Spliffs and Suspicions

Portia waited in the bar, drinking glass after glass of cheap house white, waiting for him to tip up, and so when he finally did, she was of course very drunk. It was inevitable. She’d had a couple of spliffs, too, and was on top of the world floating about. And the world didn’t seem as sharp and painful and like it was going to fuck her over. It felt softer, blunter, funnier. Nothing was normal. Not anymore. And things were spinning and not normal and happy.

‘My mother died’, she announced euphorically to the rather taken aback French barman who brought her the fourth glass. ‘And it’s funny’, she continued, ‘because I would never have imagined Mum to die that way. She was so careful.’

Finally Ben was there, wearing a trippy shirt that flashed and danced. It completely mesmerised her and he sat there for about five minutes while she laughed at his shirt, a painting on the wall, the bubbles in his cider.

‘My mother died’, she announced finally.

‘I know’, he replied. ‘I’m so sorry my love. I really am, but you mustn’t destroy yourself like this…’ then stopped as she burst into peals of laughter again, peals that jarred in his ears, cutting the air, making people nearby look up in surprise.

‘What else is there to do?’ she choked, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Everything’s ended, messed up, twisted…’ Twist was such a funny word that she started giggling again. When she had recovered, she continued: ‘She was always so careful. So it’s all wrong.’

He looked confused.

‘She would never have eaten something with nuts’, she cried, then started laughing again at the words ‘nuts’. She was so hungry… ‘And even then, she knew where her epinephrine was!’ She looked closely at him. ‘And so did you.’

He went cold.

‘Because you see where I’m coming from’, she said. ‘Because you know right? I leave you and my mother alone together, and then she dies because of her nut allergy, and now we inherit everything. Right?’

He said nothing. But he remembered the night of Portia’s mother’s death. He remembered cooking. He remembered looking for her epinephrine. He remembered standing there, waiting just that little bit too long.

Portia collapsed off her chair. The barman peered at her over the bar, looking concerned. Ben smiled apologetically picked her and began the long walk home. Via the river.

: 15 Feb 2009 21:58 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Dispatches from the sofa

I quite liked Alex's recommended title, so I hope he doesn't mind my blatant plagiarism. This is still the first draft, I'm quite pleased with it really.

"Soph... Would you give me a massage? Please? And would you turn the kettle on too? Can you pass my mug? Oh would you rinse it out? While you're washing up, would you do this knife too? And this fork? And this plate? And this saucepan? Where's your baking tray? Can I borrow it? And where was that massage? Oh are you cooking broccoli? Can I have some of that? You'll have to show me how to do this at some point, though I don't know if I can do it as well, so maybe it'll just be best if you do it. Then can I have another massage? I'm so glad you're living with us next year..."

"Would you chuck us a beer Soph? Aren't you drinking too? Oh just one! Oh, you're drinking wine! Oh, can we sellotape your hands to the wine bottle? Get her! Oh where's your sense of fun! Oh let's put some vodka it in! And drink this now. Drink! Drink! Drink! You forgot to EG*! Again?? Here's another one. Did you just say 'Drink'**? Consume! Pour her a shot! Stop arguing! Get her! Where's your sense of fun? Can I have a massage? Go to bed Soph, you're pissed. Oh get up!"

*According to the international drinking rules, when one finishes one's drink, they must then tap the person next to them with their glass and say 'EG' before putting the glass down.

**The International Drinking Rules also prohibit the use of the word 'Drink'. The fact that it is used prior to this is a reference to the fact that we usually only remember halfway in.

: 21 Jan 2009 14:39 |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Random Act of Cruelty

The second draft. What does it need?

"I can't stand these fucking flies any longer!" raged Gavyn, storming in, and manically spraying the kitchen ceiling. One by one, the flies dropped onto the floor and table, and lay on their backs feebly waving their legs. We watched them, fascinated by the sudden transition of proud, annoying, flying beings to pitiful, ill, dying ones. Sometimes, we slapped them to put them out of their misery. I think Andy ate one. I fussed over my food, that was now doubtless covered by a veil of fly spray. Finally, we left the room, unable to breathe the now toxic air. When we ventured back, an hour later, the flies were still rolling pathetically, their small black bodies trying to turn over back onto their feet. It took another hour for the flies to stop moving altogether.

: 21 Jan 2009 14:29 |  Comments (4) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Drunk Girl's Love Song

There’s this familiar pounding in my head.

That bright light will soon drive me insane.

I’m really starting to wish I were dead.

I’m not sure what I did or said

But I think you kissed me in the rain.

There’s this familiar pounding in my head.

I remember that to my room I was led.

I remember you kissed me again and again.

I’m really starting to wish I were dead.

I think about you with excitement and dread.

To remember more is such a strain…

There’s this familiar pounding in my head.

It thumps as I walk, with every tread.

I need to find you, we need to explain.

I’m really starting to wish I were dead.

Just imagine what remains unsaid

Like that the memory of each and every kiss I retain.

There’s this familiar pounding in my head.

I’m really starting to wish I were dead…

: 12 Nov 2008 16:40 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Goose warfare, or Fun Scenes from my Window

: 12 Nov 2008 11:31 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Do not go off in that good night

: 12 Nov 2008 11:29 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem