random-bits-of-writing

[random-bits-of-writing]

An update...

So.  I haven’t been on Tumblr in over six months I think, maybe more.  Life has been weird and sad and horrible for the last year but this year I am trying to take control of things again.  So. I thought i’d write something. It’s been a loooong time since I did. So it’s not good. But I wanted to do something creative.   So I did.

Searching

I’ve been looking for her for so long now that I can’t seem to remember a ‘before’ any more.  There was searching, and there was searching, and before that there was pain, and before that? It’s gone.  It’s as if life started with the pain of creation and yet I know there is something else.

I watch the people I pass and long to be part of their lives. Their mundane, solvable lives.  I’m not sure they see me, not now, I feel stretched out as thin as time and so they don’t notice as I pass by.  That’s OK though, they’re not what I’m looking for.  But sometimes it’s nice to stand, near them, and listen to their lives.  In the time I’ve been searching, they have lived and loved and died, and I have watched their children and their children’s children do the same, and all to what end? What is the meaning in all this for them, why do they pursue their loves and hates with such ferocity, only to each die and be forgotten.

I like to watch them die, sometimes. When I am angry and the sparks are coming off my skin and I can feel a scream inside that seeps through my pores until I want to howl and tear down the moon, then I watch them die.  Some go silently, alone and forgotten, in back-alleys and single beds, and they seem to give up their lives easily, their bodies slumping into relaxation as if their life had been so hard that death was a comfortable chair and a warm blanket that they eased into.  Others resist and fight, these are the ones in the hospitals and the fancy homes with their families around them, and they push back and whisper ‘no’ with a scream, wanting to cling on for just a little longer. Futile.  Silent or loud he comes for them.  

I have to stand back or be gone by the time he arrives. He can’t see me here. I wonder if he senses me, but he shows no sign, going about his business with his usual fastidious calm.  I cling on to brickwork and my rage to stop me going in there and reaching inside his heart to find out where she is. He won’t tell me, and I have tried to follow and cannot go where he goes, when he takes their deaths.

At other times, I feel hope, and then I watch the births, the new lives coming into this world, only to live through it then fade themselves.  There are the happy births, with beeping monitors or gentle cushions, surrounded by welcome and love, and there are the hidden births, young women in dark bathrooms gasping as they feel the quick knife-like pains and the tiny bodies.  Sometimes he is there then too, and then I don’t want to follow him, as he takes the small deaths away with him.  I croon lullabies to the babies as they kick their toes and peer at the new world with half-closed eyes, as if already they don’t trust it.  Sometimes they hear me, but I don’t stay long.  It hurts.  The old pain, the first pain, comes back to me when I stay too long near a birth. Her birth, the first thing I remember. And then she was gone.

And so I search, trying to remember where she went and how I can find her.  And I stretch thinner and thinner until a strong breeze almost splits me in two; until I feel as if I can see through myself.  But I am stronger than I look.  I am strong enough that I have been looking for millennia. I have clawed my way through heaven and hell searching and I will not stop.

My daughter. She was perfect. Her skin was soft as clouds and her eyes were bright as starlight.  She had black hair that curled and clung to her head and she was more beautiful than the moon.  And then as I reached to cradle her, they came.  They took her, and left me for dead in the wood, and now I am fury, and I will find her. I will tear down the universe until she is in my arms again.

Sometimes I remember her father. Just a wisp of a memory.  It comes back to me when I pass a flock of birds, and the beating of their wings as they take off reminds me of him somehow.  White feathers flashing. Other times it is the rolling of thunder, and I feel his voice deep in my chest as the storms roar. Today it was a smell, I caught it on the breeze.  Undefinable, I saw people lift their heads and wonder as they caught it.  ‘Baking bread’ or ‘fresh coffee’ or ‘fresh laundry’ they said, but it was the smell of sunshine and power and creation.  I chased it, following the scent like a hound on a trail as it wove between buildings and cities and countries and stars.  And as the scent grew, I remembered more.  I remembered his face, sometimes as large as the sky and other times the right size to hold between my hands as he gazed down at me, and I brushed away his tears with my fingers.  I remembered the way he held me, wrapping me in night and dark and stars and also in his arms as we lay together.

So caught up in the memories was I, that I failed to notice when the scent stopped being a thought on the air, and became real, and he stood before me. He was more beautiful than I had remembered, and more sorrowful, and more afraid. He cried when he saw me all worn thin by love and longing, and he spoke.  

“I’m sorry.” He said, and I remembered before, before the pain and the loss and the searching. I remembered him leaning over me and speaking, and his voice was eternity.

“You understand, we cannot have a child.  The child of the two of us would be the end of everything.  I could not let you keep it, I would have to take it away, for the sake of the world. If you were to hold a child we created…” He stopped and shook his head, and I could see the fear in his eyes.

I remembered, but it was too late. I saw her, behind him, peering at me. Even after all these thousands of years she was so small. Just a child, perhaps 3 or 4. She smiled at me and said my name and ran into my arms. I could not have stopped myself if I had tried.  The world had had its turn.  Lives had been lived, deaths had been mourned, for millennia.  Now it was my turn.  I wrapped my arms around her, and rested my cheek on her soft curls, and as a tear ran down my cheek and into her hair, the world died.

I am Loss.  I had forgotten.  And he is Life.  And we should not have met.  But our child was beautiful, and the world had to die.

[random-bits-of-writing]

I'm on there as BromeliadLucy (but I suck!) and I recommend SO much TheGrayTigress on there. SO much. Same name on here too. Read her fics!

Mutuals,

I would love to be more active on AO3 

Can you send me ur usernames (if you’re comfy with that) or fic recs?

[random-bits-of-writing]

I went under, the world was at war, I wake up, they say we won. They didn't say what we lost.

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 7 - a little light evildoing

PROMPT: “There’s too many people claiming the title of villain nowadays. One has only to kidnap a princess or destroy a town and their names are suddenly spoken in hushed whispers. Ridiculous. There are some of us who actually had to WORK for our titles.”

“I started at the bottom. That’s how it was always done. You can’t just burst onto the scene, wear a black cape and have evil eyebrows and expect to succeed. But that’s the youth of today, they want instant fame. They buy a black swivel chair from Ikea, pick up a Persian cat that they found on a Facebook page for rescue animals, and suddenly expect to be on the front page of every tabloid as ‘the latest evil to strike terror into the hearts of the nation’.  That’s NOT how it should work. That kind of fame is fleeting. You need a back story. A grounding in the dark ways. You need to live your villainy, not be out there on Instagram before you’ve even notched up your first kill.

*sigh*

Back when I started, it was apprenticeships. It’s a good scheme. It’s got a good, solid history, has your apprenticeship.  As a child, your parents would pick the trade most suited to you, pay your new master, and then for seven years you’d be learning. Man and boy, and all that. Of course hundreds of years ago it was stone-masonry, or farming, or, I don’t know, beggary or some such.  I’m not quite that old. But nonetheless, I come from a long, fine tradition of learning a trade.  Not some fly-by-night new money type evil.

Seven years I learned at my master’s side. Seven long years to become a Journeyman Villain, then even longer to become a Master Villain, and one day think of taking on an apprentice of my own. Of course, today’s young people don’t want to commit to seven years. If they haven’t got a million followers on YouTube by the weekend, they’re cast into despair.

First year, of course, I just observed. Stood by my master’s side, watched as he strode the world, bringing terror in his wake. I mean, I didn’t just observe. I made the tea too. Ironed his cloaks – oh the trouble I got into if there was a crease! Polished his boots, you can’t create a figure to make people shake, if you have scuff marks.

Then there was the paperwork. We got into that in year two.  You can’t just evil. I mean, there’s a system! Never mind the licences you need for the weaponry, there’s the tax-offset for your evil lair; you’ve got to file expenses for every bit of damage to your villain vehicles; there’s the pet insurance, I mean do you know how temperamental piranhas are, they’re always getting damn diseases!

Year three, I was allowed to do a little low level villainy.  The kind of thing that makes people feel a bit out of sorts. Signing people up for mail order catalogues they don’t want. Breaking in and using the milk, so there was almost, but not quite, enough for a cup of tea. Hiding all the post-it notes in the office.  Oh, those heady days! The rush you get from the minor peeve, from the niggle. Today’s so-called-villains want to hit the ground running with their ‘give me a billion dollars or I destroy the world’, but you need a grounding, you need to know the sheer joy in putting that bit of grit in someone’s shoe and knowing they’ll be blistered by lunchtime.

Where was I? Oh yes, year four, I got fitted for my first evil uniform.  I tried a few styles, of course. All black, or hints of colour? Green never worked with my complexion although I know that some can get away with that swamp-dweller look. I opted for black with hints of scarlet, gave me a wonderful glow.  Tried a mask and a voice changer, but ugh, the sweat, didn’t work for me. Helmet, of course, I mean the hat hair is a price you have to pay.

Year five, glorious. On top of the growing villainy, I was allowed to choose a vehicle.  Tried a stallion but it’s hard to look evil when you’re wincing over saddle sores. I loved my submarine, so dramatic when the conning tower appears to gasps of horror, but of course you’re stymied if you ever want to terrorise a land-locked country.  I opted for a black car in the end. Red flames down the side. Yes, some say they’re a little outré, but I’ve got the whole theme going on.

Year six and I was given the leeway to carry out acts of unsupervised villainy. Obviously I had to write up a full report for my master afterwards, and everything was graded, but I’m not ashamed to say that I maintained a high percentage. Well, of course I cheated. It would hardly be villainous to study and try your best, now would it? Half the mark is given for the success of your cheating!

Year seven, I was out there and able to take on small commissions on my own. Earn my own money with a little bit of light torture, some theft, a little government destabilisation.  Of course, there was a great party at the end of the year too. My master baked the most adorable cake, all black and red icing, and ‘Good Luck!’ all in silver balls on top.  I shed a tear, but you’ve got to have feelings, haven’t you. I mean, this is important.

So yes, I feel very tense when I see these young people coming from nowhere and getting their film deals and their chat shows.  I’m on edge, all the time. Can’t sleep, can’t eat. I fumbled a simple assassination last week, it was humiliating.

What? OK, right yes, that’s my fifty minutes.  Same time next week? I’ll make an appointment with your receptionist. Thank you Doctor, you have a very calming way about you.  I don’t…. I don’t suppose you know someone who could teach me how to tweet do you?”

[random-bits-of-writing]

@sian22redux Sorry for such a late reply, but thank you. That’s really good advice, and would definitely have made things a little deeper! I really appreciate the comments, I don’t know what I’m doing (or why, to be honest!), but I’d like to one day write something that’s actually good, not for publication or acclaim, just for satisfaction! Thank you x

Post 6

PROMPT: The moon began to glitch.

This is a bit of a waste of a nice prompt, but I’m away from home, writing on my phone, because a family member is terminally ill, and I just wanted to do something to distract myself from the horrors of the days at the moment. 

Emilia Brown was not, by nature, a suspicious person.  According to friends, she had a sunny, daydreamy personality, accepting and open. According those who found her irritating, she was daydreamily oblivious and vague.  Regardless of your opinion, it was true that in general she sailed through her days happily assuming that all was good with the world and most people’s intentions were honourable.

Keep reading

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 6

PROMPT: The moon began to glitch.

This is a bit of a waste of a nice prompt, but I’m away from home, writing on my phone, because a family member is terminally ill, and I just wanted to do something to distract myself from the horrors of the days at the moment. 

Emilia Brown was not, by nature, a suspicious person.  According to friends, she had a sunny, daydreamy personality, accepting and open. According those who found her irritating, she was daydreamily oblivious and vague.  Regardless of your opinion, it was true that in general she sailed through her days happily assuming that all was good with the world and most people’s intentions were honourable.

When faced with evidence that contradicted her belief, she would find ways to justify herself.  On having her purse stolen, she told a friend that no doubt the thief had greater need, that perhaps he or she was hungry and homeless.  On a government cut that meant her job was axed, she told herself that decisions couldn’t always go in one’s favour and that no doubt something else would turn up. What her friends didn’t see, and her detractors would have whooped at, was how shallow this happy layer was.  She worked hard to smile, to be accepting, to have a positive outlook on life and only ever present a genial front. Underneath, her true feelings were darker. She disliked this side to her personality, but it was there, and she was afraid of it. She didn’t know if everyone ad these thoughts that she kept buried, nobody spoke of them, so she was afraid that she felt them alone. Worrying was terrifying, something to hide, to fear.

The day things changed, was the day the moon glitched.  She was walking home late from a shift at a care home, the job she had taken to replace the job that the government had cut.  Her feet ached from long hours standing, her head ached from long hours listening to the groans and whimpers of the suffering residents, and her heart ached as she tried to deny to herself how much she hated her job and how often she found herself feeling unsympathetic towards her charges. The residents were all in the home after being diagnosed as suffering from ‘worry caused by unauthorised viewpoints’.  This was another reason that Emilia tried to hide her unwelcome thoughts, although she couldn’t voice this.  There was no list of unauthorised viewpoints, how could there be, when to even admit that a viewpoint was unauthorised was to suggest that anyone could possibly hold anything else, but it was known that people lived in fear of these.  ‘Insanity’ was a phrase no longer used, too harsh, too old-school. People merely sometimes thought in silly ways, her manager put it, her tinkling laugh slightly too high pitched and fragile as she spoke.  They were wrong, and that could lead to worry, and nobody wants that, now do they Emilia?

Emilia reached the bus stop and sat down, leaning her head back against the cold Perspex, and looked up at the cloudless sky.  There was too much light pollution to see the stars, so it probably wasn’t a good idea to think about them.  Thinking about the unseeable was risky. They all knew the stories from school of those who had believed in gods, or ghosts, angels or spirits.  There was no proof, you couldn’t see them. So best not to think about them. And definitely not to talk about them.  Stars were in a similar category these days, as were so many new things. The moon was there though, so she stared at it blankly, eyes unfocussed, desperate for sleep. Dreams at least, were unrestricted.  Nobody quite knew how they worked, so maybe they should have been banned, but unless the government wanted everyone insane within the month, banning sleep wasn’t a possibility, so in sleep at least, they were free.  

She’d heard that dreams were used as a code, by the unacceptables. It was all rumour of course, whispered only between trusted friends, that the unacceptable even existed, but it was said that if they did, they spoke their ideas as if they’d dreamt them.

She blinked. For a moment, the moon had disappeared.  Her eyes had been unfocussed so it was hard to be sure, but yet she was sure it had gone. A cloud perhaps, although the sky was clear, he hard frost settling in. She looked more intently at the moon, her interest sparked. Yes, it flickered again, top right to bottom left, as if a wave of dark was rolling over it, faster than her eye could keep up but there all the same. Then, suddenly, gone. Completely. Just a patch of black sky. She turned her head, shut one eye and then the other in case it was a problem with her sight, then looked around for someone to ask, ‘hey, have you seen, did you see? It’s just … gone?’ but it was dark and cold and the street was empty. She looked back up. A short white line blinked in the sky, where the moon had once sat. A plane? A satellite? Had some giant craft blocked out the moon, with just one window blinking in the light?

She was in denial, even in her thoughts now afraid to admit what she was seeing. She recognised that line from her old job. That was a cursor, waiting for a line of code, for something to be restarted. Her heart was beating faster now, as if at any moment the friendly smiling faces in the white coats would appear and suggest that she was thinking the impossible, and wouldn’t she like to come with them, to feel better. Of course the moon was there, because how could there be a computer in the sky? Didn’t the thought of the moon vanishing make her worry? Wouldn’t she like to never worry again? And then she’d be that bone-thin figure curled up on her side in the bed, piteous whimpers and tremulous movements, weak hands pushing away the injections that would ‘just help her not to worry’ as some care worker cleaned her and fed her and washed her until she wasn’t a her any more, just a piece of flesh that had once had a name.

She looked up again, her eyes drawn to the sky. The line was still blinking, then, quicker than her brain could process, a whirr of letters wrote itself across her vision, and then the mon blinked back into view. Bright white, dark craters, solid and dependable as the ground itself. The moon, that had lived in the sky since before time had begun, that giant lump of silent dead rock, that had followed the earth since long before she was born, always presenting its same face, there it was.  

But she had seen.

The Emilia who met with her friends that weekend was more brittle, her smile a little sharper, her laugh coming a second too late. She drank more than usual and when most of the group had left, she stayed with some friends-of-friends who she’d heard were a little more unconventional.  She downed another drink, felt the warmth tingle in her fingers, then quietly spoke, so that only the man next to her could hear.  

“So I had a crazy dream this week. I dreamt that the moon vanished, and then it was rebooted like a computer. Funny huh?”

Even under the alcohol laden bravado, her heart was racing, this could be it this Mark could be the one who would report her and this could be it and then she’d be gone and she’d never have to worry and somehow she wanted to worry. She was holding her breath, let it out with a small puff. Mark hadn’t spoken yet. She raised her eyes. He was watching her. Perhaps he was wondering the same thing. Was this a trap, a new tactic?

“Me too.  I had that dream. Strange coincidence?”

Neither relaxed, not yet, each fearing a trick but questing towards each other, testing, hoping. By the end of the evening, if this was a trap, they had both fallen into it.

“In my dream, there was a cursor point…”

“… and some code…”

“… and then it was back again as if it had never gone…”

“… but I’m not sure I believe in it any more.  In my dream, I mean.”

After, neither was sure which had been the first to say it.  To speak, out loud, an unacceptable view point. To suggest that perhaps the world wasn’t as they had been led to believe.  Because if the moon wasn’t really up there in the sky, perhaps there were other things they’d been taught that were wrong. Perhaps if they’d been taught untrue things, perhaps it was because the government was wrong. Perhaps if the government was wrong, it was deliberate. Perhaps they’d been fed lies. All this from the sight of a dark, empty patch of sky.

They had drawn closer as their talk had gone on, friends and friends-of-friends gradually leaving, a wave of the hand, a pat on the back.  The assumption was that they were hooking up, jokes were made, nice one Emilia, behave yourself Mark.  How much easier things would turn out to be if that’s all it had been. A one-night fling, an awkward morning, a little bit of avoiding eye contact, and continue about your business. Toe the line, the party line, that the government was infallible, that all truths were known, there could be no new truths, and no old truths could become untrue. That for every fact, there was one acceptable view point, and no more. That unacceptable view points were the sign of a disordered brain, and that the disordered brain must be treated, because that was how a caring government looked after its citizens. Those who believed, or spoke, unacceptable viewpoints, were in danger of confusion and worry, and what government wanted their citizens to worry? Not this one. That would be unacceptable. And you can’t think the unacceptable.

A one-night stand would have left her heart racing, much as it was now. Her body would have been pressed up close to Mark’s, as it was now, their voices low, faces close together, eyes locked, unblinking, but this was no rush of lust, but one of fear and one of a deep-felt excitement, that all those voices and thoughts she had suppressed for so long could perhaps be spoken now. It was exhilarating, to think and feel like this. It was exhilarating to worry.

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 5

PROMPT: Write a scene at a funeral from the viewpoint of the dead person.

Warnings: talk of suicide. Text below the cut.

I hope they know how much I love them, and how sorry I am. I thought this was the best decision I could make, I thought that this would be good, that they’d have a better life without me. I thought my existence was a burden on everyone, that after a short grief, there would be a lightening for everyone, a better future. But watching my funeral, now I’m starting to wonder.

My little one looks so confused. He’s too little to understand ‘forever’ and so he keeps asking where I am, when I’m coming back. He has big bags under his eyes, is he not sleeping? Has someone remembered his special teddy, he can’t sleep without it you know.  

My grandparents, they’re too frail, too forgetful. People keep having to explain what happened, what I did, and each time their faces fall, they look bewildered. They cry, then they stop, and they touch their faces with surprise, feeling the tears, forgetting why they were crying, until someone explains and they start again.

And you? You’re not crying, you’re barely moving, sitting in a chair as people approach, offer condolences, retreat, like a sad tide of mourners washing past you. Our son leans on your knee, thumb in his mouth, and I can see the fluff at the back of his head, sticking up where he’s been sleeping, and nobody has bothered to brush it down.  You rest your hand on his head and smile down but it’s forced, and your eyes are staring off into the distance, into the past. You don’t notice when he sits down, lost, in the dust at your feet. His eyes are staring into the distances now, but he has so little past with me, and now I realise that soon I won’t even be a memory. Perhaps I’ll just be someone to resent, someone who abandoned him. I want to shout, scream, tell him I left to help him, because I love him so much that I was scared of failing him, of hurting him, that I thought this was for the best. I want to say sorry.

There are more people here than I expected, people I am surprised to see. Faces from work, colleagues who I thought barely knew who I was, and they’re crying, and hugging each other.  There are neighbours, sitting quietly at the back. I hope they’re bringing you food; warming stews and pies and comfort. Feeding the cat, washing up. I hope someone is, because now I can’t. I’m surprised to see old school friends, standing in a huddle. It’s twenty years and more since we left school, and yet here you are. Who told you when and where and why?  I watch you talk to each other, catching up on two decades of history. Sometimes one of you laughs at a funny story, a silly memory, then you all look guilty, go back to whispering, eyes sliding towards my coffin in slight shame.  I want to shout out, tell you to enjoy yourselves, to catch up.  I wish I’d caught up with you before, before it was too late. I want to hear those funny stories, tell you about the silly things my son has done, sympathise over bad breakups and cheer over new relationships. I hope that you stay in contact now, that this shakes things up and you hold on to the realisation of hope.

I can’t see this anymore. I can’t bear it. Part of me wants to cling on, to bang on the barrier between us until you hear me and see me, to feel your skin, hold your hand, one last time, but it’s too late now. I’m sorry.

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 4

PROMPT: Love in changing seasons

He met her in the winter, for the first time. He was grieving for lost love and for lost opportunities, and his heart felt as hard as the frozen ground, and as bereft of life as the bare trees.   He wasn’t looking for anything new; he was too full of anger and sorrow to even consider the possibility… 

The roads were sparkling under the streetlights, beautiful but slick with ice. Everyone walked slowly, eyes down, feet moving tentatively, testing the ground beneath them. Everyone was wrapped up, bundles of hats and scarves and gloves and coats, only the puffs of breath showing there was anyone alive underneath.

He’d taken to walking the city every day since she’d gone, pacing through the streets hoping to exhaust his body so that his mind would stop. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched over and a scowl on his face, eyes on the ground not to watch his footing but to avoid any human contact.  His feet were chilled inside his shoes, toes feeling like blocks of ice, and he knew that his muscles were tensed against the cold, and he’d feel the ache when he got home. But he didn’t care. He walked fast, sighing irritably when forced to slow down behind anyone moving slowly, making not attempt to hide his impatience, wanting to lash out and make everyone else feel as bad as he did.

Another flurry of snow began to fall and the streets emptied further, people rushing for the shelter of homes, trains, shops, to warm up and hide. He revelled in the silence, in the cold and misery, taking a perverse pleasure in his discomfort.  He strode on to the end of the street, turned a corner, and saw her.

She was standing in the middle of the road, arms outstretched and face upturned, mouth open wide to catch snowflakes as they fell. She was alone but unashamed of the pleasure she took from her movements, spinning around, laughing as she became dizzy, as the snowfall spun above her eyes, creating galaxies before her.  She spun to a stop, staggered for a moment and laughed again, then as her sight settled, she saw him standing, watching. The contrast was marked. His dark coat and dark demeanour, hunched posture, all shouted of the cold and unhappiness. Her coat was scarlet, bright against the now-white streets and covered cars. Her eyelashes were rimmed with frost, her nose running, but her mouth was split with a grin as red as her coat. She laughed at being caught out, and shouted.

“You should try this. You’ve got to laugh in the cold, or it’ll get you!” She giggled again, threw her head back to taste the snow once more.  He stood for a moment longer, then turned back the way he had come and left.

As he warmed up at home, muscles chilled, fingers clumsy with cold as he tried to unbutton his coat, make a warm drink, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. His mind went first to angry thought, she’s obviously had it easy, she doesn’t know what it’s like to be hurt, but there was a spark inside, he was intrigued. While everyone else had grumbled about the cold, had huddled and rushed, desperate to pretend it wasn’t happening, to get inside and away, she had embraced it, and found joy there.

He ran a hot bath, allowing himself the luxury of warmth and relaxation for a change, and as he lay back, his mind kept returning to her. He dried off, and tried to put the stranger out of his mind, knowing he’d never see here again. Nonetheless as the weeks went by, he found his eye drawn to the red of passing cars, of scarves and children’s bags. His eye would be caught by the colour and he would turn, hoping to see her coat. He started to notice how much red there was in the city that he’d always thought of as bleak and dark.

Two weeks later, the snow was melting and a miserable rain was falling. The ground was covered in puddles of melting slush, grey and sickly to see. From his window, all he could see was umbrellas, mostly black and grey and navy, all rushing by beneath him. He pulled on his coat, bracing himself to go out, when a flash of colour outside the window caught his eye. He looked again. One bright red umbrella was spinning around, and bobbing up and down, near the park, while a sea of dark umbrellas rushed by like a river.  

He knew it couldn’t be her, but he had to see.  He rushed out of the door and down the steps, making his way across the stream of people passing by, heads down. His was up, rain splashing on his face unnoticed. He saw the red umbrella ahead, made for it, then stopped. What was he doing? Chasing after an umbrella, for what end? What would he say if it wasn’t her, and what would he say if it was? He was about to turn and leave, feeling foolish and angry, when the heavens opened and the slow fall of rain was replaced by a downpour. People rushed by faster, and then through a gap in the bodies, he saw the red coat again. He was drawn to it, couldn’t resist the pull.  It was her. Red coat, and red boots, splashing in puddles with an umbrella waving over her head. Passers-by glared as she kicked up the water and it splashed against them. A child, being tugged along by its father, turned to watch, mouth gaping, at the woman dancing in the rain. He could see the child was desperate to join in, the child knew that it was better to stop and give in to the rain, revel in it, enjoy the splashing and the sound of rain on an umbrella, than to resent it and avoid it, but the hand holding his gave another tug and he moved on.

She paused, out of breath, her hair a wild tangle, stuck to her face with rain and rested her hands on her knees.  She noticed a stillness among the people walking by and looked up, spotting him. She pointed.

“You wouldn’t spin in the snow, will you jump in the rain?” and she grinned and stamped hard, sending up a wave of water as she laughed. He felt his mouth turn up in a smile, and felt suddenly shy. It had been so long since he had smiled, he was sure he must be doing it all wrong. His face felt hot and he mumbled under his breath.

“Not this time.” He turned, scurrying off, feeling her eyes burn into his back as he ran. He waited to cross the road, head down, feeling like crying though unsure why.  Looking up, he saw the boy again, holding his father’s hand and also waiting to cross. He looked down, then back up again, then surprised himself. One giant leap into the gutter and he was soaked, water dripping down from his knees, his socks squelching, his skin shocked at the sudden onslaught of water. He pulled down his hood, let the rain cascade down the back of his neck, wriggling at the cold, and looked at the boy with a smile. At that moment, the road cleared, and the boy’s father pulled on his hand again and they were gone.

As he climbed the steps to his front door, he felt silly now, wet and bedraggled, knowing his shoes would take forever to dry. He unlocked the door and as he turned to shut it, caught a whirl of red through the frosted glass. He flung the door open and peered out into the gloom. A red coat swirled around the corner and was gone.

In his flat, he undressed, dumping his wet clothes in the washing machine, hanging his coat, putting his shoes by the fire to dry. Pulling on a robe, he stood by the mirror and looked at himself. His hair was plastered to his skull, his cheeks and nose pink from the cold. His eyes looked sunken and his skin unhealthy. When had he last stopped to look? It had been long enough that he was surprised to see how much his unhappiness showed on his face. The pink from the cold was the only sign that there was life underneath.

It was another three weeks before he saw her again. Three weeks when he continued his long walks to exhaust himself, but found he kept his head up more now, eyes open for a flash of red. He noticed more children on his walks, caught himself noting how often their parents didn’t pay attention, tugging them along like trailers in their wake. He noticed more, looking up, watching the world go by instead of trying to go by the world unseen.

He was walking out late one night, on the cusp between winter and spring, as the fog descended. He’d always loved walking in the fog, had felt an excitement as he saw it start to appear and the world to disappear, and was surprised that he could feel pleasure again.  The fog rolled in, the end of the road disappearing, sounds muffled, the air cool and damp on his cheeks. He loved the feeling of being alone in a cloud, the magical way people and cars and houses would appear out of the gloom and then vanish. He crossed the road, carefully, eyes open for headlights, and headed for the park. The path was only visible a few metres in front of him before it was lost in the mist and as he walked further from the road and its streetlights, the white clouds became his whole world.  Then a gust of wind blew and cleared a hole for a moment and he saw red in front of him. He walked faster, pulled by some need, then stopped, crashing into an unseen figure that was approaching him. Her. Red coat, red hat pulled down low.

“You! The man who wouldn’t spin in the snow, but I saw you jump in a puddle!” She grinned, and it was infectious.

“Yeah, I… did, didn’t I. I don’t know why.”

“Sometimes you don’t need a reason why, sometimes you just have to do what you feel.”  She paused for a moment, and stepped back, and he suddenly realised how close they had been. For all her carefree attitude, he was still a strange man, standing in the fog. He stepped back too, not wanting to make her anxious.

She cocked her head to one side, noting the way he tried to seem unthreatening, then stuck her hand out and told him her name. He reached out, shook her red glove with his black one, introduced himself. Their voices echoed oddly in the fog.

“So what do you do in this kind of weather?” He had a sudden need to keep talking, to find out more about her. She looked at him, eyes sparkling for a moment.

“If I knew you better, hide and seek. But although I may be eccentric, I’m not foolish.” He smiled, swallowing his disappointment that she was signalling the end of their conversation, but she continued.  “So I’d say instead this conversation calls for hot chocolate, in a public place. What d’ya say?”

It would be overstating things to say his heart skipped a beat but perhaps for a moment it did at least soften a little. He nodded, a smile reaching his eyes for the first time in a long time, and gestured for her to lead the way. He felt a chuckle leave him as she bowed gracefully and marched past, and was shocked at the sound.

Hot chocolate cooled in front of them while they talked, the café bright, grey fog pressing its face against the window. The cool cups were replaced with hot coffee, and this too was left partly undrunk as their mouths were too busy talking to pause.  Then it was late, and numbers were exchanged, but it was time to stop. They stepped out into the fog, which was blowing away now, leaving a grey damp behind. They stopped in the circle of light outside the café windows, then she grinned.  Learning forward, she pressed a kiss to his cheek.  

“See ya when the weather’s better.” Her coat swung out behind her as she walked away.

When the spring came, he noticed the green shoots pressing up through the cracks in the pavement, that so many people walked past, oblivious. New growth. He could feel it stirring inside him, buds of something swelling as the pale sun started to shine.

Texts, back and forth, and coffee and walks in the park, and he started to realise that perhaps there were opportunities and possibilities and hope, that new friendships could grow. Now he didn’t have to try and look out for her coat, now he could call her and meet, and he could laugh as she poked her tongue out at passing babies and threw breadcrumbs to the ducks.

“See, there, look!” He peered into the bushes at the edge of the pond. “See, ducklings! There!” She tugged on his sleeve as she pointed, and he squinted into the shadows.

“Yes! I see them!” He didn’t know he was the kind of person who would be excited by ducks. He wasn’t, before, but now he wondered why. Had he been so caught up in life and work and arguing and shouting and crying that he’d stopped wanting to giggle at the sight of a line of ducklings, fluffy and wobble-headed, following their mother into the water?

“… seven, eight, nine… Nine fluffy ducklings, there’s got to be some kind of song about that, right?” He turned to speak, then a movement caught his eye.

“Ten, there’s ten! Look!” A tenth bird flapped along, chasing after its siblings, peeping frantically. The noise made them both laugh and then suddenly he had a memory of his own childhood, his mother singing to him. He hummed a minute under his breath, then suddenly burst into song.

“Ten little ducks, went swimming one day, over the pond and far away…” A family on a bench nearby turned to stare as he belted out the song, then their daughter joined in.  He suddenly felt himself blushing, wondered what on earth had made him start to sing, he wasn’t that kind of person, but as his voice started to waver and stop, she clutched at his hand, and joined in. They sat down on the damp grass near the water’s edge and sang, hiccupping with laughter.  The ducks swam on, oblivious, all climbing out in a line on the bank. They waddled off, past a plant hanging heavy with buds.

All through the spring, he could feel happiness stirring in him, life returning as their friendship blossomed.  Then summer came, hot and sultry and languid.

By the summer, he saw her weekly and thought about her daily. Sweltering nights brought on strange fevered dreams where he chased her, in her winter coat, through the summer streets. He woke, unsure what he would have done if he’d caught her.  The summer was too hot to move, so they spent hours sitting, on parched grass and cracked earth. He felt thirsty for her company when she wasn’t there, burned up inside when he was with her.

Scorching heat seared their friendship into something new.  He watched the sun shine off her, red dresses or bright shorts revealing skin, sticky in the heat, and his fingers itched to touch her, but the remnants of his winter held him back. He brought her tropical flowers, and worried when they faded and died, that this was symbolic of some horrible future. It wasn’t. She acted when he wouldn’t, one endless steaming night. When he climbed into the shower for some relief from the sweltering heat, she stepped out of her clothes and joined him, water trickling down her sun-darkened skin as she kissed him.

In the autumn, the weather cooled and leaves began to dry and fall, crackling underfoot. The trees were a fire of red and orange and gold, and the fire burnt in his heart, the winter long since passed.

Her winter coat came back out, and the colour matched the leaves as they kicked up piles, watching the wind whisk away the dry leaves. They held hands tightly, though they knew that no wind could blow them apart.

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 3

PROMPT: Holding Hands: The first time you held someone’s hand.

The first time I held your hand, I was in awe of it. I’d fallen in love with you at first sight. No, I’d fallen in love with you before I even saw you. I loved you when I was the only person that knew you existed, when I was the only person that could feel you. Then I saw you for the first time, and the world became a more beautiful and terrifying place. Holding your hand as we went through the world, seeing it through your eyes, made it the most fantastic, sparkling planet in existence. It also felt like a world full of danger at every corner, but I tried not to clutch your hand too hard, to let you find your own way.

The first time I held your hand, you were minutes old. I was dumbstruck by the size of your fingers, the tiny disc of fingernail at each tip.  There was something miraculous and magical in the palm of your hand, that evolution had found a way to fit bones and muscles and veins into something so small; have it move and grip almost before you’d taken your first breath. I was touching skin that had been in the world for only moments, and I felt giant and clumsy in contrast.

As you grew, I held your hand to help you walk, fingers grasping mine as you beamed up with a toothy grin, marvelling at your own accomplishments.  I held your hand as we walked down the road and stopped to admire every pebble, every leaf, every cat.  Perhaps sometimes I didn’t appreciate what a blessing it was to be holding that hand, sometimes I probably tugged on it in a hurry, or regretting touching that perfect skin when it was sticky with food. Now your hands are the same size as mine and the opportunity to feel your hand curled trustingly into mine is gone. Mine will always be here to hold you, whenever you need a helping hand.

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 2

PROMPT: Mirror, Mirror: What if you mirror started talking to you?

She’d been watching you since before you could remember. She was always there, in the corner of the room, waiting in the bathroom, hiding in dark windows and grey puddles. That was fine. You were used to her hanging around, watching. Everyone has a reflection, right?

What you weren’t so fine about, was when she started talking.  First time it happened, you were in the bathroom. You opened the window to let out some of the steam, then used the sleeve of your robe to wipe the mist off the mirror.

Hey, careful!

You looked around, noticed some people walking by out of the window, assumed you’d heard them talking and the sound was echoing weirdly off the hard tiles.  You raised an eyebrow at your reflection, amused at your mind playing tricks on you. It wasn’t until you had walked out of the room to get dressed that it dawned on you. Had… had the mirror raised the opposite eyebrow?

You gave yourself a shake, god you’d obviously had less sleep than you realised. Time for coffee.

The next time you heard the voice, you were standing in a changing room, peering over your shoulder, trying to see if your bum really did look big in these jeans.  

It’s fine. Stop worrying.

God, you could do with someone saying that to you. There must be someone with a really nice friend in the cubicle next door.  You sighed, took off the jeans, then stood examining your half-naked body.  You prodded your stomach in the mirror with disappointment, wondering why there had to be just so much of it.

Stop judging yourself so much.

Damn, you wanted that friend. Another sigh, and you put your own clothes back on and stepped out. That was odd. The curtain was open on both spaces next to yours, and there was no one around. They obviously got dressed quickly. That must be it.

The third time, you were nose-to-nose with a mirror in your bedroom, peering at your eyebrows and wondering why they didn’t grow in the right direction, or the right places, like everyone else’s did.  You had your contact lenses out, so you were peering in from close up, armed with your tweezers.  You plucked out a hair, felt a familiar tickle in your nose, but managed to fight off a sneeze.  Your reflection didn’t though.

Aaa… aa… choo!

You sat back so fast you toppled over. Then leant forward slowly, scrabbling around on the floor for your glasses. You put them on, the world coming back into focus. There was your reflection, as normal. Dumb hair, big nose, stupid eyebrows… and now you could add ‘going slightly insane’ to the list of your desirable qualities. Your shoulders slumped as you continued to stare at your reflection.  And then it winked. No doubt about it. What. The…?!

Jeez, you took your time. I’d say you were unobservant, but unlike you, I don’t want to insult myself.

You stared some more. What should you do? Call a doctor and tell them you’d lost the plot? Were there pills that could stop you seeing things? Should you just become a vampire, they didn’t even have reflections. You couldn’t help yourself, snorting out a little laugh at the weird paths your mind went down.

That’s more like it! No, you’re not insane. Yes, I am you. Only you on the other side. The flip side. I’m left-handed, hate apples, and oh, I like myself. God, I’ve been watching you forever. When you were a kid, it was great. We were both happy to just stare at ourselves and be amazed by the way our elbows bent, and how we could pull our curls straight and watch them spring back.  Then this hit. What the hell is this? Years now, it’s just been ‘oh I’m so fat, so ugly, my nose is so weird’. It’s not nice to listen to, you know.

‘I’m… sorry?’

We’ve got work to do…

It’s good to have a friend. Someone you can rely on. It’s even better when it’s yourself. OK, a left-handed, apple-hating version of yourself, but nobody’s perfect.  No, nobody’s perfect, but you’re not as bad as you think you are. Next time you’re not sure of that, just ask your reflection. Look fast enough, you might just catch a wink. They’ve got your back.

[random-bits-of-writing]

@sian22redux it's all overly wordy and florid and excessively ostentatious with ridiculous sentences (a lot like this!) and overblown and what my daughter would call 'just extra, mum' isn't it. Ugh. I'm going to work and I'm going to write a very boring project report and I need to stick to that. Sorry.

Post 1

PROMPT: Emotional pain now leaves physical scars on your body. Describe what you look like.

My legs are covered in bruises. Deep purple to faded yellow, a rainbow of pain. My knees are grazed, the flesh is red and sandpaper-rough, scabs curling up at the edges, ripe for picking. These are the bruises that every child has. Stumbles in the playground, falling off bikes, climbing trees. But not for me. These age-deep bruises are the marks of bullying and will never fade. This graze came from the rough edge of name-calling. This long scrape shows the thrust and drag of on-again-off-again friends, pulled towards then pushed away.  This deep purple bruise is the colour of loneliness, of playtimes spent alone, of the anxiety of conversations, desperate to say the right thing.

Nail marks like crescent moons are scattered across my stomach, as anxiety pinches at me with its hundred hands. The hands of fear are hot, leaving me sweating, and they spin my stomach, leaving it churning and nauseated.  The hands pull me down as they grab so my anxiety leaves me wincing and unable to stand upright.  My own hands rub at the pinches to brush them away but nail marks appear with every cramp and every fear.

My kidneys are cracked. Dried up from too much weeping, they split like the ground in a drought, as if happiness has been sucked out of them. Years of depression and overmedication show as yellow circles, like tear drops falling onto the dry ground, puffs of dust blowing up and fading away. 

My body is broken and bruised.  My rib cage aches when I breathe, as my lungs are swollen and puffy with unspoken secrets and trapped screams. My chest is covered in a raw open wound that will never heal. My heart was broken on the day you left.  Your words tore it out and trampled on it, but I hd to pick it up and thrust it back in, and expect it to carry on beating as if nothing had happened. Whenever I see you, it breaks again, and blood trails down my skin, unseen by everyone.

All my injuries are invisible to everyone but me. I feel every one.

Challenge 2 for tomorrow: write the same prompt but not emotional pain, but good emotions… 

[random-bits-of-writing]

@sian22redux I do. I mean, I don't and I'd rather run screaming across broken glass, but I'm an adult so I have to hear the bad stuff don't I?!

Post 1

PROMPT: Emotional pain now leaves physical scars on your body. Describe what you look like.

My legs are covered in bruises. Deep purple to faded yellow, a rainbow of pain. My knees are grazed, the flesh is red and sandpaper-rough, scabs curling up at the edges, ripe for picking. These are the bruises that every child has. Stumbles in the playground, falling off bikes, climbing trees. But not for me. These age-deep bruises are the marks of bullying and will never fade. This graze came from the rough edge of name-calling. This long scrape shows the thrust and drag of on-again-off-again friends, pulled towards then pushed away.  This deep purple bruise is the colour of loneliness, of playtimes spent alone, of the anxiety of conversations, desperate to say the right thing.

Nail marks like crescent moons are scattered across my stomach, as anxiety pinches at me with its hundred hands. The hands of fear are hot, leaving me sweating, and they spin my stomach, leaving it churning and nauseated.  The hands pull me down as they grab so my anxiety leaves me wincing and unable to stand upright.  My own hands rub at the pinches to brush them away but nail marks appear with every cramp and every fear.

My kidneys are cracked. Dried up from too much weeping, they split like the ground in a drought, as if happiness has been sucked out of them. Years of depression and overmedication show as yellow circles, like tear drops falling onto the dry ground, puffs of dust blowing up and fading away. 

My body is broken and bruised.  My rib cage aches when I breathe, as my lungs are swollen and puffy with unspoken secrets and trapped screams. My chest is covered in a raw open wound that will never heal. My heart was broken on the day you left.  Your words tore it out and trampled on it, but I hd to pick it up and thrust it back in, and expect it to carry on beating as if nothing had happened. Whenever I see you, it breaks again, and blood trails down my skin, unseen by everyone.

All my injuries are invisible to everyone but me. I feel every one.

Challenge 2 for tomorrow: write the same prompt but not emotional pain, but good emotions… 

[random-bits-of-writing]

Post 1

PROMPT: Emotional pain now leaves physical scars on your body. Describe what you look like.

My legs are covered in bruises. Deep purple to faded yellow, a rainbow of pain. My knees are grazed, the flesh is red and sandpaper-rough, scabs curling up at the edges, ripe for picking. These are the bruises that every child has. Stumbles in the playground, falling off bikes, climbing trees. But not for me. These age-deep bruises are the marks of bullying and will never fade. This graze came from the rough edge of name-calling. This long scrape shows the thrust and drag of on-again-off-again friends, pulled towards then pushed away.  This deep purple bruise is the colour of loneliness, of playtimes spent alone, of the anxiety of conversations, desperate to say the right thing.

Nail marks like crescent moons are scattered across my stomach, as anxiety pinches at me with its hundred hands. The hands of fear are hot, leaving me sweating, and they spin my stomach, leaving it churning and nauseated.  The hands pull me down as they grab so my anxiety leaves me wincing and unable to stand upright.  My own hands rub at the pinches to brush them away but nail marks appear with every cramp and every fear.

My kidneys are cracked. Dried up from too much weeping, they split like the ground in a drought, as if happiness has been sucked out of them. Years of depression and overmedication show as yellow circles, like tear drops falling onto the dry ground, puffs of dust blowing up and fading away. 

My body is broken and bruised.  My rib cage aches when I breathe, as my lungs are swollen and puffy with unspoken secrets and trapped screams. My chest is covered in a raw open wound that will never heal. My heart was broken on the day you left.  Your words tore it out and trampled on it, but I hd to pick it up and thrust it back in, and expect it to carry on beating as if nothing had happened. Whenever I see you, it breaks again, and blood trails down my skin, unseen by everyone.

All my injuries are invisible to everyone but me. I feel every one.

Challenge 2 for tomorrow: write the same prompt but not emotional pain, but good emotions...