every egg under the word bird.

I needed a place to write. Nothing here is final, everything is fine.

[thegrandfatherkid]

Her father had once met Dolly Parton. He worked as a stagehand for the big theatre in town when it was still a theatre and not a multiplex. The mid-eighties at the latest, we guessed. That night he excitedly told his wife about the superstar who shook his hand and called him ‘a big ol’ redwood’, nearing fifty but as giddy as a schoolboy. Did she look like in the pictures, her mother asked. They looked fantastic, he replied. 

[thegrandfatherkid]

Maura.

A sharp, electric pain buzzed through Maura’s neck as she struggled to lift her head as best she could from the sticky leather of the couch arm. Her eyes came to focus on the searing red 3:24 on the digital clock, tinting the darkened room to a murky deep crimson. She had fallen asleep here again, just like last night and the one before. Maura was still in the same clothes she had worn for who knows how many days now; a faded purple t-shirt that declared Fun In Florida, a place she had never been to let alone experienced fun in, grey tracksuit bottoms that stuck tightly to her bulging thighs as if she had been poured into them. She dug an elbow into the cushion below her and strained to haul herself onto her side, the ancient furniture creaking and popping in submission. As she turned on the television and caught her breath a single bead of sweat crept from beneath her matted peroxide thatch; unbrushed with a three inch graveyard of dark roots making more of a presence every day. 

The screen’s glow overpowered the crimson calm that had blanketed the room only minutes earlier, casting light on features that would only cause Maura shame if she looked at them for more than a few seconds. Her eyes remained trained on the screen. If she didn’t acknowledge the mountainous debris of takeaway remains that littered her carpet, if she chose to stare past the half bottles of vodka on the coffee table, if she just ignored it all then she could pretend that this wasn’t how she lived. If only for a short while, as long as Maura and the television worked together to hold each other’s attention, she could cast a veil of ignorance over her own life.

Before this - before the weight and the alcohol, before the accident and the surgery, before being housebound, by injury first and depression later – Maura’s life was different.  For one thing, she barely touched a drink. Forever the responsible one, her mother used to call her as a teenager. Though this was never a difficult role to be cast in when your brother was, for all intents and purposes, outcast from the family and your sister had been a drug user from the age of 16. It had started with ecstasy at nightclubs she’d sneak into with friends, charming bouncers more than twice her age, and then heroin in her later teens. This had crushed their mother. “I’ll always have my Maura,” she’d lament with a sigh that spoke more of loss than pride.

As her head sank back into the propped pillow and her heavy eyelids began to droop Maura resigned to let sleep take her away once again. Her sister, now 32, sober and a professional hard working mother, had promised to take her to lunch later – “just to get you out of that house for an hour or two,” she said.

[thegrandfatherkid]

[thegrandfatherkid]

Robin shifted in the sharp plastic waiting room chair and scraped dried dirt from his trainer with a regimentally filed fingernail. Waiting made him anxious and being anxious made him obsessed with order and detail. Even the ramshackle spread of magazines and leaflets on the table in front of him made him uneasy. Every so often he could feel his lanky Frankenstein frame jerk forward impulsively, fingers twitching to organise and order. Corners with corners, lines neatly matching, fat glossy monthlies on the bottom, then weeklies and on top brochures with slogans like ‘Protect Yourself and Your Partner’, ‘Keep It Under Wraps’. Before he knew it he was angling the neat little stack into the black and white tiles of the table, counting three across and two down, perfectly centred, with atomic precision. 

[thegrandfatherkid]

[thegrandfatherkid]

Popping little pimples that appear in the morning on my knuckles. The train to work, sat on the toilet, clawing at them in Debenhams' queues and when dad tries to tell me how the Post Office are a hapless shower of shits masquerading as a competent shower of shits.

I pick and pull at the tiny pus-filled mountain range that creeps between my fingers until my nails draw blood; smoothing and sanding down torn flesh like a master-craftsman whose clay is his own clawed-raw skin.

I do this nightly until I fall asleep, it helps me relax and keeps my mind from straying, then in the morning I'm healed to start again.

[thegrandfatherkid]

PJ Soles sitting in a beanbag chair with her knees huddled close to her chest.

PJ Soles reading old issues of Q Magazine and correcting reviews in red ink.

PJ Soles thinking about that time she got her eardrum busted up on Carrie and wishing it was Travolta's eardrum instead.

PJ Soles feeling guilty but laughing anyway then feeling less guilty just because. 

PJ Soles writing letters of recommendation for the son of a friend of a friend who wants to make it as a lighting director but is lacking in industry clout.

PJ Soles putting another sticker in her bird book and telling a friend she's almost done.

PJ Soles sucking oatmeal through her teeth and licking them clean with the tip of her tongue.

PJ Soles fluttering her eyelashes at passing planes as the sun gets caught in her hair.

[thegrandfatherkid]

Summer Jobs (Journal Entry by Kelly aged 14)

everyone else has really cool jobs lined up for the summer

ginger john is testing out new shorts for the crystal palace reserve squad and my ex-friend clare is going to be a cover girl for welsh language vogue. (NOTE: even though she has an eating disorder and tried to finger me once at a sleepover and i bet they don't know that she's seriously a fucking mess)

cav's granddad is getting him a job sorting out all the baby teeth that get made into commemorative necklaces for hip parents whose wifi name is a reference to their kids

veronica said that she's going to be a fire-eater for a drive-thru chemist and she doesn't need any help because she already did the same thing last year for a team of professional wrestlers

alex patterson (who was one of those wrestlers and called himself la gran pepita de pollo) is spending the summer handwashing old laptops to give to the deaf - which is seriously cool because charity work looks so good on college apps, so says my dad

and worst of all is that maura, kenny and douglas (the colinses, yes those colinses) totally scammed their way into being each other's babysitters and getting paid for it while their parents are in majorca and they're pretty much the worst and get to spend summer by themselves, which I'm sure they'll just love, and that's all i'll say about that

and it's shit for me, like really the shits, because all i'll be doing is working with dad, hitting print on the thing and putting all the stuff in piles while he huffs around in overalls doing his whole i'm an important cog and if i didn't do it then it wouldn't get done routine

fuck you summer, just be over already so i can get back to school and lie to all my friends about how i spent you and i'll say i was a scuba diver or a mad scientist's second in command or i trained parrots for their part in big budget pirate movies 

[thegrandfatherkid]

The Makeover

I could hear the other boys still playing outside unconcerned, picking Turtle names, banging the best sticks against railings and making pewpews, ratatats and every so often the nyyyeooowwwshh of a rocket launcher. Nyyyeoooooooowwwshh. 

Apart from from Kyle who was standing in front of me and Kaci crying through mascara and smearing Maybeline Color Sensation all over his wet cheeks with the back of his hand. His thatched blond hair was teased into crispy yellow waves by the half bottle of mousse we slapped through it. 

It looked like a thorny gold tiara we placed upon the head of our tiny boy prom queen. 

Jeez quit crying, Kylie, you're a god damn princess, laughed Kaci, trying to straighten his pearls.

You're going to need to quit that shit when you're waving to your kingdom.

I could see his lip shaking like something out of a cartoon, as if his mouth was made from bad birthday jelly; he was really going for it, spit bubbles and everything. He tried to say something while I stuffed more toilet paper into his bra but it just came out as blublublubs.

Done! Prettiest princess I ever seen, cooed Kaci admiring her masterpiece, her best work yet.

We lifted him onto the toilet seat, careful not to crumple my mother's dress, making sure it didn't get stuck under his feet. He wore those trainers with the lights on them that my brother swore made you run faster.

We told him to wave, told him to make a speech to the peasants. We told him to say how beautiful he felt and to thank us and his parents and God. The tears didn't stop and it was hard to make out a word he was saying, mascara running little rivers down his rosy cheeks.

Then we made him choose a prince to marry.

[thegrandfatherkid]

[thegrandfatherkid]

The conversation had stopped entirely as we embarked on our second revolution through the inky night. Pulsing neon lights threw colours spinning over the blanket sky; blues collided with yellows flashed over pinks that danced with silvers and I held his hand tighter.

He swilled flat Sprite around his gums like mouthwash and I could hear the GWSHH GWSHH even over the thumping eurobeat that floated up from below us. He turned his face to mine and winked before spitting out over the side like a cherubic fountain boy.

I think I heard a woman shout something at the wheel but people here had been drinking for hours - she could have been shouting about anything.

Dannyyyyyy, I let the syllable ride out, long enough for disdain to thaw to affection. His arm reached around me and pulled my body to his, my head finding comfort in the crook of his neck which was thick with the smell of cola cubes for reasons I don't quite know.

We reached the bottom but didn't get off; just waited to be pulled into the sky again.

[thegrandfatherkid]

At night, when everything is dark and silent, I press my hands and nose against cold glass and stare out across the city lights.

Where are you? I need you.

When the window gets foggy from my warm, sweet breath I write help and then return to bed.

[thegrandfatherkid]

The big train is coming to take you away. Away from here, away from me and away from the life we've built together. Not away from the memories of us though, things like that stay forever; they burrow beneath your skin and wrap themselves round your bones like little ribbons, playing behind ribs and becoming white butterflies that kiss your stomach with the tips of their wings.

The station cafe radio rasps out a tinny rendition of I Can't Fight This Feeling Any More and we roll our eyes and laugh, trying to outdo each other in a game of power ballad gurning, complete with pained expressions and tiny, invisible guitars.

I concede defeat when you beat out a perfect cutlery drum solo across coffee mugs and pepper pots.

I can't remember the last time either of us spoke. I can't remember the last time we needed to. Everything has been said a hundred times over and now all that remains is quiet understanding. We know you have to go, we know I have to stay and even though it's so much more complex than that we know it's really just that simple. The silent, knowing awareness in the weight of it all wraps us up in an embrace that is at once both comforting and filled with longing hopefulness.

I hope you can be happy. I hope I can be too.

I hope you smile every time those little butterflies dance inside you, pulling memories of love from your fingertips to your toes, spreading a warmth through every inch of your body with little kisses from their wings.

[thegrandfatherkid]

It feels like home and childhood when I cut the crusts off. One of those little treats you afford yourself when it's either been a good day or an exceptionally shitty one. Like dipping a fat chunk of bread into a bubbling sauce or sitting down to take a piss. The small perks of adulthood. Like you would always start to say it's the little things - although you would never finish.

I love myself, I want you to love me.

I thumb through the rest of the records, taking care not to crease the already dog-eared edges, making mental piles of keep and sell or maybe try to sell. My Aim Is True, Face Value, Talk Talk Talk, High Land, Hard Rain. Forcing down another dry gulp I manage to mutter 'Nobody could ever accuse you of being discerning', sending moist egg globules spattering over a faded Specials 78.

When I feel down, I want you above me.

Looking through the records makes me think of our house so full of music. It was always there even if nobody was listening. Usually nobody was. Anonymous radio sounds would compete with the chaotic din of our full family at meal times, clanging cutlery, talking over talking, hey-pass-the-peases and mom-guess-what-I-dids. You were a terrible cook but dad made us tell you how delicious it all was.

I search myself, I want you to find me.

Then I think about the music I would hear on those rare Friday or Saturday nights when you had parties. Being kept awake by voices I could half recognise, glasses clinking and people singing, hearing you laugh harder than I ever had before. Hearing your laugh sound different. A full bodied happiness. This was drunk mom, party mom, fun mom; a mom I didn't know existed as a child and met all too rarely as an adult. The mom - the Julia - your friends spoke about at the wake. The crazy stories and the pranks and the time you got lost backpacking and ended up on the road with a Brazilian punk band. Things I never knew and things that made me want to know you all over again.

I forget myself, I want you to remind me.

The sun bleeds gold through curtain cracks and I huddle my knees close to my chest kicking the plate to the floor, landing on yet more records. I breathe the sunlight in with my whole body and imagine I'm in the back seat of our old Nissan on one of those early Sunday morning car rides. I don't know where we're going and it doesn't matter; it never did. You'd spend hours making tapes for the journey. Record, click, pause, click.

To me that was always more important than the destination.