#beau jackson

[wraithfreak]

oc stuff for art fight

[emtmercy]

Uh I just realized he said my boy ferrets full name in that list lol

[plustencraft]

16th December - The Reader and the Dreamer

We pass the tall thin red brick chimney pot of Peglers, corrugated warehouses with diamond shaped air vents, and furred green fields without an animal in them. The sky is calm and a gold band of sun passes beneath plump blue clouds. At a small two-seater table in first class, a red-haired woman is watching the scenery pass through the window, touching the corners of her mouth and thinking. Eyes flickering over one tree and the next. Across from her, another woman is holding an old red book; adjusting her round glasses to a place further up her nose, and scowling sometimes at certain sentences or words that she reads.

I’m trying to decide their relationship to one another. They haven’t spoken since I got on the train at Stevenage, and the carriage is partially empty. On the table between them there are two mugs, arranged one behind the other; a half full bottle of water by the window; two paper coasters stuck together by a single ring of residue; and some crumbs, perhaps from biscuits, or the lemon and thyme cake that I see is on offer in the menu.

The reader wth glasses is now looking up from her book. Contemplating the space ahead of her that either contains her thoughts, or the red head dreamer’s neck – exposed so as she is still looking out of the window. The dreamer plays blindly with the crumbs on the table – it must have been her biscuit, or lemon cake, but her hands are straying ever so slightly into her travel companion’s side of the table – the reader returns to her book.

If they are sharing the water, they most certainly are travelling together – but I have only seen the reader rest her hand on it from time to time. The mugs of tea are also placed very close to one another – a proximity one wouldn’t dream of placing them when considering a stranger’s personal space.

At the announcement of Doncaster the Reader stows the book away in her bag. The Dreamer stirs to watch her, but it’s hard to discern her expression through the passengers reclaiming their overhead baggage.

When the crowd disperses I see the Reader put on a scarf and, filing down after the others, she wishes the Dreamer a Merry Christmas.

We pull out of the station and again I try to analyse what kind of a “Merry Christmas” it was. Whether it implied that she’d see her again, that she wishes she could see her again, or that they never would. The Dreamer returns her gazing out of the window, and in the reflection on the glass, I can see her eyebrows furrowed. She’s trying to figure out the same thing.

Beau Jackson

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[plustencraft]

2nd December - Covent Garden

Let me tell you about Covent Garden she said, her face brilliant and red at the cheeks from the cold, It’s always been magical to me.

Her mum bought her a miniature pink frog on a lillypad floating on blue water inside a glass keyring from there. She saw handmade kaleidoscopes, like brass telescopes, a dewdrop glass bubble at the end. She walked around the square with her friends once, alone once, holding her mum’s hand another time, looking at Chrsitmas trimmings of holly hung like swags of fabric, red velvet bows, twinkling orange lights, golden bells. Watched street performers playing a harp, violins, double bass, trumpets, like she’d never heard before. Had a ride in an anti gravity spiral. Bought curiosities for herself. Found an Ocarina for her best friend that she rarely sees anymore. Talked about writing here, and felt that she was on the edge of something brilliant, about to dive down into publishing and come out with a finished novel that everybody loved. Pictured her stepsister selling clothes on a stall, worlds apart from the house where they used to live. Bought a t-shirt from David and Goliath that became her trademark and made her laugh. Been astounded by the dressing of shop windows and reminded that This is London. This is the capital and it’s magical, and so many who aren’t here are wishing that they were. And there is nowhere else on earth quite like it.

Then she stopped, her eyes still sparkling, and you felt her wishing you there with her. For a moment she looked disappointed, but then she smiled, and kissed you.

Beau Jackson

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[plustencraft]

18th December - Trim

She's worn out. Getting up at five/six o'clock every morning. Not getting home until after seven at night. Rushing from one production line to the next. Never sitting, not stopping for lunch.

On the sofa she feels heavy with it. Her eyes are webbed underneath. Friday night, and she's spun out from the week, still in her work clothes: A fine-knit light-grey top, over a black t-shirt dress and tights. Her suede boots are off and on the floor. 

The tree was delivered on Monday and she's only just managed to find the decorations. It's a magnificent one this year, no kink in the top like the last one. The smell of it has stuck to the walls. Needles are embedded in the rug.

She looks at its branches, still pointing proudly to the ceiling, and considers its bareness. It becomes enough to wrench her to her feet.

Starting with the lights, she weaves warp and weft under the fir fingers. Her cropped hair falling lethargically on each side she turns. In a multi-lasso she passes the string of lights around the back; manages the blank spaces, adds depth and passes them back again.

It takes a second set.

She climbs onto the windowsill, wobbles near the top, her tights slipping on the glossy paint. She reaches and throws the bundle onto the branch at the other side. Gravity rounds off the last of the string.

Sweating, she breaks and takes a long drink of ice-cold gin and tonic.

In the cardboard box, she uncovers glass baubles in the shape of snowflakes, hearts and diamonds. Beneath them, there are glittering spheres with feathers and pearl-beads attached.

She takes her time placing them; uniform, but comfortably asymmetrical. She makes sure the matching ones are separated by one or two other baubles, compliments the lights, and places solitary ones in the centre.

Half way through she takes another break and a sip of gin, holding one of the carved wooden hearts in her hand.

She crunches on an ice cube. Her eyes are glazed and she's thinking only, "Where next?".

                                ___________________________

I roll in with the wind. The only lights in the living room are shimmering from the tree. "Wow, Mum!" She trots in from the bathroom in her pointy boots, still applying mascara. "Whadya think? Thought I'd surprise you." "It looks fab!" It's like diamonds. Or ice. Or stars in constellations. They're bright and cool, and they're somehow surviving in the window of our living room.

Beau Jackson

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[plustencraft]

11th December - Groceries

All the fruit and vegetables in the supermarket are arranged in baskets so that it appears more 'organic' or 'real'. Vapour runs from pipes at the top of the storage islands to keep produce fresh. All customers are pointing in different directions. Following paths on a whim, by a list, or when they remember something.

It's forty-seven minutes past one. A woman in her mid twenties walks in, gliding, straight-backed, red hair tumbling behind her. A waterproof jacket hangs on her like an a-frame. With each step the pockets swing forward,  heavy. She walks where the aisles are clear, between leeks and turnips.  Stopping mid-stride, she pulls a square, semi-automatic pistol out of her pocket.  

'One...' she counts in her head 'two...'

An old man and his wife are deciding on potatoes. Red, rooster, Maris Piper, baking, apache, King Edward.

'three...' A stocky man with a shaved head moves like a bulldozer past the fruit and vegetables. 'four...'

He doesn't notice her.

'five...'

A young man wearing a navy-blue tie walks in line with the muzzle.

'six...'

The security guard by the door is looking at his watch.

'seven...'

Her finger on the trigger,

'eight...'

hardens the veins through her arm.

'nine...'

In stiffening the veins become brittle,

'ten.'

and then crumble when she lowers her hand.

The man in a suit and tie puts a basket back by the tills.

The security guard looks up from his watch. All he can see is that the celery is in order. The mist wets the leaves, and covers up a shaking hand in red hair.

Beau Jackson

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[plustencraft]

4th December - Parcels

I like keeping my Dad company whilst he's smoking, even when it's this cold. He's wearing his hair down today because he washed it. Thick and floating away from his head, it's the colour of a white streak of paint over a chalkboard.

"Yeah I send stuff all around world" he says, exhaling towards the pub instead of my way.

"Like yesterday...where did I send yesterday? Thailand! And South Korea, how about that one?"

He puts his pint on the table making it easier for him to talk.

"They're all buying these rucksacks and baseball caps," he makes the shapes of the objects in the air, "Vans ones, y'know like my trainers. So there must be alotta kids out there walkin about in em."

He looks down at the grass, kicking about a few small apples that have fallen from the tree. The rain has soaked the suede Vans he's had for years into a dark blue.

"Other day I sent some stuff to Australia an all," he continues, "two women must've been sat next to each other on computer because orders were exactly same, all except one item. It was a skirt I think."

The traffic from the main road is steady and swooping, and I can make out the intermittent sounds of the fruit machine just inside the backdoor of the pub.

He always holds a cigarette the same way. Inelegant, practical, and precise between his thumb and two fingers. Like a dart. One last drag and he stubs the butt out on the corner of the picnic table

"Same shift I sent seven pairs of identical shoes to Australia. All same except one pair was a different colour."

In his pause to drink I struggle to understand why one person would want seven pairs of the same shoe.

He  says, "So I thought, it must be for a wedding."

And it's as simple as that.

"What else have I sent..."

He swills the beer around in his glass for a moment and makes foam stick to the sides of the glass.

"I sent an order to Japan same day you went" he says, "and I thought 'I wish I'd've known because you coulda took it wi yer!' Heh heh." Holding the glass still in his hand I watch the foam eke back to the beer and it reminds me of the sea. Of patterns in the sand.

"I thought you'll be there, and I'm sendin this package...how weird is that ey?" About to take another swig he mutters, "Messes with my mind" into his glass.

I smile trying to think of what to say to him and he notices vapour escape from my mouth.

"Shall we go back inside now?" he says "Bit chilly ey?"

He picks up my glass for me and I follow him down the garden.

"Same again?" Beau Jackson

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