| 2003. Romance is Dead Ally and Dylan met at a jumble fair where � in a coincidence so exquisitely clich�d - they both reached for the same item. It was a tea cup; small, delicate, beautifully engraved with tiny swirling markings which traced a path from its rim down to the metal handle, meeting at exactly the point where the couple�s fingers touched. Their eyes locked together � Ally�s a bright pale blue; Dylan�s a brooding shade of chocolate - and, amidst much nervous laughter, the obligatory half-hearted argument over who should really claim the cup, they each twigged that there could be a connection there. Of course, as in all stomach-churning romances, they couldn�t have been more different. Ally flirted from beneath heavy-lidded, black-lashed eyes, tugging girlishly at a strand of straight, pale hair and playing dumb, but truthfully she was sharp, quick-witted � not at all as demure and innocent as her outward appearance would suggest. She had that kind of face; the huge eyes and great deal of cheekbones, the flawless alabaster skin and tiny frame that every man just wants to take in his arms and protect from the big bad world. In short, Ally was a pretty little bitch. Now if we class Ally in the pretty little bitch category we�ll have to stick Dylan in as the big dumb bear. He was broad-shouldered, square-jawed and almost certainly well-hung. Dylan was the kind of guy who would look as though nothing could scare him but actually was afraid of everything. You name it, Dylan would get nervous at the thought of it: bees, heights, water, women. He was a great big sissy, but a sexy one. Beneath the curly black hair, stubbly chin and tall, stout body you would discover a little-boy-lost, which no women could fail to find endearing � and this is what made him so sexy. OK, back up. Why were Ally and Dylan so perfectly placed at the jumble sale this morning? What caused them to meet like that, sparking off a chain of events that neither could surely have foreseen? Let us take a look. Ally got up late that morning. She arrived at work half an hour late for an important meeting (it isn�t important where she worked, let�s just say she was a key player). Her boss got mad, he told her she had to �buck her ideas up or get out� and, naturally, Ally promised to fulfil the former. However, she then realised she had forgotten her notes for the entire day�s events. She rushed back to her flat only to discover upon entering that the coffee she had been making in her new espresso machine had not been switched off before she left. There had been a kind of mini explosion, parts of the machine were here, coffee was splashed there, her expensive bone china mugs had been mashed and � as sod�s law would have it � her notes were ruined. She decided not to return to work, instead choosing to take a walk to clear her head. It was then that she stumbled across the sale and, at the exact same moment as Dylan, chanced upon the beautiful metal tea cup. Dylan was at the sale for an entirely different reason. He loved jumble sales, positively grew aroused at the thought of browsing among tables of what he would affectionately term �treasures�, whereas any sane person could see it was all junk. He had been waiting for this one to begin, had been one of the first on the scene to set up, and had been working his way methodically from stall to stall when the tea cup caught his eye. Now, fast forward once more. Having made the decision to purchase the cup between them, the couple got talking. Ally giggled a lot, Dylan blushed, Ally sized Dylan up, Dylan realised she was more than just a sweet little creature. They took a walk to a coffee shop and started exchanging stories about their lives. They found they were genuinely interested � fascinated to hear what the other had to say. This, they knew, was rare. Plus neither could tear their eyes off the other, so enamoured were they within an hour of having met each other. Ally flirted, beginning to let her guard down, and Dylan had the pleasure of watching the toe-curlingly, irritatingly adorable layers of her outer fa�ade slipping away. Ally also sensed he was not half as macho as he first appeared. Dylan insisted upon paying for their coffees and then hesitantly enquired as to whether she fancied a walk. If you had happened to pass them on the street that day you would have been jealous - murderously, deeply, whole-heartedly - because they looked like a couple utterly content and at ease with one another. You would see tiny, pretty Ally swathed in Dylan�s thick cord jacket, his big bear paw gripping her hand as he led her down towards the harbour. You would hate how they were laughing and thrilled with each another, enjoying being together even on such an overcast, grey day. You would say to yourself, What a pair of wankers. It won�t last, it never does. Dylan and Ally shared their first ice creams at the little seaside caf� overlooking the water and then, naturally, they indulged in their first kiss. Ally thought it was perfect � not too much tongue which was a pet hate of hers. Dylan was trying his hardest not to fall in love with Ally, but he was having trouble. Not really a great one for hiding his feelings, her told her she was perfect. Ally told him to shut up, flushed from his praise and knowing she must feel almost as strongly to be able to go with her instincts and say, �Shut up� instead of �Thank you� which would clearly have been more the more normal, gracious response. After lunch they headed off down on to the beach where they scrambled over rocks to reach a secluded bay � perfectly placed, coincidentally deserted. They went through that vomit-making ritual of splashing water over one another, kicking at the foam like toddlers rather than two fully grown adults who had only met hours earlier. Then they lay down and had hot, sandy sex with the sea breeze in their hair and the water licking at their toes. It was good for first time sex, they both agreed. Dylan told Ally she was delicious, and she assured him he wasn�t at all fat, just a bit cuddly. They basically fed each other all that bollocks new couples do � compliments, praise, all that heady delight in one another�s views and bodies and lives. The day passed in a soft-focus, slow-motion blur. Utter perfection, rose-tinted and glowing with optimism. Ally and Dylan walked back to the yard where the jumble sale had been held arm in arm with big grins on their smug little faces. They made plans to meet up the next day, and Dylan also promised to call Ally that night to �let her know that it hadn�t all been a dream.� Dylan and Ally kissed where they had first met seven hours previously, each wondering could this be The One? Could Dylan be The One for me? He�s so big and dumb and beautiful, I just love everything about him, Ally thought to herself as she headed for the tube. Ally has got to be my perfect woman, mused Dylan, wandering homewards across a pelican crossing. The blow caught him head on and completely unawares. His body was thrown back by the force of it, the fender of the car connecting with his legs and slamming his broad frame into an oncoming bus as the driver - an elderly man - stepped hard on the brake. The screech of traffic did not halt Ally who was already out of earshot. She carried on walking as Dylan�s body finally crumpled onto the tarmac. He was killed. That night Ally cried because Dylan did not call. She felt violated and na�ve for sleeping with him on a first date. The next night, and the night after that, she cried for what she had lost. Then, as young women in their twenties do, she forgot all about him and found a new man. The lesson here is that Fate is rarely so kind. Ally and Dylan were lucky; Fate was generous in letting them meet. But, come on, their time together was far too blissful, way too perfect. In a way it served them right. Romance doesn�t last, how can it? Romance is dead. |
| Other Stuff |
| This is basically the home of all the crap I write that can't be shoved in the category of poetry. As my collection grows I may expand this into real "Stories" or "Monologues" etc. pages, but right now I'll just bung what I want you to see here. I do realise some of these are quite long, sorry about that. But I tend to go on a bit anyway, so it's to be expected. Read on (or not) at your leisure ;) |
| WORD ASSOCIATION: |
| 2002. I Bleed Monotonous days Hyperactive nights Let the devil show me the sights. A guide for a guide, Show me the way Silver linings rip and fray. Stitches syncopate, Needles dig deep Pierce the skin of the company we keep. Friends become enemies Or fade to nothing Trachea ruptures, coughing and coughing. The cold's in my bones Penetration of the tibula, Biology is senseless, confuses me further. Deeper into minds Dreams form and fly. As we look on time passes by. Don't watch me closely, Dislike what you see Eyes open, they widen to envelope me. Seal up the package Wrap it up tight And post me off into blackness of night. I bleed. |
| MONOLOGUE: |
| Death Sometimes life cheats death. There�s hope for us yet. Unless of course death�s just awaiting a more appropriate moment to wield his scythe, raise his cloaked head and trip you up� for eternity. Surely a near-death experience is just a postponement of the inevitable � but who truly knows? For example, take that guy who was hit by that enormous 40-seater coach the other day and miraculously escaped unharmed � if we follow the theory that his demise has merely been put back a few days, months, years until death deems fit to strike, does that mean he should be wary lighting a match, putting the kettle on, chopping firewood? After all, this idea surely means it�s little more pot luck than cold calculation. OK. Fast forward twenty-six days. That same guy is flying a kite with his young son. They�re ambling along, kite aloft, but dangerously close to the power lines overhead. The man grips the kite�s string as its tail of coloured diamonds flaps in closer and closer proximity to the electrically charged wires. Then, seemingly at the last second, the man hands the kite�s string to his son. At that very moment the power line and the kite�s tail make contact. Electricity surges ravenously into his young son�s body and he dies. Does this mean the man once again cheated death, played death at his own game and once more came out on top? Was it an accident? Or, once again, was it all just part of life�s great plan? It wasn�t his time; it was his son�s. Or was the killing of his son punishment for the man�s ingenuity at avoiding the termination of his life, or merely a way of �getting him back� for his poor parenting, his inadequacy as a father? Who�s to say death is so vindictive that he just picks people off for fun, that he has nothing better to do? For all you know death could be standing right next to you right now. That�s right � look to your left and right, backwards and forwards. Yes, ok, under your bed too. Better safe than sorry. Because death could be � in fact is more likely to be � all around us. It comes in all sorts of forms and guises. � In the bullet that swoops at precise, deadening speed straight into your brain. � In the tip of the match that catches alight at your touch, or in the surface of your skin which bubbles and blisters with heat, irreversibly branding you forever. � In the clogged and constricted arteries of your heart during the final seconds when it jerks to a sudden stop. � In the air, drifting aimlessly, entering orifices to break down your body�s fragile defences, invading your space. Or perhaps that�s untrue. Maybe death is indeed a person, titled with a capital �D�, a bony figure with black pools for eyes which transform to balls of flame and burn beneath a heavy, black cloak and hood. Where does he dwell? Hell? Is he a messenger of Satan, an advocate, an accomplice, or something higher? On a par with God perhaps? But if we drift in that direction things get complicated. Religion is never cut and dried. And anyway, the subject at hand is complex enough. Let�s backtrack to that guy we mentioned before. So his son is dead and, in essence and indeed in his bereaved and troubled mind, he killed him. After all, he handed him the kite � the instrument of his demise. He is plainly devastated by the loss of his young son and perhaps he panics, he worries, the stress builds up, and a heart attack takes his life. Or, even more extremely, his guilt leads to him taking his own life. Maybe he hangs himself in his wife�s study using her pearls, each jewelled stone biting into his flesh, or alternatively he draws himself a bath and plugs in his electric shaver. Shaver meets water and he is electrocuted. Both of his own doing. Neither is true, this is all purely hypothetical you understand. Does this mean that, after all, he got what was coming to him? His son was merely a stepping-stone in the route to his demise? Say it was all meticulously planned after all, what�s the significance of his son? If the death of his son was punishment for his incapability as a father, where did death come in? If it was suicide did death still engineer it all, or did the man � literally � take his life in his own hands, and thus destroy it, and in the process himself? Or was his suicide still manipulated by death � was it that death planted the idea in his mind, or that death assumed it would turn out that way? Or, maybe, via his suicide our guy once again beat death at his own game. Pipped him to the post. Is death pissed off? Who does he take it out on? A random killing of some innocent? Because, let�s face it, none of us are �innocents�. But then again, who truly deserves to die? Let�s use another example, shall we? With women this time in an effort to cut down on confusion. A rough, cruel woman. She�s crazy. She picks her nose and eats it, or wipes it on her colleagues without letting them know. She farts in public places, or in cramped lift compartments crammed with people. She looks at young boys and girls in a rather unnatural way. I don�t know, she liquidises her cats and drinks their guts for fun � she finds it a nutritious treat. She takes hard drugs � heroine, cocaine, ecstasy; a mixture of all three � and she�s an addict who willingly traffics to others who don�t know any better. She has dark, deep secrets. She has not only drowned kittens in a pail when she was a troubled little girl, she has physically hurt people. Killed them. All in all she has no common decency, no human feeling, she�s some kind of a monster. All in all a person like that would deserve death, am I right? She has got away with all of her crimes her whole life and has never met accusation or punishment. Surely she, above anyone else, would not be missed if death were to call? Suppose this insane, murdering schizoid lives until she�s 96. She hurts people her whole life. She is hated. However, the lovely, pure Christian woman who opened up the cat shelter and the home for kids from any number of troubled backgrounds, who bakes cookies for those who have not yet seen the light, who helps and genuinely likes everyone, who loves life rather than simply tolerating (and occasionally abusing) it � she is killed in a tragic accident at only 23. Where is the logic in that? If death is a punishment, what did the Christian woman do that was do bad it warranted the ending of her life? If life is a reward for good deeds, what did our first woman do that deserved such an immense pat on the back? I cannot tell you, all I can do is merely outline the different options, the possibilities and paths to your conclusion. What do you think? Your mind is yours to make alone. Hey, I guess when death finally comes to call you�ll find out. Give him a kiss from me� |
| MONOLOGUE: |
| 23/8/03. The Hypothetical Spider There's a dead spider on my windowsill but I'm too scared to touch lest it scuttles into life, eight furry legs tracing a tickling path up my arm. It's like, I'm hoping it's dead, yet if I let myself be fooled I'm bound to be wrong. And I hate spiders. I know it's odd to make such a parallel as to compare a friendship to a spider... Perhaps friendship isn't the right word, what I mean is the situation between two people. I won't name names, though there are far too many as to recount specifically. But you make the mistake, the fatal, naive, hopeful error. You think bad thoughts are behind you, that the history has stayed where it should - in the past. But then, idiotically, you prod it and, like the spider carcass, it wriggles into life. Suddenly it hits you - nothing has changed. Old resentments emerge, bubbling up, uncontrollable, dangerous, oh so bittersweet. For example, you might go to sleep thinking of how you're so happy the two of you have returned to normal. They are forgiven, as are you. You smile as you drift off. That night you are immersed in dreams of destruction, of twisted pain and suffering and hatred that burns just as brightly as before, if only in your subconcious. Deep down the feelings remain. No amount of 'discussion', of 'closure' can eradicate them, no matter how hard you try to push them away, down and gone. You believe the spider is dead but the softest of prods, of tentative questioning, causes it to scurry maliciously into life once more. So you are scared to touch it. You leave it on the windowsill, feeling the victor for not having been taken in by the spider's sneaky trick. Its corpse rots, disintegrates, yet remains. As does the aforementioned friendship. Eventually it is truly dead, and you are over. You part feeling nothing, emotionless, years of acquaintance wasted. So, do you take the risk and get rid of the spider? Or remain the eternal coward and leave it to its demise? Personally, I haven't decided yet. |
| STORY: |
| That's all for now I'm afraid. Comment if you like, I like feedback :) I know the stuff on this page is a little odd, but that's just me and my delightfully warped mind. Click back Home or Creative Shite for a change of scene. |