Warp of the Words

Twisted thoughts provoked by overheard conversations, dark dreams and unhealthy appetites ...

[warpofthewords]

Liminal space

Love must go somewhere when it dies.  It’s more than a connection between souls, it must have a life of its own.  Surely it leaves a trace in the paths we walk, the beaches we leave our footprints on, the sheets we disrupt, and the hills we climb.

I retrace my steps again and again, stuck on a doomed loop.  The same activities, hand holding, kisses, passionate reunions and words of love - I repeat them. I mean them every time.  It’s just the faces that change.  

I think of others, those who have had more success.  The ones who have made love live for decades.  Are they different?  Is it as visceral, desperate and magic for them?  Do they at any point think they might die of it?  Do they laugh or cry when the tide rushes in and erases their footprints?  

I wait long after they’re gone; on the beach by myself.  I watch the tide creep out and creep out, see the smooth sand revealed again with no trace of anything left on it.  I wait until there is nothing for miles and miles, except fading light on a distant passive water.  Then I collect my things and I go.

[warpofthewords]

The reward

The call came at 11am, Theo was in the headteacher’s office.

“It wasn’t mine!” he protested when his mother arrived.

“Immediate suspension while we investigate,” the headteacher responded.

“I want to see it!” Amber insisted.

The headteacher held up a plastic bag with two ready made spliffs inside; “We can call the police if you have any doubt, Mrs Williams.”

“Please don’t,” Amber replied, “what will you do with it?”

“Dispose of it,” the headteacher said, “as to Theodore’s assertion that he was looking after it for a friend, perhaps a search of his room at home will shed light?”

Amber saw Theo’s shoulders sag slightly.  She took him home and found five other spliffs in his room.  He refused to talk.  At a loss, she went downstairs and called his father.

“I should have come to the school!” James exclaimed, “the children are coming to mine tonight, and …”

“The school called me. Look in his room at yours, will you?  See if you find anything. I’ll bring him round this evening,” she ended the call.

There was a knock at the front door.  Orson’s parents, Bill and Delores stood on the threshold. Delores hugged Amber hard.

“We came as soon as Orson told us,” Delores said.

“Could it be a mistake?” asked Bill.

“No.  I found more in his room,” sighed Amber.

“Christ, how are you so together?” responded Bill.

“What will you do?” Delores enquired.

“Well, he’s grounded …”

“No, I mean with it. You don’t want it in your house do you?  We could get rid of it for you.  Flush it down our loo.”

“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that,” responded Amber.

Later, Amber’s partner Sean rang; she told him everything.

“Jesus!” Sean exclaimed, “how come you are so together?  Do you want me to come round? Look, Amb, you don’t want drugs in your house.  Let me come and take them.  I can chuck them into the Taff on my way home.”

“It’s OK Sean, I’ve got to go to James’ now.”

At James’ house, Theo’s brother and sister made themselves scarce.  Amber sat next to Theo in the kitchen.  James took a seat at the table facing them, rubbing his chin; “Well, this is very serious indeed.  You’ll never make the team now.”

Theo left the room abruptly, tears in his eyes.

“Leave him,” Amber advised as James stood up.

James sat down again.

Keys rattled in the front door and in came Elvira, James’ girlfriend, dressed for the gym, wielding a tupperware box.

“I came as soon as I heard!  I brought homemade cookies.  Oh.  My.  God. Amber.  How are you so together?  I’d be in pieces!”  She put the cookies on the table, “so you found some in his room as well? You don’t want it in your house.  I’ve got a waste disposal unit at mine, I can …” her voice trailed off as she looked at the expression on Amber’s face, “well, I’d best leave you two to discuss,” she planted a kiss on James’ head before leaving, “see you later, gorgeous.”

James and Amber stared at the tupperware container on the table.

James spoke; “She had a point, Amb.  What have you done with the ah … weed?  I uh think it would be best if I took it.  I have a wood burner …”

“James, it’s summer!”

“Quite.  Well,” he stood, “I’m going to talk to my boy alone.”

Amber paused.  From upstairs she could hear; “You’ll never make the team now!  You’ll fail your exams!  You’ve shamed us!  You’ll be expelled!”

She walked out the backdoor and down the path.  Wedging herself between the shed and the high wall at the bottom of the garden, she took one of the spliffs from her pocket and turned it over in her hands.  It wasn’t the years that had tired her, it was the constant activity; the wiping of each snotty nose, the laundering of school uniforms, James’ infidelities, the driving of each child to and from and from and to in all that traffic … The reward was Theo’s transgression and this – she raised the spliff to her lips and lit it.  She closed her eyes and blocked out the distant shouts of James and Theo, instead she focussed on the smoke in her nose and mouth, the soft summer evening sun and the birdsong.

[warpofthewords]

Green lights

I finish my tea and leave the apartment.  The car is parked on the road outside, I get in and start the engine.  It’s sunny and the narrow lane is lined with parked cars on either side.  I drive down it without encountering anything coming the other way.  This is going well.  The traffic lights are green as I enter the High Street that leads past the park.  I turn on the radio and drive past the ice cream parlour, because yet again the lights are green.

On the main road all is quiet.  It’s odd, the man waving the red flag with the placard saying ‘Stop!  The End of the World is Nigh’ isn’t there. Bonus!  He always gives me the creeps anyway.  The lights at the roundabout are green.  I take the road leading out of the city.  The town houses give way to estates, the estates dwindle to fields under a blue sky.  I turn my music up, gaining in confidence.  This is the right way.  I turn down a lane, the farmers fields are yielding to trees, the hedgerow is thick with flowers.  I am in the woods.  Tall pines surround me, interspersed with wild roses and hydrangea.  Ivy begins to reach across the tarmac, soon I’m driving on it and having the car doesn’t feel right any more.  I pull over, collect my bag from the boot and leave the key under the wheel arch.  I feel like I’ve come a long way.

I walk down a path that leads deeper into the forest; the late summer sun is gentle, the birdsong sleepy.  I breathe the cooling air and remember all those green traffic lights in the city, how easy it was to come here.  The weight of past troubles, of old grievances and sad memories is gradually lifting.  I know that behind me the ivy will have covered my car, but I don’t need it any more.  I’m not afraid of being lost because I am never going back.

I reach a clearing and step out into the light.  There is a house in front of me, a small holding.  Cats sun themselves on the patio, chickens scratch at the dust in the yard, clucking to one another, the trees in the orchard are abundant with apples.

I open the garden gate, pass the green house which is filled with tomato plants.  I walk past the runner beans in the vegetable beds and the cats on the patio.  I pause for the first time outside the back door, looking down, my hands have aged, I hadn’t noticed the passing of time; it has all been so easy.  I open the door.  The kitchen is laid out ready to make dinner with fresh produce on the surfaces and the kettle is on.  I take a deep breath and call; ‘Hey!  I made it, I’m here!  Are you here too?’

[theflashnificents]

For Those Their Own Jailor

I lock the door behind us, climb up into the van and take a last look before dropping the keys into your bag. I can see the house in the mirror as we reach the end of the road and take a left.   ‎ The place we move into is nice, spring turns into summer, we talk about the old house less. Every now and then we lose something, and come across a set of keys ‎to the old place while turning out drawers.  We mention it to each other when this happens, and neither of us say anything more, but a shadow passes across us both. ‎ ‎It’s autumn when the problems start. You’re working late a lot, I spend too much time by myself and fall back into destructive behaviours.  ‎ We move again, closer to your work, a smaller, more manageable space.  Things aren’t better. The new apartment is dark, we both feel confined rather than comfortable. The rows escalate and we sleep apart.   There are boxes we haven’t got room to unpack‎. Occasionally we move them in a frustrated search for some missing item and hear keys rattling at the bottom of a box.  

It’s February when the storm breaks, and March finds us seeking separate accommodation. I take a top floor studio, with views of an identikit flat staring back at me across a car park courtyard. It feels as soulless as I do. I sleep badly through these spring nights. It feels like something’s digging into me through the cheap mattress‎, and each time I turn over I hear the jangling of keys.   ‎

[warpofthewords]

Close pass

‘You’ll remember next time, eh?’ Colston said, ‘don’t close pass ‘em if they’re wearing helmet cams.’

‘But I’ve points on my licence now,’ Steve complained.

‘All because some sanctimonious, lycra clad prig felt you didn’t give him enough space.  He was hardly likely to be crushed under your wheels was he?’ sympathised Colston. ‘You know what to do, scatter pins in the cycle lane or stretch piano wire across your local cycle path.  If the smug, elitist, puritanical killjoy is going fast enough, it’ll break his neck.’

Both men laughed.  Colston pressed a button and Steve was gone.  He signed off his radio travel talk show.

‘Nice one!’ his producer crowed, ‘ratings have gone up 20% since you started sending up cyclists.  I want more tomorrow!’

‘No problem,’ Colston grinned, ‘I’ll get plenty material just from driving home. They’ll be loads of them out on a sunny day like this.  Jumping red lights, going on pavement, off pavement, in cycle lane, out of cycle lane; no accountability!’

Outside, Colston noticed black clouds gathering to the west and was glad to get into his Nissan Navara.  He eased into the narrow lanes of the city.  Ahead of him was a cyclist, no helmet cam, jarring over the potholes.  He drove right up to the back wheel and tailgated, revving his engine.  Just as the road narrowed he made his move, allowing half a foot of space he crawled past, moving in a little more so there was about an inch between handlebars and wing mirror.  He heard the woman shout something and floored it, leaving her in his wake, laughing to himself.  

It began to rain, fat droplets landing on his windscreen.  Ahead of him the traffic had gridlocked and he stopped.  The woman cyclist was going to catch up.  Was it getting darker?  The rain intensified, pummelling the roof, his windscreen was inundated, he could barely see the car in front of him or the one behind. An eerie mist was descending and yet he could clearly see the cycle lane in his wing mirror.  There was a cyclist approaching, but they didn’t look right – they were travelling very fast and were oddly thin.  It wasn’t the woman.  There were two others behind it – it?  They whizzed past every car in the traffic jam, moving outwards towards the edge of the cycle lane, gradually slowing, then they stopped just behind his bumper.  Why? The cycle lane was clear, what were they playing at?  Colston couldn’t see the faces under the helmets or at least that was the case for two of them, the other he couldn’t see very well at all. It looked as if … no that couldn’t be right.

There was a scratching sound, the first cyclist was passing his Navara so close that the handle bar was scraping the paintwork.

‘Hey!’ shouted Colston, then he was aware that the second one was doing the same the other side.  Colston went to open his window to have words, then saw on the passenger side the face beneath the helmet staring into his window; two black eye sockets, a grinning mouth, no flesh on the bone.  He screamed in horror and turned to look out the driver’s side; the cyclist there was taking his helmet off revealing rotting flesh hanging off a caved in skull – were those drawing pins digging into the sunken cheeks?  Colston moaned, this was surely a joke.  The one on the passenger side had raised his lycra jersey to reveal that every white bone in the ribcage was broken.

‘Fuck!’ screamed Colston and rammed his hand on his horn, ‘help!’

The third one was coming now, a vague wraith, Colston couldn’t quite see him, until he stopped his thin, black bike at the front of Colston’s car.  Colston realised then what it was, the head wasn’t sitting right on the shoulders, it hung to the side, resting on the shoulder.  The rider climbed off the bike and onto Colston’s bonnet, he stared through the windscreen at him, pushing his head from one side to the other with one hand.  The other hand reached forward and scratched something down the glass – piano wire.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Colston cried and turned his head wildly from side to side, skeletal fingers were clawing at the top of his windows, gaining purchase, forcing the windows down.  Colston screamed and buried his head in his hands. Nothing happened for a while, then he became aware of a constant knocking noise and a voice shouting; ‘What’s your problem mate? The light’s green!  Get moving!’

He looked up, the rain was falling gently on his windscreen, visability was otherwise good. There were no cyclists, only an irrate motorist knocking on his window.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve aged 10 years in one night!’ exclaimed Colston’s producer the next day.

‘I thought we’d have a change of subject today …’ began Colston.

‘No way, mate!  You’re nailing it with those arsey fussbudgets on bikes!  Get out there and give it your best!  I’ve got five callers waiting on the line, all of them cyclist haters.  Remember, heap on the humour.  I’m loving the puritanical, lycra clad, priggish, elitist, snobby line, appeals to everyone.  We can’t have people thinking it’s not a joke.’

Colston sat in his studio chair, through the panoramic window he could see the city spread below him; the narrow streets, the traffic jams and those big black clouds piling in from the west.

[warpofthewords]

Beside the water meadows

It was winter when I caught you trespassing.  You claimed to be lost and gave me a beseeching look from innocent eyes.  I wanted to show off the rivers of ice, the frozen lake, the cold beauty of the frost and the dew laden spiders’ webs in the trees.  Most of all I wanted to share the quietude.  You were in awe of it and as I spoke of industry and economics you became impressed with me.  We met day after day in the spellbound winter and fell in love by the turgid river.

The dry cold season softened to spring and out came the birds, legions of them, laying eggs along the water. You were so excited about the prospect of signets and ducklings. You laughed at the monotonous song of the chiff chaff and danced with bare feet on the warm grass.  We were glad to see the back of winter. “Live with me here, beside the water meadows,” I said.

And so, you moved into the house that was once my father’s, overlooking the land he’d left me.  Each day you watched for ducklings and signets, you marvelled over the blue bells growing from the yellowing grass.  I was perturbed by the height of the river – it was falling.

The summer came with searing heat.  I kept myself inside to avoid the relentless sun.  I didn’t want to look at the water, it was shrinking back.  I could hear my father’s dying words; “Beware the drought ... The things we have buried ...”.  I had to stop you from going outside.  You were confused when I locked you in the bedroom.  I made it a nice cage, decorating it with pictures of the birds you loved so much, indeed I would have given you anything you wanted, but there was no way I was letting you out.  I had to protect you from the horror that was unfolding out in the water meadows.  The river was now a slurry of slime and the lakes had receded.  The signets hatched deformed and the ducks abandoned their babies.  The trees in plunging their roots deep underground for water had found poison; their trunks turned black, their brittle branches fell away.  The chiff chaff was silenced.

This is my legacy my love, my water meadows, littered with the corpses of wildlife, guarded by decaying trees and the smell ... you can detect it from your room now, can’t you?  That metallic odour that my father once called success.

[warpofthewords]

The necessary meal

‘You’re Camille, I’m Victoria,’ greets the ex-wife at the restaurant table, ‘sit next to me, I’m dying to know all about you.’  She lays a kiss on Edward’s cheek.

My fists clench. Get off him!  He isn’t yours any more.

‘You look great!’ Victoria gushes, eyeing me up and down.  I can feel the eyes of her friends at the table on me also.  Two by two, all established couples.

‘Doesn’t she,’ agrees Edward, squeezing my waist.

I smile beatifically and fold myself into the chair beside Victoria’s.  I’m introduced to everyone and then; ‘Edward tells me you don’t have children?’

How rude!  Of course, it is a fair enough question, I’m here because she wants to meet me before I am introduced to her and Edward’s daughters.  I take a deep gulp of wine, letting the deep wounds of my past show in my dark eyes.  

‘I never drink,’ Victoria states disapprovingly, ‘I understand you work really long hours at the hospital.   You’re a doctor right?’

‘No.  I’m an assistant,’ I reply vaguely.

‘Camille’s doing a nursing degree,’ says Edward.

Victoria looks satisfied, there is no-one at the table who doesn’t have a PhD or MD, Edward was at pains to tell me the identities and qualifications of everyone there.  He is quite the name dropper when he gets going.

They’re all looking at me pityingly as if being an assistant is beneath them somehow.  We order our food, Edward squeezes my hand under the table, but he doesn’t come to my aid.

‘So you live on Westfields housing estate do you?  Is property expensive there?’ Victoria asks.

‘I wouldn’t know, I rent,’ I answer.

Between starter and main course, Victoria and one of her friends get up and go to the ladies room.  After a moment I follow, I go through the first door and stand in the vestibule behind the other, listening.

‘How come she looks that good?’ Victoria is raging, ‘no way is she 40 years old!  She looks about 25! And look at Edward all moony eyed!  It’s obviously a sex thing! Well, she’s not meeting Amelie and Olivia!  Over my dead body!’

‘Do you have a say in that?’ her friend asks.

‘Edward will do anything for a quiet life,’ she replies smugly.

I open the door and rush into a cubicle before they notice it’s me.  I sit there for as long as possible before I go out there again.

After pudding I feign a headache and tell Edward I’m going home early.  He offers to escort me, but I turn him down.  Victoria looks radiantly triumphant.

I head for the car park; a glance from me and the street light above Victoria’s Mercedes goes out.  The darkness swallows me and I melt into mist so I can filter my way into her back seats; taking form again just in time to hear the click of her heels.  She gets in to drive and I pounce, grabbing her by the neck.  She makes a peculiar gargling sound as my teeth sever her throat.  I drink the life from her greedily, then shove her lifeless corpse into the passenger seat.  

In the morning they will discover her car in the river.  Poor Victoria; she came off the road inexplicably – was she tired?  Drained after a long evening’s socialising?  I laugh darkly, then belch unexpectedly.  Ugh!  Ex-wives like that one!  They always have the same bitter after taste, like a leftover takeaway the next morning.  Devouring them is necessary though, because the rest of the broken family taste so very good.

[warpofthewords]

Cycle of Futility

I’m riding my bike to work; whizzing past stationary cars.  I’m going to be on time.  There’s the boss Mr Frank parking his white Range Rover right outside the building, he’ll pay £20 a day for that space.  What the hell!  I’m suddenly lying in the road on my side, a car swerves to avoid me.  Mr Frank stands over me; ‘Sorry, Grant, didn’t see you there,’ he says cheerfully, closing his car door and picking up my bike, ‘it’s a bit dangerous cycling on the road; people open their doors without looking.  At least you’re on time.’

Discovered a cycle path, bit of a longer route, but I’m careering along, in a space just for me.  No cars, no chance of being doored.  Round a corner I go and I’m down, face in the gravel.  There’s a terrier and extendable lead wrapped round my bike.  I get to my feet and the dog owner punches me in the face.  I detach the animal from my bike and run for it – I can’t ride because the chain’s come off.  I turn up with stone imprints on my face, oily hands and a black eye.

‘Not a good look, Grant!’ shouts Mr Frank as he emerges from his 4x4 unscathed, ‘at least you’re on time.’

Trying the pavement today, taking it easy, ringing my bell as I pass an old couple. There’s a shout, I look over my shoulder.  The elderly lady has collapsed.  I go to help immediately, only for the old man’s walking stick to ricochet off the side of my helmet.

‘You’ve given her a heart attack!’ he yells, hitting me again, ‘sneaking up behind us like that and then ringing your bell!  Menace!’

I jump back on my bike and pedal for it, sick with guilt.

They’ve opened the new bike lane.  This is truly where I belong.  Alongside the buses and cars, away from the pedestrians.  Suddenly my face is in the back of a bus, my front wheel buckled and my helmet broken.  The driver grabs me by the collar; ‘What the fuck were you doing?  There’s a bus stop ‘ere!  Look where you’re going!’

I can’t reply, there’s blood pouring from my mouth and my front teeth are loose. He shakes his head and drops me in the cycle lane.  I arrive at work covered in black diesel dust and blood.

‘I’d give up if I were you,’ advises Mr Frank as he emerges pristine from his Range Rover.

I spend the day miserably texting Ellie.  She sends me a link – a water bike, cycling’s new frontier!  I order one by express delivery.

This is so civilised, peacefully pedalling along the river to work.  No cars, pedestrians, buses, dogs … What the hell!  Passing close to me, engine roaring is a speedboat.  Its wake wave hits me and I capsize, just as the river ferry appears.  I swim for it only to see my water bike get caught in the ferry’s undertow and dragged down to be mangled in its engines.  I arrive at work soaking, shivering and covered in water weeds, my work clothes at the bottom of the river.

‘Do try to be more presentable, Grant,’ says Mr Frank, climbing out of his all wheel drive.

There is a box waiting for me at home, a note attached to it.

‘You really can buy anything off the internet these days, even extra-terrestrials!  Here is the solution to your problems, love Ellie xxx’

In the morning, I place him in the basket of my newly repaired road bike.  He sits wrapped in a white blanket, muttering and juddering as I pedal into the middle of the road, among the cars and lorries.  Horns blare. Sensing danger, E.T. does his thing and we’re suddenly flying, above road, river, pavement and cycle path, flying on my bike to work!  Far below I can see Mr Frank’s white Range Rover in traffic, I’m going to get to the office before him.  There it is below. Suddenly, a drone flies directly at us, I try to steer to avoid it, but it catches E.T. directly in the head, rendering him unconscious. The bike tips and E.T. and I are falling.  My outstretched hands grasp the guttering of the office roof and hold on for dear life.  I watch E.T. hit the pavement with a whack and Mr Frank’s white Range Rover drive over his lifeless body as he parks.  My bike has landed on top of the bike rack.  Mr Frank emerges and looks up; ‘What are you doing up there, Grant?  At least you’re on time.’

[warpofthewords]

Road Users

They gazed at each other across the restaurant table, unable to contain their joy.

‘It’s so lovely to be with you,’ smiled Ella.

‘I’m so glad we met,’ Tom stated simultaneously.

They clinked glasses; ‘To our third date,’ Tom said, ‘I feel such a connection to you, not just sexually, but in a spiritual way.’

‘And intellectually,’ added Ella, ‘although the sex the other night was amazing!  It’s been such a tough year and for it to end in meeting you – well it’s made up for all the bad.’

‘You never told me what you went through,’ said Tom.

She shrugged uneasily.

He gallantly changed the subject; ‘I nearly didn’t survive the journey here.  Some twat in a Range Rover gave me about half of a foot of space, then cut across my bike.’

Ella was shocked, she hadn’t heard gentlemanly Tom use an expression like ‘twat’ before.

‘I’ve got him on this,’ he said, pulling a cycling helmet out from under the table and showing her the camera on it, ‘I’ll upload it on my blog tomorrow and send it to the Police.  He won’t have a leg to stand on.’

‘He might not have seen you,’ Ella said softly.

Tom laughed; ‘Don’t be daft!’

‘Is that what you do?  Film people’s innocent mistakes on the road and – and grass on them?’ she asked shrilly.

Tom flinched; ‘Innocent mistakes?’

‘He might have been tired, he might have had his kids in the back distracting him, he might just have found out his marriage was over!’ Ella put her hand over her mouth.

‘Those aren’t excuses,’ Tom responded, ‘if he’d hit me, he would have killed me.’

‘What’s your blog called?’ Ella demanded.

‘When Drivers Attack.’

‘Oh my God!  It was you!  Do you remember a late night last January?  Along Lake Road?’

Tom stared at her; ‘You were the driver of that Jaguar e-Pace? You almost knocked me into a row of parked cars!  You nearly killed me.’

‘Almost,’ echoed Ella, ‘nearly.  I didn’t see you, I was crying.’

‘You shouldn’t have been driving then!’

‘You were in black, your bike light was flickering …’

‘Yes, bike lights flicker to get attention.’

‘Where was your hi-vis vest?’

‘It’s up to you to see me - there were street lamps.  You were speeding.’

‘I’d just caught my husband in bed with another woman!  You were weaving all over the road …’

‘I was avoiding pot holes!  You’ve got to understand you almost killed me!’

‘Almost!’ she shouted, ‘well, you actually ruined my life!  I lost my licence, then I lost my job!  I lost my home and custody of my children because of those extra penalty points I got because of you, you asshole!’

Diners at other tables had gone quiet; waiters were pretending nothing was happening.

‘I was unable to cycle for a whole week after that because you scared me so much,’ Tom argued, ‘I was traumatised!’

‘I’ve been banned from driving for a whole year!’

‘Probably a good thing.’

‘You just filmed and sent it in,’ she said levelly, ‘they saw your side of the story, I didn’t have footage of you all in black weaving all over the place with that dodgy flickering light.  It couldn’t have been evidence if I had, you don’t have a number plate.  You just fucking pedalled off, completely unaccountable and then you destroyed my life!’ she began to cry in deep ragged sobs, ‘I can’t believe I had sex with you.’

The silence in the restaurant deepened.

‘I can’t believe I had sex with you,’ replied Tom, ‘you’ve no understanding of what it’s like to be on two wheels and have some speeding idiot in a two ton metal four by four come screaming up behind you.  This helmet cam is the only defence I have!  Well, at least you won’t do it again.’

Ella stood with as much dignity as she could muster, she picked up her drink and threw its contents into Tom’s face.  Then she stalked out of the restaurant.

Tom wiped his face with a napkin, put some cash on the table and followed her into the cold night air.  He watched her join the taxi queue as he unchained his bike from the rack. His eyes were blurry with tears, but he could see that she was also crying.  They made their way to their empty houses in their different ways, sharing the same city roads.

[warpofthewords]

The Universe

I think it was after the fifth time that something random happened to stop us from meeting that I raised the issue.  We were talking over Zoom and I said tentatively; ‘I don’t think the universe wants us to see each other.’

You laughed and reminded me; ‘There’s a pandemic.’

‘But we’ve formed a bubble between our households and we still can’t get together.’

‘A series of unfortunate events,’ you replied.

The first of them was when I was due to visit you, but you got a call from the school saying you had to self isolate because someone in your son’s year group had tested positive.  Ten days went by and we excitedly planned for you to visit me.  The universe had other ideas.  The day he was due to pick my boy up from nursery, my ex was injured in a car accident.  I was left fetching my darling son and making a cancellation call to you.  As you had your kids the rest of that week, we rescheduled for the next one, but then of course, my son’s nursery rang, there’d been a case in his bubble and I had to self isolate with him.  Another ten days, during which we looked forward to you coming to mine, but towards the end of my isolation, I came down with symptoms.  I cancelled our date immediately and got a Covid test.  Inconclusive.  I got another test.  Negative.  Turned out it was just a cold.  Another week had passed.  Surely, we thought as we organised me coming to see you, nothing was going to happen now. However, just as I was leaving, detectives turned up at my door and took me to the police station.  I had to prove I was not involved in my brother’s anti-lockdown protests and tell them all I knew about his Covid denying activities.

It had been ages by then.  Days of long conversations on Zoom or flirtatious exchanges on Whatsapp.  I had taken to filling the void by drinking neat brandy, binging on chocolate biscuits and sometimes having really vivid dreams … Only to wake alone with an empty glass next to me and once gold foil in the bed - I eventually worked out I’d eaten my son’s chocolate gold coins that he’d had for Christmas.  A low point.

‘No,’ I insisted, ‘this isn’t a series of unfortunate events.  The universe totally hates us.’

‘Tomorrow is going to happen,’ you answered firmly, ‘the school is shut, your boy isn’t in nursery, your ex is driving carefully, your brother has been exonerated and you haven’t got a cough.’

The next day, inevitably, my car broke down, but I had pre-empted the universe doing this.  I had tried to start the engine three hours before I was due to leave to come to yours.  Forearmed with the knowledge that I couldn’t take my car, I caught the train.  I set off on foot from the station, you’d said you’d walk to meet me.  I saw you at the end of the street, smiled happily and waved.  You waved back and we began to close the distance between us.  Suddenly there was a huge roar from under our feet and I fell backwards.  I watched in horror as part of a house toppled into the chasm that had suddenly opened up in front of me.  I stood up and went to the edge of it.  There you were at the other side, a bottomless abyss separating us.  No way was I giving up and going home to a packet of chocolate digestives and an eighth of a decanter of brandy.  I jogged backwards, took a run up, closed my eyes and leapt …

It was an incredible jump, worthy of an elite athlete or a Hollywood stunt person.  I landed with my head and shoulders on the other side of the gap and the rest of me dangling below.  I scrambled upwards, panting with exhaustion and got to my feet.  You were nowhere to be seen.  I turned round.  There you were, pulling yourself up at the other side of the chasm, standing and looking around.  Then you turned and saw me.  Realisation dawned on us.  We looked at each other for a long time.  There was no way we’d have the strength or courage to make that jump again.

‘Zoom tomorrow?’ we shouted simultaneously.

[warpofthewords]

Nearly

It was in the early days when we couldn’t get enough of each other. I’d sank into a deep sleep beside you, tired, happy and secure. When I woke you were pressing my finger against the back of my phone, using the print to access it.  I half opened my eyes.  In the screen light, I could see you going through my phone, you were into my Whatsapp already, looking at the conversations.

For a second, I considered pretending to be asleep and letting you do it, but a rising anger in me made that impossible.  I snatched my phone from your grasp; ‘What the hell are you doing?’

You didn’t try to deny anything; ‘I’m sorry!’ you cried.

I was straight out of bed, searching for my clothes, disappointment squeezing my heart until I could hardly breathe, adrenaline coursing through my veins.  

‘Don’t go!’ you were pleading, ‘let me explain!’

‘There’s nothing you can say!’ I found my clothes miraculously quickly and dressed as fast as I could.

You continued to beg, pointing out that I shouldn’t drive while I was as angry as this, that you’d sleep in the spare room if I’d just stay until morning.  I was having none of it.  I gathered my belongings and stormed down the stairs.  I entered your long, tiled hall with the big front door at the end.  You followed me, still pleading.

I turned on your furiously; ‘I was fucking falling in love with you!’

‘I was too!’ you cried, ‘that’s why I did it!  I had to know! Please darling, that phone of yours is always pinging and I had to know that there wasn’t anyone else!’

‘There was only you and you’ve blown it!’ I retorted.

You suddenly collapsed, your body convulsing in sobs.  I hesitated. Maybe you’d needed to look at my phone, perhaps that’s all you’d need to trust me.  I couldn’t leave you like that, you might do anything.  I went to you and put my hands on your shoulders; ‘All right, we’ll talk,’ I said softly.

You stood, flung your arms round me and your mouth found mine, hot and hungry.  I held and kissed you, feeling the passion of us again.

I remember though, in that moment, opening my eyes, seeing the door, not far from me, a few paces away.  Over the years that followed, I thought of that a lot.  How I’d nearly made it out.

[warpofthewords]

Know

I know that Edmund is in my room because I’m fucking him.  I’m holding a spliff in one hand and my other is on his chest as I grind down hard and listen to his moans.  It sounds like him and it feels as good as it gets.  We have been doing this more or less constantly since he arrived and hung his black coat on the back of my door.

My phone pings.  That’s weird.  It made the unique notification sound I set for Edmund so I could give his messages appropriate priority.  My phone must have gone wrong, but how?  I’m curious and Edmund underneath me looks like he can take a break, so I roll off him saying; ‘Just a sec.’

Oh what the hell now?  My phone has a text from Edmund on it.

‘Sorry I can’t be with you tonight.’ Sent 20 seconds ago.

I look at Edmund in my bed, he is smiling at me.  I look at Edmund’s text on my phone and ping a reply; ‘Don’t mess with me now, you’re in my bed!’

I listen intently and from somewhere comes the chime of a notification, I can’t be sure, but I think it came from under the bed.

‘Come back to me,’ says Edmund in my bed, holding out his empty hands.

My phone pings, that unique sound again. ‘How do you know it’s me?’ says Edmund on my phone.

I sit up and think for a minute, taking a long drag on my spliff. Edmund in my bed is looking at me intently through the smoke.  I decide I can’t possibly answer that. I set my phone to ‘do not disturb’ and straddle him again.

[warpofthewords]

Blade

No symptoms yet on day one of self isolation.  We’re in a routine.  At 7am breakfast, 7.30am home schooling starts, tea break at 10.45am … which is when the boys creep upstairs to look out the window at Giselle the French girl from next door practising her ballet moves in the garden.  Everyone needs a hobby, they have one too; fencing.  So after lessons and lunch we practice in the garden.  No swords of course, there’s a fitness regime to follow.  It’s 4pm now, we’re bored, kicking a ball against a wall, but we’ll get through.

No symptoms yet – day 2.  Breakfast at 8am, 9.30am home schooling, but the boys are in the garden.  Seb has climbed onto the raised beds and is talking over the fence to Giselle.  Can’t have that, teenagers can’t socially distance.  Charlie is hiding behind the shed and filming them secretly.  He’s obsessed with his YouTube channel, puts everything on it.  I call them in, I get them back on track.

No symptoms yet – day 3.  Breakfast at 8.45am and by 9.45am they are in the garden!  I must work, so maybe start home schooling a bit later?  I hear a yell from Seb; ‘You can’t secretly film her and put her on your channel, Charlie!  It’s creepy!’

‘What would you know about art?’ retorts Charlie.

‘Pervert!’ cries Giselle from over the fence.

I hear a clattering noise in the kitchen, followed by more shouts and tear myself away from my laptop.  I’m not sure how it’s happened but they’ve grabbed their swords and are sparring.  This dangerous showing off must be stopped immediately.

No symptoms yet.  Day 4.  I’m in agony.  Seb’s sword went straight through my right arm yesterday when I broke the fight up.  An accident.  It’s 10am and he and Charlie are making something for breakfast.  Obviously I can’t go to hospital with all the Covid cases and there’s no point worrying their mother.  I’m patched up as best as can be and taking strong painkillers with whisky.  A short term strategy to cope with the pain.  I’m going to have to trust the boys to stick with the timetable on the wall.

I have a fever on Day 5!  The woman who dropped my Covid test off told me I need to get my arm looked at, but the whisky and the pain killers are doing the job.  Where are the boys?  Charlie is filming Seb who is shirtless in the garden. He's got his sword and is wearing body paint; a bandana round his head.  He’s dropped the sword.  He’s climbing up the raised beds.  He’s gone over the fence and is coming back again, Giselle in his arms giggling.  She’s illegally in our garden!  I try to speak but my words are somewhat slurred.  The pain is bad.  Maybe it’s safer to think I’m imagining all of this. Perhaps I should get some rest.

Still feverish, Covid test negative though.  It’s day whatever, I’ve lost track.  My head hurts.  The boys and Giselle are in the room with me.

‘Have some more whisky, Dad,’ says Seb, shirtless and covered in painted symbols.  Giselle is wearing a floaty white dress.  Charlie is filming us of course.

‘You’re not social distancing,’ I say weakly.

‘We’ve formed a bubble,’ Seb replies authoritatively.

‘Isn’t it lesson time?’ I look up at the timetable on the wall, but someone has thrown a kitchen knife through it.

‘Just rest, Dad,’ Charlie advises.

‘His arm has gone black,’ says Giselle, ‘he is going to die.’

‘Perhaps I should go to the hospital,’ I suggest in a whisper.

‘Not with all those cases, Dad!  Do you have a death wish?’ Seb exclaims, ‘I know what to do.’  They all leave the room.

Fever, pounding head.  Is it evening?  I’ve been moved onto the kitchen table.  The three of them surround me.  There's a belt tied round my arm. Seb puts a bottle of whisky to my lips, I gulp it down as I notice the axe in his other hand. Giselle rubs disinfectant above my wound and I scream with pain.  She picks up what looks like a butane gas lighter.  ‘Are you ready?’ she asks Seb.

‘Please can I go to the hospital?’ I ask.

Seb’s face is very serious.  He raises the axe, the blade gleaming dully in the half light.

Charlie is filming; ‘This is great,’ he says with real excitement, ‘a live amateur, lock down, amputation.  Five million people are watching right now, Dad!’

[warpofthewords]

Boo!

Even in the rainy darkness of freezing January, Gavin took his evening walk round the lake.  The water was grey and the ducks asleep, but the geese were still lurking.  Gavin was wondering how to get out of fulfilling the investment that idiot in media relations had agreed.  It would see the lake cleared of the algae that had been polluting it, but where was the profit in that?  The bank was already popular, it didn’t need to be jumping on the local green issues band wagon.

As usual half way round, Gavin’s colleague Jeremy ran past.  This time, he didn’t greet him, because pursuing him with wide flapping wings was a big white goose.

‘Leave me alone!’ Jeremy was shouting, ‘I’m on your side! I’m a vegan!’

Gavin chuckled, typical Jeremy; too woke to say boo to a goose.  He reached the loneliest part of his walk, where the trees closed in and there was a steep bank between path and road.  The darkness was nearly at night level, Gavin noticed with irritation that the street lamps hadn’t come on.  He thought in the distance he heard a blood curdling scream, but couldn’t be sure, it was muffled somehow.  He turned to look and saw a big white goose standing in the path behind him.  Gavin frowned and carried on his walk, picking up the pace. The goose followed, wings at a wide angle, neck stretched out, beak open, a touch of swaggering menace in its gait.  Another goose joined it and another, their webbed feet slapping on the concrete path. Gavin turned again and the geese stopped, eyeing him malignantly. Gavin told himself not to be silly.  OK, he’d seen one chasing Jeremy, but Jeremy had always been a wimp.  He walked on, into the dark, the rain pouring down.  There was a noise behind him, growing steadily louder, slap, slap, slap, the sound of webbed feet hitting tarmac.  He whirled round, there was a huge flock of geese behind him now, the big white one at the front, its head snaking forward.

‘Shoo!’ he said angrily, ‘go away!’

The geese didn’t move, instead the white one opened its beak and hissed.

‘Boo!’ shouted Gavin, flapping his arms and running at them.  He stopped suddenly, aware that he had dashed into their midst.  He turned back, but a row of beaked heads blocked him.  The first peck hit him in the ribs like a punch, then something flew into his back, knocking him forwards, his feet slipped on the wet ground and he pitched forwards on his hands.  Honking with triumph the geese rushed in on him, their hungry beaks tearing at his flesh, their feathers muffling his screams.

Later, when darkness had fallen completely and the gates to the park had been locked, the geese dragged what was left of Gavin’s body along the path.  They left his and Jeremy’s bodies together, underneath a sign that said; ‘Park Lake will be closed temporarily due to an algae infection.  You are advised not to feed the geese.’

[warpofthewords]

The risk

I had adhered to the rules, I’d done what others had, made my home beautiful and stayed in it.  I was happy in my obedience, but then I saw you.  You had the same government sanctioned exercise slot as me and we jogged alongside each other, two metres apart.  Even though it is not permitted, our eyes met as we passed under the cherry tree.  I put it out of my mind.

You were there again the next day and I ignored you because talking is forbidden.  You ran a little ahead of me and I saw you tack paper to the cherry tree, as I passed I tore it off and put it in my pocket.  When I got home I read your note.  It had your phone number on it.  We began texting on the encrypted service.  I told you about the colour scheme in my home, you told me about the furniture in yours.  We talked about our jobs and the supermarket delivery service.  Not much to say, every day is the same here but when you described your cosy sofa you made me feel like I was sitting with you on it, my head on your shoulder.  The isolation receded and I was dizzy with happiness.

The next day I didn’t see you on my run, until I reached the cherry tree.  You were standing beneath it, pretending to take a breather, but your eyes were on me as I ran.  You stretched out your hand and for a second I brushed it with my fingers.  I couldn’t stay home that night, the four walls could not hold me, I needed space.  When darkness fell, even though it is not permitted, I went out.  I ran to the cherry tree and touched the bark that you had touched when you tacked your note on it.  I was about to go straight back to the safety of my home and forget this, when suddenly you were under the tree with me.  Keeping two metres apart, we talked, hearing each other’s voices for the first time.  We discussed the crisis, where we had been when it had started and how we coped with the isolation.  Then we talked about the times before, when you could go somewhere and get to know someone, when we were free.  We knew we had little time before we were discovered and that we should be heading back, but you suddenly said; “Will you take a risk for me?  I want to touch you.”

I looked around, there was no-one.  I gazed at your face, then glanced up at the tree above us and the stars in the sky.  I closed the gap, step by step.  Then I was in your arms, my lips grazing your cheek.

We stayed like that even when we heard the shouts and the running feet.

[warpofthewords]

The Participant

Another hotel lobby, my ID badge is heavy on my neck and I have an impending headache.  No-one notices me, just another grey official. You learn to read body language in this job and the person coming through the rotating door has a mild startled look when confronted by the pristine hotel reception.  I move immediately to welcome.

“Derek?  Hi, I’m Gill.”  As we travel in the lift I explain; “thank you for coming, we’re looking for people like you to help us with our research.  I can’t go too much into what today’s research is about or I’ll bias you, but this is for you,” I hand him his thank you payment, “just ensure what you expect is in there.”

Derek is relaxing, he takes the envelope, counts the cash and nods.

I open the door of the conference room and watch him take it all in, two bottles of water in the middle of the table, one still and one sparkling, the upside down tumblers next to them, the blood on the mahogany, the body slumped on the chair, throat cut. Messy.

I shut the door behind us and hand him a cloth; “So, to get started, can you clean the table?”

He looks at me, mouth slack in a square shape, like an outraged infant; “Shouldn’t we – c-call the Police?”

I frown; “Why would we do that?”

“Because of the-the body.”

“Is that what you think that is?” I ask expressionlessly.

“It looks like – like …”

“Take your time.”

“Real,” he says.

“Everyone says that,” I counter reassuringly.

His shoulders sag with relief and he gamely takes the cloth and begins mopping up the blood.  I ready the tarpaulin bag that I’d brought down earlier; “As you work,” I request, “just say whatever comes into your mind, think aloud if you will.”

“It’s very sticky, the blood – is it blood?”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” he gives me an embarrassed half smile.

“You’ve done a great job there,” I say, “can you grab the legs?  I’ll get the shoulders.  Again, just talk me through your thoughts as we do this.”

“Um, she’s wearing heels, Louboutin’s,” he says, as we placed Carla’s lifeless body onto the tarpaulin, “her skin is warm.  Is she still alive?”

“What do you think?” I ask.

“She feels very real, this is very authentic.”

“What is?”  I place the cleaning cloths in with Carla and zip up the bag neatly and efficiently.

“This experience,” he half laughs again, “you’d think I’d taken part in disposing of a body.”

“What did you expect to take part in?”

“It said a test.”

I smile.

“Oh!” he says sounding even more relieved, “it’s all a research test thingy.”

We place the tarpaulin bag containing Carla onto a trolley.

I smile and shake his hand; “Thank you very much for your time, Derek.  The restroom is on the left if you want to wash your hands.  You’ve got my e-mail address if you have questions.”

“Thank you,” he says, cheerful now that it’s over and he can go into his Friday evening.  I show him out and return.  I wheel the trolley with the tarpaulin bag on it out into the car park where I tip the bag into the boot of my car for disposal later.  I sigh with relief.  Now that Carla and her 'innovative' ideas have been dispatched, we can start doing things my way.

[warpofthewords]

Grey Rock

Bellflower was the most beautiful in the garden with soft pink flowers and delicate leaves.  People who passed her stopped to take close ups of her to post on Instagram.

The Goldthread vine that grew nearby wasn’t admired, so no-one noticed when he crawled ever closer to Bellflower until he was in whispering distance.  “You look beautiful today.  But don’t you get tired of all those people sniffing your flowers and pressing their phone cameras against them?  It’s so intrusive.”

“I don’t know how to stop them,” said Bellflower.

Goldthread touched Bellflower gently with one of his vines, she didn’t protest, so he stayed, telling her how amazing she looked, how stunning her flowers were and how awful it was that she had to endure all this attention.

Bellflower became dependent on the daily compliments of Goldthread, she felt comforted by his cool vines that gently wrapped themselves around her branches, hiding her flowers from sight so the people didn’t come with their cameras.  Soon Goldthread became her world, everywhere she looked there he was, always smiling, protecting her.

Gradually Goldthread opened up to Bellflower, telling her of the problems he was facing.  He was ugly, no-one looked at him, he couldn’t get sufficient nutrients from the soil, it was easier to get his supply from other plants.  Could Bellflower help?  Gladly she gave him a share of the nutrients she sucked from the soil and Goldthread told her how kind she was.

The summer wore on and Bellflower dug deep for water; she’d been all right last summer, but this summer she was constantly thirsty.

“Goldthread, how much water are you taking?” she asked.

“Oh loads,” he responded glibly, “I’m growing another vine.  You don’t mind do you?”

“I’m very thirsty …”

“What?” cried Goldthread, “how can you be so selfish?  I’m here every day for you, shielding you from the people …”

“I didn’t ask you to …”

“Don’t interrupt me!” Goldthread tightened his hold on Bellflower, squeezing her with his vines until she begged for mercy.  Afterwards Bellflower sobbed, but Goldthread behaved as if nothing had happened.  He continued to drink and feast from her until she grew weak and ill.

“Please Goldthread,” she’d mutter, realising her flowers were dull and her leaves were shrivelling, “is this fair?”

But Goldthread always had excuses and worse was the drip of insults he now fed her; “You used to be so generous, you used to be beautiful, but now you’re mean and sad all the time.”

The gardener returned from her holiday and was shocked to find her most prized plant nearly suffocated by Goldthread’s vines.

“I don’t know what happened,” the under-gardener said.

“That pesky Goldthread!” sighed the gardener.  She dug Bellflower up and with great patience and gentleness removed every one of Goldthread’s vines.

The under-gardener took Bellflower to the south patio and put her in a tub, where she could be intensely fed and watered.

The gardener looked thoughtfully at Goldthread and placed beside him a dull grey rock.  

When she had gone, Goldthread said; “I can’t believe they’ve taken away Bellflower, the love of my life!  All I did was care for her!”

“Indeed,” said the rock.

“Will you comfort me?” wept Goldthread and tried to put his vines on the rock, but the rock felt cold and he couldn’t get a grip on it.

“I’m sure you’re very upset,” said the rock.

Goldthread complained endlessly about his injuries, he tried his hardest to entangle the rock, but got no supply from it; not even when it rained, the water just seemed to fall off the rock, like Goldthread’s vines.  On the south patio, Goldthread could see Bellflower flourishing in her tub and he became sick with envy and loss.  The dull grey rock was no help; it just went right on being there, soaking up the sun, shrugging off the rain.