yesterday! Where would it even Lead?  That's an external wall!"

I jumped up off the bed and strode towards the door, my rage smothering my fear. I grabbed the iron door knob. It was cold enough to hurt my hand. Undeterred, I turned it, pushing on the door. It was locked.
"Babe, come on. You know the door has always been locked. The landlord told you that before you moved in." Robert frowned,  concerned confusion clouded his features. "Should I call your mum or something?"
"Why would you call my mum?" I asked, "Did you hear that?" I held my head close to the wood, not daring to lay my skin on its cold surface, straining my ears.
"Hear what?"
"It sounded like a kid, laughing"
"It was probably just a kid outside. I think maybe we should call a doctor"
"No, it came from in here, I'm sure of it"
He strode across to me, took my face in his hands.
"Babe, listen. No one is in there. You've lived here two years and the door has been locked all this time. There is no one in there."
I stared at him for a little while, blankly. Then I turned and stared at the door. I barely registered him walking past me, going downstairs.
I started to think about ways I could get it open. Maybe if I unscrewed the hinges? Did I even have a screwdriver? I decided I could go to the DIY store, get screwdrivers, maybe a chisel or an axe?  I went back into my room and threw on yesterday's jeans and a jumper. I didn't like turning my back to the door to go downstairs.

Robert was on the phone when I got down there. I ignored him  while I looked for for my keys. I was annoyed with him,  but not sure why.
"No, she was fine last night. I don't know what's wrong" he was saying as I found my keys. "Kathy wait-" but I slammed the door on his words, jumped into my car and headed for the DIY store.

As I threw the screwdriver set into my basket I realised that I hadn't had a proper look at the hinges. The screws might be hidden, or on the other side of the door. I ended up buying a mallet and chisel, a small saw and an axe as well. I'm surprised they didn't question it when when I got to the till. Thank goodness for apathetic minimum wage workers I suppose.

I expected Robert to be gone when I get got home, but he was still there, my mum and the landlord with him, drinking tea out of mismatched mugs.
"Where did you go babe?" He asked quietly, in the kind of tone you might use to speak to an animal you were afraid of spooking.
"I went to buy some tools. I want that new door opened."
"Katherine, you're being ridiculous" Mum said "there is no new door. Doors don't just appear overnight. It has always been there, isn't that right Mr Singh?"
The landlord nodded.
"It has always been there. It's just a storeroom is all. We talked about it before you signed the lease, remember?"
I stared at them. Whatever this was, they were clearly in it together.
"If it is just a store room, why is it locked?" I asked, playing for time. What were they playing at?
"Like I said when you moved in" said Mr Singh "a previous tenant lost the key. That's all. We've not been able to replace it because the door is so old."
I stared some more. I knew that door was new. I was certain of it. Why was everyone pretending it had always been there?
"Well I bought some tools now." I said, playing along " we can get it open and start using it again."
"Like I said before, the door is very old. Antique in fact. You can't damage it" said Mr Singh "you are a good tenant, I don't want to lose you, but I'd can't be letting you damage the property."
"Come now Katherine,  you are being silly. It's never been a problem before." Mum snapped.
I didn't know what to do.  I was never going to get the door open with everyone here.
"Maybe I did bump my head after all" I said. "I do feel a bit headachey"
"Maybe we should go to the hospital?" Robert suggested, chewing on his bottom lip.
"No!" I said " I mean, I'm sure I will be fine. I just need some rest is all. I'll be fine."
It didn't take the landlord long to leave, but it took Mum hours before she decided to go.
The rest of the day with Robert was strained and awkward. I tried to pretend like I remembered the door, but but I think he knew I was lying. Usually Sundays go so fast and I dread him leaving, but on that particular Sunday I couldn't wait for him to leave so I could attack the door. He stayed later than usual though, and I ended up falling asleep on the sofa with him still there.

When I woke up the next morning he was gone, but had tucked me in and left a note saying saying he would call later, as always. The note didn't mention the door.

I went straight out to the car and brought my new tools in. I started by unscrewing every screw screw could see. Then I turned the knob and shoved against the door with my shoulder. It didn't budge. I slammed my shoulder into it again but my only reward was a white hot pain that shot from my shoulder to my elbow, leaving my hand tingling. I heard a faint giggle from the other side of the door, I'm sure I did.

Next I took the chisel and tried to get it into the gap between the door and frame, but it was too tight. I hit the door with the mallet, trying to get it to budge enough to get the chisel in. I might might as well have tried to shift a mountain. Nevertheless, I kept trying anyway.  I was determined to get the door open.

It was getting dark by the time I decided to get the axe. I had tried kicking it, chiselling it, pounding it with the mallet, but the door looked as perfect as before, unmarked, ice cold wood. The door had no face, of course, but it felt like it was smirking at me.

I stood as far back as I could, right at the top of the stairs, and ran at the door, my axe raised. The force of the blow vibrated up my arms, jarred my whole body. The axe head went flying off over my shoulder, down the stairs, before settling with a sickening thunk into the front door. The new door remained pristine. I sank to my knees, panting, despairing, trying to convince myself I couldn't hear the gales of giggles coming from behind the door.

It was fully dark before I moved again, getting up to switch the landing light on. The bulb flickered on and off, buzzing loudly. Fear gripped me and I ran around the house switching on every light and lamp I had. Then I rummaged through the kitchen drawers until I found my torch.

I took the blanket off the sofa and wrapped it around myself, then sat sat with my back to the front door, watching the new door at the top of the stairs. I'm not sure when, but at some point I fell asleep.

The week continued in that pattern, me trying to open the door all day, watching it until I fell asleep at night. I'm not sure when Robert stopped calling. I think it was Friday when my boss' concerned voice mails became angry. I don't think I have a job anymore.

Whatever lives behind the door is getting bolder now. Last night when I woke in the night the door was slightly open, I'm sure of it, a faint greenish blue light coming from inside. I grabbed my big torch like a weapon and headed upstairs, but by the time I reached the door it was locked tight again, as if it had never been opened.

Sometimes in  the morning  I wake and find things in my house have moved. Nothing large or significant; my childhood teddy bear that sat on top of the wardrobe is now on my bed, the magnets on my fridge have been rearranged, my photo album was open on the coffee table.

It's too cold to go upstairs now. My breathe turns to clouds halfway up the stairs. I go up only when the need to go to the bathroom is too great, and never after dark.

I don't know  why I don't move house. I just can't seem to bring myself to.  More than once I  have thought about just burning the place down. I play with matches, lighting them, watching them burn out, never quite daring to do it. I don't think I will ever leave here.

My only company now is the eternal sound, echoing through my house, the laughter of an unseen child.

Character Flaw

I did exist. I was real, you can't deny it. Though no one but you ever knew my name, I had people that loved me, cared for me, respected me. I had needs and hopes and desires. I had dreams. You never thought about that did you?  When you abandoned me for better things, you thought I would just fade away. Of course I didn't,  I am a person. People don't just disappear.

Oh I know it's easier with him. You don't have to think so much with him, he is simple, relatable, he makes it all so easy. You just "get" him, don't you?  No need to work at uncovering his layers, work out his motivations, what makes him tick. He is an open book to you, not like I was. He doesn't confuse you or deceive you or challenge the way you see the world or your place in it. I understand all that. He was the easier option. I was making things too complicated, with him it just flows.

I didn't just stop existing when you stopped caring you know. You brought me to life; shaped my personality. Without you I never would have known how much I love banana ice cream, or what joy I could get from reading obscure Russian poetry. Without you I wouldn't have danced to electro punk into the small hours, or sang 80s power ballads at the top of my lungs when I thought no one was watching. We will always be a part of each other, you and I.

You can move on, try to forget me, but I will always be there. Like it or not, I shaped you almost as much as you shaped me. All those endless nights you lay in your bed, thinking of me, the dimple in my cheek when I smile, the scent I wear, the hidden pain behind my eyes. Sure you can move on, but those nights will always be mine. I might never get the ending I need to be free, but I will always have all those hours you spent dreaming of me, imagining my touch, trying to get inside my head. There was a time when I occupied your every waking thought, invaded your sleeping mind, resided in your dreams and visited your nightmares. You couldn't read the newspaper without wondering what i would think of the article.  You couldn't watch TV without asking yourself if  i would enjoy the show with you or sit there picking plot holes until you changed channel. Do you do that with him now? Does he occupy your very soul like I once did? Was it something I did, that made you leave me alone in the dark? Or are you just that fickle, your head easily turned by something more fun?

Maybe one day he will be in my position, left abruptly to dwell in the back of your mind just as he thought you were getting along so well. Or maybe he will be the lucky one, who gets a proper ending and is freed, released into the world to be loved by many. Maybe one day you will pick me back up and we will sing and dance and love one another again. I can but hope.

Now I am powerless, the cards are all in your hands. You are the author after all, I'm just a character. I've got no choice but to stay here, frozen in this moment, in an unfinished draft until you decide to complete my story.

Please don't forget me. Please write my ending.

Small Talk

Maria: What shall I buy for dinner? We could have cottage pie, only we had mash yesterday. Oh God, I can't be bothered to cook again. Would it really be so bad if we had take-out twice in a week? Pizza means no washing up, that will give me more time to do spellings with the kids, they must be at least three days behind. Must buy washing powder, forgot yesterday.
Oh no, that's her isn't it? That woman whose name I can never remember. Is it Laura? Lara? Clara? Why does she always want to talk to me, it's always so awkward!  I never know what to say to her, and we talk far too often for me to ask her name now. Have I got time to duck into a shop? Oh no, she has seen me now.

Lana: I see Maria looking in the shop window. I really don't feel like pinning a smile on right now, but I can't have her thinking I'm rude. She is always so nice to everyone, snubbing her would be like kicking a puppy. I'm going to have to fake an interaction. Maybe I could turn round?  Oh no, she has seen me now. Now I'm going to have to say hello.
"Maria!  Hi, how are you?"

Maria: And now she has spoken to me. I should have run into the post office. She always looks so damn cheerful, with her perfect smile and perfect hair and perfectly pristine clothes. God she makes me feel inadequate. Force a smile.
"Hello lovely, how are you?" Urgh,  who calls someone lovely? She must know I have forgotten her name. How embarrassing! I wonder if she can  tell I haven't brushed my hair this morning?

Lana: Aaw she always calls everyone lovely, Maria is so friendly. She always seems so pleased to see me. How am I?  Dying inside, sick of my daily routine, desperate for something to break the monotony. Can't really say that though, can I?
  "Can't complain. Beautiful weather for the time of year, isn't it? Bit too hot for me though."

Maria: It's normal weather for June. I mean, it's summer, it is supposed to be sunny. Why are we English so obsessed with the weather anyway?
"Isn't it though? We were making the most of it in the garden this weekend, firing up the barbeque.  How's the family?"
She doesn't need to know we spent the weekend slumped on the sofa with the curtains shut, watching the football and arguing over whose turn it was to do the ironing. A few creases never hurt anyone anyway.

Lana: Why did she have to ask that? I can't exactly say I spent the weekend sobbing over dirty dishes while Chris worked late yet again. I feel like a single mum the majority of the time. Even when he is home, Chris is so burnt out from work he doesn't have the energy to play with the children.
"Not bad, not bad. Chris is up for promotion, so he has been working hard on that. How are the kids?"

Maria: Well I'm starting to think my son has ADHD  and my daughter barely spoke to us all weekend.
"Good thanks, they are looking forward to the holidays. Your son is doing his exams isn't he?"

Lana: Failing his exams more like. He has barely done any coursework, I'm sure he is going to fail everything and end up at home until he is 45.
"Yes, he only has a couple left. They grow up so fast don't they?" Having a teenager makes me feel so old. Where did my 30s go anyway?

Maria: "Definitely. Time flies! Speaking of which, I had better run. It's all go today!"
Time flies when you are having fun, that's meant to be the saying isn't it? Time flies when every bloody day is exactly the same is closer to the truth. When did my life become an endless Groundhog Day of chores and telling people off? Where did my dreams and ambitions go?

Lana: "Tell me about it! I will let you get on then. We must meet for coffee soon!"
I can get away with saying that, I know she will never take me up on it. We say it every time we bump into each other.

Maria: "Definitely! See you at the school gate."
Unless I see you first. I've exhausted my repertoire of small talk for today. And now I have to rush off to make it look like I really am in a hurry. It's too hot for rushing, and the only place I am rushing to is home, so I can shut the door on the world and slump on the sofa.

Lana: I watch Maria scurry away. She must be in a real hurry. She always seems to be on the go. I hope I can avoid her at school run time, I've completely run out of things to say to her. She must think I am so boring. I am boring I suppose. 3 hours until it's time to pick the kids up. Think I will head home, shut the door on the world and slump on the sofa.

More Fond Of Rain

You said you would be my sunshine
But I have always been more fond of rain.

Summer's light is too harsh
Too bright
It exposes you.

I much prefer
The soft grey dawn light
Of overcast skies
Refreshing, life giving water
Raining from above
Like blessings.

The sun can only warm
Until it burns
Leaving red pain
An unpleasant reminder
That will not fade
Long after the warmth has gone.

Rain can be a refreshing mist
On a fevered brow
Cooling and calming
like a mother's hand

Or it can be fierce
Lashing down on skin
Small sharp pains
Like a lover's words
In a heated argument.

Rain cleanses the world
Makes everything new
Awakens soft scents of nature
That summertime has crushed

Rain revives, gives new life
Washing cares away.

Rain rages,
It hammers, It roars,
Then calms, And quiets
Like a beast.

While thunder thuds it's beat
And lightning takes centre stage
It is rain that gives melody to the storm.

The sun is easy to love
And everyone adores her
It's much more of a task
To see the beauty
In the many shades of rain
To love all her quirks
The good, the bad,
The darkness she brings.

You keep your sticky summer sun
It's few moments of scorching beauty
I have always been more fond of rain,
Of dancing in the storm,
Walking bare headed in the downpour.

You huddle under your umbrella,
I will raise my face to the skies
And be blessed with rainbows.

Bittersweet Memory

First published in my old notebook February 8, 2014

Bittersweet Memory

My daughter exists only here now, trapped in this yellowing photo, her features scarred with fold marks caused by her long imprisonment in my wallet.

The memory of her face hovers at the back of my mind; a vibrant sweetness that I can't ever touch again. This likeness is but a pale reflection of all she was. I hate it for not capturing her essence, but it's all I have now. I cling to it like a lover that I've lost interest in, but daren't give up.

Will I still carry this imitation in my pocket and my heart when it stops conjuring her in my mind? Will I ever forget the perfection of her smile? Will the trust in her eyes fade to a shadow of a dream?

I can't imagine ever casting it aside, even though it just taunts me with my ultimate failure. It will be my personal millstone forever.

I fold the photo back into its tiny, safe square again, hold it to my lips. My fingers grip it tight, pinching like I'm trying to stem blood from a wound. I wish I'd held on to her small hand this tight in that crowd all those years ago.

I wrote this story for the monthly writing competition in the Amazon Kindle Owners group on Goodreads. The theme was "old photos" and the word count limit was 200 words.  I was  surprised and delighted when it won.

Cederick

When I was very small, I had just one prized possession; my little stuffed bunny, cederick. He wasn't the fluffiest, or the biggest or the softest bunny in the world, but he was mine, I owned him, and, at a time when I didn't own anything much, that was important. Shunted from foster family to biological family to care home, round and round, losing people and objects along the way, only cederick was my constant.
As a tiny tot I was afraid of adults. They were big and scary and they hurt you. I didn't trust them. But then my foster mum gave me cederick and told me if I couldn't tell the grown ups when things were making me sad, I could tell cederick. So I did.
You know how sometimes when you go into a building,  you can feel it has a soul of its own? All the love and joy and pain and hopes and dreams of the people who live there get absorbed by by the stones until the house has its own spirit, a welcome or unwelcome vibe. Cederick was like that. All my darkest secrets, all my tears, all my fears, he absorbed them all. You'd think that would make him a mean sort of a bunny, but it didn't.  Cederick was loving, protective and kind. We hid from the bad guys together, both real and imagined, he sat on my shoulder while I read fairytales about people who grew up and escaped their tormentors. When I finally grew up and became free he came with me.
Many years later, when searching my house for gift ideas for someone I thought to be very special and in great need of comfort, I found cederick. It had been years since I wiped tears away with his ears. I covered him in kisses, wrapped him up nice and sent him to the friend in need.
I regretted it as soon as I sent him, but what can you do? You can't ask for a gift back, and anyway, that person needed him. I felt sure I would be reunited with him one day. It's silly, I know he is a stuffed toy, but I still feel guilty that I gave him away, and I hope he knows I love him. I would hate for him to feel unloved, even if he is just a tatty teddy bunny.
I fell out with the friend. Never saw my cederick again. But I hope wherever he is now, he is loved. I hope he gets cuddles and stories and closeness still. I hope, despite his head being stuffed with fluff instead of brains, that he remembers somehow that I loved him, cherished him, and bitterly regret giving him away. I hope wherever he is now, he is easing someone's pain like he eased mine, and that that person knows how very special he is. He was all I had, he contained all my love, and I passed him on to someone who needed him more than me.

I have people to cuddle when I am sad now. I'm no longer afraid to tell a human when I am hurting. I guess I don't need him anymore. But love is about so much more than need, isn't it? Maybe one day he will find his way back to me. Maybe not. Maybe he will outlive me by many years, bringing comfort to children who need him. I think he would like that. Wherever he is now though, I hope he remembers I loved him first.

He will always be my bunny, whoever holds him.

Angels

First published in my notebook  January 12, 2013, a later version of this story made it into the second Strange Stories book, Strange Worlds- surreal stories and tainted tales.

Angels

It was raining when I met my wife.  It was about two in the morning, the streets just starting to fill with belligerent drunks. She had been out with a friendbut the friend got lucky and left her to get home alone. She had run out of money but decided to walk home as she didn’t live far from the town centre. To this day she insists that she would have gotten home just fine if her stiletto heel hadn’t caught in a drain, breaking the heel and twisting her ankle quite badly.

I was tipsy myself, having left my mates because they were already
out drinking me, and settling down for a serious session of liver murdering. I had a headache and was just finding it all a bit much. I had hoped the cool air would clear my head.

I offered her help, maybe hoping if I’m honest that tonight would turn out to be a good night after all. As soon as I got close I realised she was far too far gone to know what she was doing. I couldn’t take advantage, but I couldn’t leave her there, easy prey for any passing predator. I could have put her in a taxi, I suppose, but it just didn’t feel right. She was so ridiculously beautiful, and so ridiculously drunk. It didn’t feel safe.

I gave her a piggy back instead, with her laughing and squealing all the way. She wasn’t sober enough to coherently tell me where she lived, but she had her driver’s license in her purse, perhaps optimistically hoping to be asked for ID, and the address on it was up to date.

I opened the door for her, realised she lived in an upstairs flat and carried her up. I laid her on the sofa and rummaged in her  orderly little kitchen until I found a glass of water and some frozen peas for her ankle. I looked for a bucket in case she was sick, but I couldn’t find one so I took the washing up bowl in instead.

She was fast asleep when I re-entered the living room, so I set the bowl on the floor next to her, and put the glass of water on the coffee table, in her line of sight. She’d need that in the morning.

She woke up a little bit when I tilted her head to the side, just in case.

“I got you some ice for your ankle.” I told her. “it will be cold though.”

She nodded her assent sleepily, eyes half closed, then let out an ear-splitting  squeal when I laid the bag of frozen peas on her ankle, then I was shushing her and she was shushing me and we were giggling like a pair of kids . There is a moment when the air goes semi solid, and I am suddenly very aware of her lips and I just know we are going to kiss. I know if we do, it won’t end there.

I didn’t want it to be like that. I knew even then that she was special.

“I have to go.” I told her.

“Now? “ She asked, and she looked so sad. “You don’t want to…stay?”

“Next time?” I ask her, “I’ll leave you my number?”

“Sure” she said, all sleepy again “I might even call ya” but
she winks at me and giggles again. I took her phone and had started programming my number into it when she said, “I think you are an angel”. I didn’t really know what to say, but I put Angel instead of my name into her phone, to act as a memory jogger.

“Talk soon?” I said, but she was asleep, so I left as quietly as I could.

Weird really, that she should call me an angel, when that
night an angel appeared to me.

I know what you are thinking, but it really did. You might
think I was dreaming, but I never dream, and anyway, dreams aren’t like that.

It was so bright I could barely see it’s features, I’ve no
idea if it was male or female or something else but it was beautiful like a forest fire, the most bizarre mixture of serenity and heart stopping terror.

The angel told me that she would call me, but that I must
not answer, for if the beautiful damsel I met earlier fell in love and settled down with me, she wouldn’t go on to fulfil her potential.

I scoffed at that, despite being fairly awestruck, and I told
it that I would always support her, always encourage her.

He told me then that if she stayed single she would go on to
discover cures for many different diseases, a whole new way of looking at genes and DNA, understanding of the human body. If she met me we would have the triplets followed closely by the twins, and be a nobody.

I have never seen an angel since.

You might think I made the wrong choice, but it doesn’t feel
wrong. My wife loves the kids, loves being a mum. She might be a nobody, but she is a happy nobody.

I do feel the odd twinge of guilt when I see people dying
from disease on the news, but our eldest daughter seems to have inherited her mother’s brains, I’m sure she will go on to do great things. I can’t look at my kids and say they shouldn’t be there.

Love makes the world go round, they say. You may say I am selfish, but I say love conquers all.

Inside your mind

First scribbled in my last notebook on January 11 2014

Inside your mind

I want to wear your mind for a day,
walk the world your different way.
I want to feel sounds with your skin,
to taste the colours and the noise ,
and the chaos all around,
feel it knotting and winding inside,
and overtaking all.
Feel my tongue tie to my mouth,
and my language dwindle,
and finally understand the answer,
that you cannot give or cannot know
or cannot birth with words.

I want to feel the rain as shards of glass,
when it falls upon your face,
know the utter pain of soft grass
on your bare, exposed feet.
Experience the utter security and rightness
of a silky label on an old vest.

I want to feel the unfettered joy,
when the world clicks and the cloud parts
and, for a forever moment, all is well
and calm and ordered
and simple and it works
and you fly.

I want to go to that place you go,
when it is all too much here
but your body has to stay,
when you sink into colour
and fade out of sound.

What it is like in that place
that only you can go,
only you will ever know?
Is it better than here
in your other world?
Is it safe and kind and all silky labels?
or is it just colour and nothingness?

I want to know if you want to see
what it is like to be me,
how all that is impossible to you
is at my feet with ease,
if you envy it or hope for it
or are indifferent to it,
or if it is just another thought
your soul shrinks from.

I wonder because I want to understand
to be you for a day
to get you
to know what the weather is like
inside your mind
so I can make that smile happen
again and again and again.

The Show Must Go On

First scribbled in my last notebook on October 7, 2012

The Show Must Go On

  Everyone loves a good show, the lights, the make-up, the
pretty girls singing songs, the actors that can produce a smile or a laugh or a
tear with the mere twitch of an eyebrow, the carefully pitched tone of a line.

The show must go on. So few ask why.

Partly it is the sheer energy that goes into it, the months
of rehearsals, the bitter arguments over the precise stance of an actor
delivering his monologue, the momentum. The performers think the show must go
on because of the paying audience, people who have worked long hours, denied
themselves luxuries for this one evening of entertainment. The audience thinks
the show must go on because of the hours of hard work the performers have
invested, the energy and the time. They see it as a mark of respect, thanking
those people for their time with rapturous applause.  The truth is the build-up of those things –
the energy it all creates.

The show must go on, for They need to be fed.

They live in the darkness, under the floors, scuttling in
the echoes of long dead applause. They feed off of the build-up, the effort,
the sweat and sprained ankles. They feed off of the rapture of the audience,
the nerves of the dancers, the stage fright and exhilaration of the actors. They feed on the fear of a bad show, the hope
for a good one.

They have been there for centuries, quietly growing in
numbers, biding their time. They are the reason the audience leaves the theatre
exhausted, the reason the performers crash the moment the last curtain call has
passed.

They are the reason you rarely see an elderly performer, why
those in the business become hollowed out, empty. Those that have spent so long
being another person, and have lost who they are underneath the costumes. They
have been quietly feeding away, stealing souls.

They have scuttled in the darkness too long; cramped and
crowded. They have grown strong now, living off people’s dreams.