Free Love

Rising silently from the cavern her lithe body had created in the double waterbed, Janey unfurled her long, slender limbs from beneath her. The bearded form beside her grunted as the water shifted, causing him to roll to the centre of the bed. Janey froze. Her hazel eyes widened and darted around the near-silent space of his studio apartment, from her latest sleeping conquest to her finish line of his front door. She could not even remember how many times she had done this before, but each fresh night still sent her heart hammering in her chest, her lips dry and her hands shaking. Smacking his coral lips, his breathing slowed once more to a gentle purr and she allowed herself the briefest sigh of relief as she plotted her escape route. The early dawn sun glinted off the keys to his scarlet Mini which she knew waited patiently outside for her.  They were inches from her grasp, so enticingly near, yet just too far. Forwards she padded, keeping one eye fixed on... John? James? Jack? She couldn’t bring herself to care enough to remember. Studying the length of floor lit by a swath of sunlight, her hands closed around the keys, and she eyed up the leather wallet lying next to it with the tip of the TOTP tickets he bragged so arrogantly about in the bar last night poking out of the notes pocket. They seemed to be winking at her, so she grabbed the wallet and stuffed it into the patch pocket of her best miniskirt, delicately picking her way through the obstacle course of hastily discarded clothes and last night’s spliffs until she reached the door. Janey slipped out and down the narrow staircase, touching the fingers of one hand gently to the flowered wallpaper and counting the money in his wallet with the other. She caught a glimpse of his driving licence and drawing it out of its plastic pocket she tossed it carelessly over her shoulder. “For a time of free love, that certainly cost Jerry dear.” She muttered.

Dangerous Dragons and Perfect Princesses

As I rush towards the bus stop, I feel a salty droplet snaking down from the middle of my lobster red forehead, coating my eyelashes and stinging my eyes. Blinking furiously, I purge my eyes of my sweat just in time to see the angry red glow of the bus’s taillights as it pulls away from the stop at a snail’s pace. With one final glance behind me, I plonk my bottom down onto the cold, hard metal of the seat and, shielding my eyes from the brilliant sunlight and sighing resignedly, I search the bus timetable for confirmation of what I’m sure I already know. I settle in for 26 minutes of boredom, or ‘quiet contemplation’ as your parents will undoubtedly call it.

Craning my neck to the sun, I press my palms to my eyes. I let myself pretend that the black shapes moving in my vision now are handsome knights battling dangerous dragons, that the sunlight creeping in from the sides is simply the aura of magnificent beauty emanating from the perfect princesses in their foreboding, impenetrable towers and fortresses. A shuffling noise disturbs me and drags me out of my hallucinations. I move my hands to the more socially acceptable position of lay in my lap and sneak glance at my harbinger of doom or ‘reality’ as the more foolish amongst you may know it. I’m somewhat annoyed to see a distinctly average elderly lady before me.

“Jason! Jason!” she hisses. I don’t answer. My name is Peter. As moments of silence pass and nothing more is said, the idea of continuing the game I was interrupted from creeps steadily further to the forefront of my mind and I feel myself close my eyes in preparation. A hot, wet feeling on my right cheek tells me that this is not one of my best ideas. Steeling myself, I open first my right, and then my left eyes simply to confirm what the right was seeing. I find myself staring into her eyes, her face inches from mine and her halitosis damply hitting my cheek. Nobody could say she looked average now. Her hair had frizzed wildly and her eyeballs were tinged with a sickly green glow as she pushed her face further into mine. I remember my father telling me it’s rude to stare and I try to wrench my eyes away, back towards the sun. She shifts around and, once more, her crazed face fills my vision.

“I saw that man again this morning.” She whispers frantically to me. I roll my eyes towards the heavens and strain my ears for the sound of the bus. Nothing. All I can hear was the faint rustling as she runs her jagged nails along her arms, and I can’t help but stare as angry red lines blossom on her skin. “You’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to help me. He’s everywhere, I can see him everywhere, but they say he’s nowhere. I know, though. I know he’s coming for me.” I risk a glance at the digital watch fixed to my wrist. I’ve got time to kill before the bus.

“I can see him, too.” I’m humouring her, trying to make my eyes as frantic and wild as her round saucers.

“He’s here?! Oh God, Oh God! Oh God, Oh God...” she chants, eyes darting as she pulls a foil hat from her bag with a flourish. “He can’t see me when I’ve got my invisibility cap on AND HE CAN’T GET ME IF HE CAN’T SEE ME! Hahahahahaha” I watch her fix the cap to her head and feign surprise.

“I’m sure there was somebody else here at this bus stop with me!” My voice drips with sarcasm as I pretend to glance around and then settle back on the metal seat. “Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps I’m... Insane.” I shift my eyes pointedly to the woman in the foil hat. The bus nears and she put out her arm to hail it. The bus doesn’t stop. The driver doesn’t see her. A man walks by, being dragged slightly forward by a German Shepherd bounding towards me. I smile at him, and the woman gives a wave. He smiles hesitantly back at me, but there’s no flicker acknowledgement directed at the woman in the hat. My eyes widen, but it’s no pretence this time.

I feel a tap on my shoulder, and then guiding hands cupping my elbows and crane my neck to see who’s approached. Looking round, there is no longer a crazed wretch standing in the bus shelter next to me. No foil hat, no string bag of catfood, no evidence she was ever there. A kindly face swims into my vision, and the grip on my elbows tightens slightly. Somebody is saying my name and it sounds like heaven as I sag slightly in their arms.

“Peter. You can’t go running off like that! You know this is only a quick trip out and then we have to get back to the hospital. Your tablets were due 26 minutes ago and you know how you get when you haven’t had your medication!” The man in the white coat (a snowman? A priest?) chastises me gently, leading me back the way I have come. I am steered towards a long white bus. I am steered towards a crowd of crowing men and women. I am steered towards home.

Flash Fiction- Lovebugs

This is pretty silly :D

Gerard and Nancy strolled along the bright white and smooth path next to the crystal clear water and laughed gently as it lapped at their feet. Nancy tripped lightly on one of Gerard's many shoelaces and yelled out indignantly. "Gerard! I don't know who taught you to tie your shoelaces, but Jesus Christ! You need your money back!" Within seconds the two lovers were squabbling like angry geese, and it seemed it only took a split second for Nancy to totter on one of her heels and feel herself flying through the air and landing with a splash in the freezing water.

John Adamson swilled the water around in his mouth and spat into the gathering water in the sink. Glancing at his watch and realising he was late, he pulled the plug out and watched as the water swirled down into the sewers, dragging Nancy the beetle with it.

Autobiography, Part 3.

This is a work in progress. We were asked to write about our first jobs, but I only got as far as the journey to my first job.

Rain streamed down my face and I silently thanked God that my new uniform was black or the A6 cruisers would've been in for a treat when my clothes soaked through. It was early, and my lack of sleep combined with the warmth washing over me as I stepped onto the bus made my lids and limbs heavy with drowsiness. My head rested against the blue and orange vomit patterned seats and I watched as the world silently whirled past the window, then closed my eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights. I let myself drift off and marvel at how easy it was to place yourself on this route, without even having to open your eyes. A sweet biscuity smell hit my nose and I pictured the Santa's grotto outside McVities, snowflakes falling on the wooden roof and splashing the rainbow coloured lights. I soon smelt exotic flavours and spices tantalising my tastebuds and I quickly rubbed the sleep from my eyes, knowing that soon we'd be out of Levenshulme and arriving at Piccadilly, my final destination.

Baby's First Stabbing

A massive redraft of Autobiography Part 2.

Baby’s First Stabbing

It was a Saturday morning, just like any other, and we met at 10am at the postbox on Nangreave Road. 4 15-year olds coming from the four corners of our estate, excitement bubbling out of us (not that it would ever show in our Kohl rimmed, hollow eyes). I was early, I always was. As Panic! At the Disco blared from my too-loud headphones, I leant my back against the cool brick wall and was glad of the iciness eating through my emo uniform of black skirt, black shirt, black eyes, black hair. A door slammed and a lone figure entered my vision. In a frizz of dyed black hair and a puff of polka dot skirt, Charley joined me at my waiting place, the others following within seconds of each other. Together we walked to the A6, to catch the bus to town. Heading straight for ‘our’ seats at the back of the top deck, we put up umbrellas to cover the cameras and allowed the smoke to unfurl from the orange embers of our Richmond Superkings whilst we discussed our latest poetic outpourings laden with words like ‘scar’ and ‘razor’ because our notebooks were the only ones that understood the pain we were experiencing. As we travelled through Heaton Chapel and Levenshulme, we yelled out the landmarks we saw every week. “LEX! THAT’S CALLED LEX! THAT’S YOUR NAME!” Charley screeched at me as we passed the car repairs place opposite the huge McVities factory. “HARDICKER STREET, I SAW IT FIRST!” Charlotte had won this week’s competition.

We began our assault on Manchester in Afflecks Palace, a wonderful splash of alternative and retro colour in the greyscape of Piccadilly, a place where nothing was ever bought but many things were somehow obtained. We smoked endless cigarettes in the cafe, ordering a token can of coke between the four of us so that we could stay for hours. Iona poured out salt onto the tiled mosaic tables and set about creating artworks of flowers and suns. Charlotte spotted our maths teacher working on one of the stalls, so obviously we thought we must say hello. It would be rude not to, Iona reasoned as she blew her pieces of art off the table and onto the laminate floor. We ambled over to him, giggling at the sight of something so out of place as a maths teacher in a suit amongst all the boutiques and fancy dress stalls. Urbis is where we ended up, where we would always end up, as it shimmered like an 'alternative' beacon. The gardens outside were teeming with life, black crowds lurching drunkenly from one social group to another as friends were recognised and enemies chastised. We sat in the afternoon sun, swaying from side to side as the dulcet tones of Gerard Way and My Chemical Romance filled the air, echoing from tinny Nokia speakers. As day turned slowly to night, we linked our arms together and, high on life, poppers and Morinov vodka mixed with whatever we could find that day, we wandered aimlessly to find the night’s entertainment.

There was a Battle of the Bands taking place in Urbis that night, which was obviously too good an opportunity to miss. It was hot, sticky, smoky inside as the bands competed furiously. With the shredding of guitars in the distance, it seemed like an excellent idea to go paddling in the fountains outside, and in hindsight I think that's because (despite the gallons of tramps piss in there) it was a good idea. I couldn’t tell you who won, it didn’t matter. I don’t recall even staying for the results. With our skirts sticking to our damp limbs and our feet rubbing in our Converse, we boarded the 192. 

Now, whenever I mention the 192 these days, I always say "You take your life into your own hands with the 192." and it's mainly because of this night. We headed for our usual seats once again at the back of the bus on the top deck, taking no notice of the other passenger nearby. His tedious life did not concern us excitable, chattering girls. Our exciting lives, however, seemed to concern him. His eyelids were heavy with alcohol and he seemed furious that we would be daring to enjoy life in such a manner. He questioned us, why were we out so late, where had we been. We answered truthfully. We had no reason to lie; we had no reason to care what he thought. "BATTLE OF THE BANDS?! BATTLE OF THE BANDS?!" The man bawled, disbelievingly. We wondered what was so unheard of about a battle of the bands, but he seemed harmless enough. I saw Charley giggle nervously as he shifted to sit in the empty seat next to her, her eyes darting around the group. Obviously, we had made ourselves a new friend. The stench of alcohol and regret drifted from him. We tried to ignore him; we lit up our cigarettes and simply tried to carry on with our lives. A young couple had joined us on the bus, and one of them made the hideous mistake of asking the man to be quiet. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. There was a flurry of action and a flash of metal, a knife was drawn by the drunken sod. When I got home, I chattered tipsily to my parents about the Battle of the Bands. The young man who now had a hole in his arm was not mentioned.

Autobiography Part 2

Another piece of autobiographical work for university.

15


When I was 15, I went through an emo phase. I will be eternally ashamed of this fact, but have grown to accept and even cherish the memories. I dyed my hair black, invested in the staple black clothes and didn't leave my house without a stick of Kohl around each eyes. I wrote emo poetry to show the 'pain' I was going through, convinced nobody but my notebook could understand me. I'm embarrassed to admit that there was even heavy use of the words 'razor' and 'scar'. Every Saturday morning, we would meet at 10am at the postbox on Nangreave Road and together we would walk to the A6, to catch the bus to town. We would begin our assault on Manchester in Afflecks, where nothing was ever bought but many things were obtained. We would smoke endless cigarettes in the cafe, ordering a token can of coke between us 4 so we could stay. Urbis is where we would always end up, shimmering like an 'alternative' beacon. The gardens outside were teeming with life, black crowds lurching drunkenly from one social group to another as friends were recognised and enemies chastised. As day turned slowly to night, we would link arms together and, high on life, poppers and Morinov vodka mixed with whatever we could find that day, begin our weary journey back to the bus stop where our carriage awaited.

Once, there was a Battle of the Bands taking place in Urbis, which was obviously too good an opportunity to miss. It was hot, sticky, smoky inside as the bands competed furiously. It seemed like an excellent idea to go paddling in the fountain, and in hindsight I think that's because (despite the gallons of tramps piss in there) it was a good idea. With our skirts sticking to our damp limbs and our feet rubbing in our Converse, we boarded the 192. Now, whenever I mention the 192 these days, I always say "You take your life into your own hands with the 192." and it's mainly because of this night. We headed for our usual seats at the front of the bus on the top deck, taking no notice of the other passenger nearby. His tedious life did not concern us excitable, chattering girls. Our exciting lives, however, seemed to concern him. His eyelids were heavy with alcohol and he seemed furious that we would be daring to enjoy life in such a manner. He questioned us, why were we out so late, where had we been. We answered truthfully. "BATTLE OF THE BANDS?! BATTLE OF THE BANDS?!" The man bawled, disbelievingly. He seemed harmless enough. We tried to ignore him, but he went on screeching. A young couple had joined us on the bus, and one of them asked the man to be quiet. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. There was a flurry of action, a knife was drawn by the drunken sod.

Autobiography Part 1

I've led a pretty boring life, if I'm honest. Nobody is ever going to request my autobiography, but if they were to ask.... Well, here's a slice of autopieography. This memory comes from when I was around 13 years old. I was a cruel child. 

Ghost Cat.


Darkness descended on the navy hallway as I flicked off the light and took my place in the procession on the stairs. My hand firmly clasped my brick-like mobile, the instrument of her terror. I set the scene and we lay in wait. I pressed the button and an echoing 'meow' sounded out. Ghost cat had arrived. She sat, entranced as we wove our tale, the story of a cat which haunted the house endlessly searching for her master, mewling and alone. I heard her breath catch in her throat as I once more pushed the button. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matthews hand inch towards his pocket. "Some say that if the cat sounds a bang, she is summoning her ghostly friends because she is in trouble." I flinched. Had he taken it too far? Charley's eyes said no. She was caught in our web. BANG! The party popper exploded. She screamed. We collapsed in a fit of hysterics, falling over each other to switch on the light and catch a glimpse of the sheer terror written on her face.