“Jeanette?”
“Yes mummy?”
“Why does my blackberry pie have a hole in it?”
“I don’t know…”
Jeanette held her hands tightly behind her back.
“Daddy’s at work, so who does that leave?”
“Me and you.” Jeanette looked up at her mother, unaware of her mother’s knowledge on the matter.
“I wouldn’t stick a finger into my own pie, would I?”
“I don’t know mummy. Maybe you needed to check how hot it was?”
“Well, my fingers aren’t sticky.” Jeanette’s mother flashed her hands clearly for her daughter to see; berry free. “So, who does that leave?”
“Me.” The girl lowered her head so her fringe protected her from her mother’s stare.
“Can I see your hands, Jeanette?”
“… No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… Because…” Jeanette fidgeted on the spot, her young mind desperate to find a way out of this predicament. “Because Freddie told me to do it. If you see my sticky fingers, it’ll look like my fault. It’s not fair that I get in trouble instead of Freddie.”
The feline in question was fast asleep on a barstool tucked under the kitchen counter. Jeanette’s mother looked over at the cat before turning back to her daughter.
“Go and wash your hands.”
“But mummy-“
“Don’t do it again Jeanette. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Skipping cautiously to the kitchen door while keeping her hands in front of her, Jeanette left the room, dumbfounded by how her mother had figured her out so easily.
Showing posts with label Matthew Tomlin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Matthew Tomlin. Show all posts
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Brooklyn Nights by Matthew Tomlin
I miss those nights.
Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.
Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.
Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.
Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.
Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.
Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.
Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.
Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.
Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.
Where I always knew, no matter what,
That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
And say ‘I love you.’
Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.
Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.
Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.
Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.
Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.
Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.
Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.
Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.
Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.
Where I always knew, no matter what,
That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
And say ‘I love you.’
Thursday, 10 May 2012
Japanese Maze by Matthew Tomlin
Erin walked as slowly as she could, placing her feet, one in front of the other onto the earthy ground. Her long brown hair barely moved against her back as she continued through the maze, trying her utmost not to make a sound. Even her breath was slow; slipping in and out of her body without so much as a sigh. The hedges around her, abundant with green leaves did not rustle in the slightest. Her fierce sapphire eyes remained locked on her path, slowly winding further into the maze.
When she noticed a crossroads in the hedges her fingers flexed, unfolding from knuckles like a flower unfurling for spring. As she walked to the centre of the open space, she held her breath.
Just as her last footstep settled, flashes of steel crossed her vision. Throwing her body against one of the hedges, Erin watched as four shuriken clashed, chiming loudly against one another before they fell to the floor. She allowed herself a quick, loud breath as she rolled along the hedge, placing her in another corridor of the maze. Remaining still, she stared at the end of the pathway, noticing no presence. When a sword, keen to meet her skin was thrust through the hedge, very close to her head, Erin broke into a run. All notions of stealth forgotten, she dashed around the corner, only to be met with a whistling. Once again dropping to the floor, she avoided the cluster of arrows that embedded themselves into the hedge behind her. It was obvious now that she had walked into a trap.
Pulling a small metal cylinder from her pocket, Erin slammed her thumb onto the button in the middle. The cylinder extended into a bo staff which she quickly positioned in front of her body. Walking back the way she came, Erin braced herself as the crossroads approached.
Before she managed to step past the hedge, the swing of a sword, caught by her staff forced her to stop. Then her foes revealed themselves; three enemies dressed in jet-black garbs with dark veils covering their faces. All wielding swords, they emerged from the maze. Erin backed herself into the safety of the two hedges, knowing to face them at the crossroads would not bode well. Blocking another slash, she retaliated by swinging her weapon. When her foe dropped to the floor to evade, he attempted to kick her legs from beneath her. Launching herself into the air with her staff, Erin leapt over him, landing a solid kick on the chest of the second ninja. Watching him fall back against the third, she turned before she landed, barely managing to bring her staff up in time to parry another attack from the first ninja.
When she felt a brutal tug of her hair, Erin quickly threw her arms backwards, satisfied by the resonation of her staff slamming into her foe’s skull. Leaning forwards, she knocked him back with a kick before having to throw herself against a hedge to avoid her head being cleaved. Turning gracefully, she lashed out with her weapon, this time meeting steel. She pushed forwards, forcing her first foe back as he pushed with his sword. With a swing of his arms and a swift shunt of his body, Erin was shoved, her momentum lost. Catching herself by planting the end of her staff in the floor, she suffered a painful blow to the back of the head. Reeling forwards, she reacted as fast as she could to the sword aiming straight for her stomach…
“Cut!”
Immediately the action ceased. From the above them, flood lights revealed themselves with a blinding white.
“Paul forgot the back lighting, get back to your starting positions and let’s roll again.” Spoke the director, his voice pounding through the hidden speakers.
“For fuck sake.” Erin groaned, panting heavily as she swept her hair out of her face. She wasn’t paid enough for this.
When she noticed a crossroads in the hedges her fingers flexed, unfolding from knuckles like a flower unfurling for spring. As she walked to the centre of the open space, she held her breath.
Just as her last footstep settled, flashes of steel crossed her vision. Throwing her body against one of the hedges, Erin watched as four shuriken clashed, chiming loudly against one another before they fell to the floor. She allowed herself a quick, loud breath as she rolled along the hedge, placing her in another corridor of the maze. Remaining still, she stared at the end of the pathway, noticing no presence. When a sword, keen to meet her skin was thrust through the hedge, very close to her head, Erin broke into a run. All notions of stealth forgotten, she dashed around the corner, only to be met with a whistling. Once again dropping to the floor, she avoided the cluster of arrows that embedded themselves into the hedge behind her. It was obvious now that she had walked into a trap.
Pulling a small metal cylinder from her pocket, Erin slammed her thumb onto the button in the middle. The cylinder extended into a bo staff which she quickly positioned in front of her body. Walking back the way she came, Erin braced herself as the crossroads approached.
Before she managed to step past the hedge, the swing of a sword, caught by her staff forced her to stop. Then her foes revealed themselves; three enemies dressed in jet-black garbs with dark veils covering their faces. All wielding swords, they emerged from the maze. Erin backed herself into the safety of the two hedges, knowing to face them at the crossroads would not bode well. Blocking another slash, she retaliated by swinging her weapon. When her foe dropped to the floor to evade, he attempted to kick her legs from beneath her. Launching herself into the air with her staff, Erin leapt over him, landing a solid kick on the chest of the second ninja. Watching him fall back against the third, she turned before she landed, barely managing to bring her staff up in time to parry another attack from the first ninja.
When she felt a brutal tug of her hair, Erin quickly threw her arms backwards, satisfied by the resonation of her staff slamming into her foe’s skull. Leaning forwards, she knocked him back with a kick before having to throw herself against a hedge to avoid her head being cleaved. Turning gracefully, she lashed out with her weapon, this time meeting steel. She pushed forwards, forcing her first foe back as he pushed with his sword. With a swing of his arms and a swift shunt of his body, Erin was shoved, her momentum lost. Catching herself by planting the end of her staff in the floor, she suffered a painful blow to the back of the head. Reeling forwards, she reacted as fast as she could to the sword aiming straight for her stomach…
“Cut!”
Immediately the action ceased. From the above them, flood lights revealed themselves with a blinding white.
“Paul forgot the back lighting, get back to your starting positions and let’s roll again.” Spoke the director, his voice pounding through the hidden speakers.
“For fuck sake.” Erin groaned, panting heavily as she swept her hair out of her face. She wasn’t paid enough for this.
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Sunday Best by Matthew Tomlin
I hate Sundays. The day of rest, except I feel inclined to work. Time never stops, so why should we? I could put on my suit and spend the morning in church, lift the weight off my shoulders. £12.74 an hour. Earning that for a day is three weeks-worth of food, or my car insurance for the month. Bills don’t stop, they edge closer. If I spent a day loitering, lounging in my home, I’d get all guilty. I can have as many days of rest as I like when I’m retired, but not now.
On the Rocks by Matthew Tomlin
The sea lapped calmly at my ankles. That was what brought me around. In front of me I could see nothing but the rippling expanse and the puffy white horizon, smothered by clouds. I was suspended from the rocks, I soon realised. Metal shackles bit into my ankles and wrists, holding me tight on the smooth surface of a cliff face. What had I done to end up here?
As the day went on and the sun emerged from its bed of clouds, the sea level rose. My ankles stung from the salt as the shackles rubbed my skin raw.
To my horror, I was shocked out of my irritancy by a scream. Looking up, I saw a man, clawing at the air as he fell. The silence that followed made me cry out. Where his body had landed the sea churned, briefly revealing rows of sharp rocks. My lip quivered as a pool of red tainted the dull, grey waterscape. I cried out for help.
Nothing. Not for an hour.
I called out again for help. A woman’s shrieking answered me. As she hit the water, soon swallowed, I was sorry. Sorry I ever asked for help. I didn’t want to see anymore.
I screamed and screamed and screamed when her body bumped into my feet, kicking her away in a spray of crimson seawater. I became so short of breath that my consciousness faded.
“He’s coming to!” I heard, on the cusp on regaining my senses. “Quick, get the easel, I’ll grab the paints and brushes.
As my eyes opened and I sat up, I relished the hard ground beneath me, the absence of the sea. A brush was placed in my limp hand.
“Go on, paint!”
I was an artist. Beachy Head; the suicide spot. I’d asked to be chained there, under the cover of night. Nobody’s ever seen what I’ve seen. The descent, the last glimpse of life before the rocks claimed it. Now they could.
As the day went on and the sun emerged from its bed of clouds, the sea level rose. My ankles stung from the salt as the shackles rubbed my skin raw.
To my horror, I was shocked out of my irritancy by a scream. Looking up, I saw a man, clawing at the air as he fell. The silence that followed made me cry out. Where his body had landed the sea churned, briefly revealing rows of sharp rocks. My lip quivered as a pool of red tainted the dull, grey waterscape. I cried out for help.
Nothing. Not for an hour.
I called out again for help. A woman’s shrieking answered me. As she hit the water, soon swallowed, I was sorry. Sorry I ever asked for help. I didn’t want to see anymore.
I screamed and screamed and screamed when her body bumped into my feet, kicking her away in a spray of crimson seawater. I became so short of breath that my consciousness faded.
“He’s coming to!” I heard, on the cusp on regaining my senses. “Quick, get the easel, I’ll grab the paints and brushes.
As my eyes opened and I sat up, I relished the hard ground beneath me, the absence of the sea. A brush was placed in my limp hand.
“Go on, paint!”
I was an artist. Beachy Head; the suicide spot. I’d asked to be chained there, under the cover of night. Nobody’s ever seen what I’ve seen. The descent, the last glimpse of life before the rocks claimed it. Now they could.
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Rodeo Drive by Matthew Tomlin
“Fancy a trip to Rodeo Drive?”
That’s how it all started. We look back and laugh now, but that day was the death of Tom Lewis, and the birth of ‘Tom Lewis’. Mum just wanted to go and spend her Christmas bonus, and Dad was away on a business trip. As the oldest son, I was designated bag carrier. With the enticing promise of a three course lunch, I went along.
I wasn’t a particular fan of Rodeo Drive. All those massive stores seemed so unnecessary, but maybe that’s why it was such a hit with the rich and famous. I always though celebrities were unnecessary. Weren’t we all people at the end of the day? That’s not what the media wants us to think though. People don’t make headlines, top the music charts and star in the latest blockbuster. Stars do.
Mum had just bought herself a set of garden ornaments, making the shopping bags lining my arms total eight. I was just beginning to lose interest, to resign the thought-processing part of my brain so that maybe the weight of the shopping wouldn’t ache so much.
“Oh my god. Look, look Tom!” Mum squealed, backhanding my shoulder in order to secure my attention. “Nicola Tennyson… I’ve got to call the girls at work!”
The glam model. The untouchable. The goddess among women. As fake as fake could be with her bleach-blonde hair and ‘sun-kissed’ skin. She was hot, but fake nonetheless. I thought for a moment my mix of boyish fantasizing and disgust for high society women had been noticed as Nicola looked my way. Dad said that Celebrities don’t see ordinary people though, not really.
My heart stopped when she started walking this way, her well-practised strut leaving her bodyguards milling after her. Despite myself I couldn’t stop staring. When I saw that smile on her face, shivers were dancing all along my back.
“Hello there stranger.” She said, her refined, soft voice washing over me. There was a casual crowd now.
“H-Hi” I stuttered back. She giggled and I turned very red.
“Well look at you.” Her eyelids lowered slightly. What was there to see? I was five foot ten, dressed in a Nike t-shirt and blue jeans. I had some muscle on my arms, no doubt because of all the shopping, and a decent face, if you were judging that sort of thing. “Nicely chiselled, such a handsome face, and a rugged voice.”
I heard a mobile phone smash on the ground behind me, and assumed my mum had noticed who I was talking to.
“I want him for the shoot.” She turned, speaking to one of her bodyguards. “You’ll come, right?”
What? What? A photo shoot with Nicola Tennyson? I heard my mum squealing.
“Uh… Sure?”
“Drop the bags, you’re coming with me.”
Mum was on me like a shot. The bags were stripped from my arms, one of which was now entwined with Nicola’s. Off I went.
Make up on and shirt off two hours later. On the front pages two days after that.
‘TENNYSON’S NEW MAN; TOM LEWIS’
I quickly became what I once hated. I buffed up and tanned up. I went home once a week to see my parents. The first time we had sex was a total blur; reality and fantasy became one. She’s still Nicola Tennyson on screen, but legally she’s Nicola Lewis. I’m her lover, her stud on shoot. Twelfth sexiest man in the USA. Mum’s so proud, but I didn’t really do anything.
I’m Tom Lewis.
That’s how it all started. We look back and laugh now, but that day was the death of Tom Lewis, and the birth of ‘Tom Lewis’. Mum just wanted to go and spend her Christmas bonus, and Dad was away on a business trip. As the oldest son, I was designated bag carrier. With the enticing promise of a three course lunch, I went along.
I wasn’t a particular fan of Rodeo Drive. All those massive stores seemed so unnecessary, but maybe that’s why it was such a hit with the rich and famous. I always though celebrities were unnecessary. Weren’t we all people at the end of the day? That’s not what the media wants us to think though. People don’t make headlines, top the music charts and star in the latest blockbuster. Stars do.
Mum had just bought herself a set of garden ornaments, making the shopping bags lining my arms total eight. I was just beginning to lose interest, to resign the thought-processing part of my brain so that maybe the weight of the shopping wouldn’t ache so much.
“Oh my god. Look, look Tom!” Mum squealed, backhanding my shoulder in order to secure my attention. “Nicola Tennyson… I’ve got to call the girls at work!”
The glam model. The untouchable. The goddess among women. As fake as fake could be with her bleach-blonde hair and ‘sun-kissed’ skin. She was hot, but fake nonetheless. I thought for a moment my mix of boyish fantasizing and disgust for high society women had been noticed as Nicola looked my way. Dad said that Celebrities don’t see ordinary people though, not really.
My heart stopped when she started walking this way, her well-practised strut leaving her bodyguards milling after her. Despite myself I couldn’t stop staring. When I saw that smile on her face, shivers were dancing all along my back.
“Hello there stranger.” She said, her refined, soft voice washing over me. There was a casual crowd now.
“H-Hi” I stuttered back. She giggled and I turned very red.
“Well look at you.” Her eyelids lowered slightly. What was there to see? I was five foot ten, dressed in a Nike t-shirt and blue jeans. I had some muscle on my arms, no doubt because of all the shopping, and a decent face, if you were judging that sort of thing. “Nicely chiselled, such a handsome face, and a rugged voice.”
I heard a mobile phone smash on the ground behind me, and assumed my mum had noticed who I was talking to.
“I want him for the shoot.” She turned, speaking to one of her bodyguards. “You’ll come, right?”
What? What? A photo shoot with Nicola Tennyson? I heard my mum squealing.
“Uh… Sure?”
“Drop the bags, you’re coming with me.”
Mum was on me like a shot. The bags were stripped from my arms, one of which was now entwined with Nicola’s. Off I went.
Make up on and shirt off two hours later. On the front pages two days after that.
‘TENNYSON’S NEW MAN; TOM LEWIS’
I quickly became what I once hated. I buffed up and tanned up. I went home once a week to see my parents. The first time we had sex was a total blur; reality and fantasy became one. She’s still Nicola Tennyson on screen, but legally she’s Nicola Lewis. I’m her lover, her stud on shoot. Twelfth sexiest man in the USA. Mum’s so proud, but I didn’t really do anything.
I’m Tom Lewis.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
LATE ENTRY Luna Landscape by Matthew Tomlin
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that.” Alice rolled her eyes, a tell-tale sigh drifting from her lips.
“But you look just like her.” Mark laughed, moving to poke her in the arm but being repelled by the swat of her hand.
“Literally speaking, that’s not the actresses’ real name. How ridiculous you’re being, I mean really.” Alice drabbled on for a while longer, but Mark wasn’t paying attention.
“It’s your night tonight.” He jeered, pulling her closer.
“Lunar eclipse, yes, how amusing.”
The forest was oddly quiet, even for the middle of the night. Mark kept his eye trained on his lover, waiting for her cold demeanour to break.
“I really wish you would show some maturity.” Alice kept her arms folded around her mid-section, refusing to reciprocate.
“You’re getting pretty high maintenance; all these wishes.”
“I’m being serious.” She turned to meet his gaze. Mark still couldn’t supress his smile. “I’m sure your parents are waiting for the day when you’ll show a bit of sophistication.”
Anyone else would have been hurt. Mark would sometimes be put off by comments like that. He was enjoying himself too much this time. He stopped, while Alice continued on for a few paces. He stretched his arms out as she turned around.
“Listen.”
Listen she did, but she could hear nothing.
“Look.”
Mark gestured towards himself. Alice was confused.
“All we can see, all we can hear is each other. What’s with the serious?” He walked towards her, the forest floor crunching beneath his steps.
“There’s not often time in the real world for silliness-“Alice began, but was silenced with some annoyance by Mark’s finger pressed to her lips.
“We’re not in the real world right now. You’re here, with me, in mine.”
For the first time that evening, Alice found herself unable to process a comeback. She understood what he was trying to say.
“Are you saying that I’m too serious?”
“Yes.”
Alice stood in silence for a moment, unable to tear her eyes away from Mark’s. She couldn’t tell him he was right. That just wouldn’t do.
She jumped. They fell. They kissed.
“But you look just like her.” Mark laughed, moving to poke her in the arm but being repelled by the swat of her hand.
“Literally speaking, that’s not the actresses’ real name. How ridiculous you’re being, I mean really.” Alice drabbled on for a while longer, but Mark wasn’t paying attention.
“It’s your night tonight.” He jeered, pulling her closer.
“Lunar eclipse, yes, how amusing.”
The forest was oddly quiet, even for the middle of the night. Mark kept his eye trained on his lover, waiting for her cold demeanour to break.
“I really wish you would show some maturity.” Alice kept her arms folded around her mid-section, refusing to reciprocate.
“You’re getting pretty high maintenance; all these wishes.”
“I’m being serious.” She turned to meet his gaze. Mark still couldn’t supress his smile. “I’m sure your parents are waiting for the day when you’ll show a bit of sophistication.”
Anyone else would have been hurt. Mark would sometimes be put off by comments like that. He was enjoying himself too much this time. He stopped, while Alice continued on for a few paces. He stretched his arms out as she turned around.
“Listen.”
Listen she did, but she could hear nothing.
“Look.”
Mark gestured towards himself. Alice was confused.
“All we can see, all we can hear is each other. What’s with the serious?” He walked towards her, the forest floor crunching beneath his steps.
“There’s not often time in the real world for silliness-“Alice began, but was silenced with some annoyance by Mark’s finger pressed to her lips.
“We’re not in the real world right now. You’re here, with me, in mine.”
For the first time that evening, Alice found herself unable to process a comeback. She understood what he was trying to say.
“Are you saying that I’m too serious?”
“Yes.”
Alice stood in silence for a moment, unable to tear her eyes away from Mark’s. She couldn’t tell him he was right. That just wouldn’t do.
She jumped. They fell. They kissed.
Champagne by Matthew Tomlin
That was the last thing I remember drinking; champagne. After the Vodka, the Tequilla, the Rum. Champagne was the last one I remember. Could have been more, I’ll have to check my card history. Not sure why I chose it. Bit of class? Would have taken a lot of that to get me feeling decent. I’m not a slob in the least. I work, pay my taxes, play the society game. I won’t go on and on about alcohol, because it’s all the same tunes. Escaping yourself, letting your hair down, having a good time. It’s just a mystery; champagne. Why? Maybe I felt high and mighty. Maybe I thought my bank balance was bigger than it actually is. Maybe so I could add it to the list, so I could reel off the different types of booze that had collectively given someone permission to host a rave in my skull.
Perhaps it was the girl. She might have asked for it. I might have asked her. Just another mystery; I might remember later. I didn’t puke; no way in hell. Not after champagne. That was some fortuitous willpower; holding my stomach against the sway of the taxi, feeling it rise up, but not giving in. I always think of a brass band playing to take my mind off it.
Then I think of the coots that drink it all the time. It’s a leisurely thing, but so is chinning four shots of Tequilla in a row, no lime. I guess I’ll never really understand.
Perhaps it was the girl. She might have asked for it. I might have asked her. Just another mystery; I might remember later. I didn’t puke; no way in hell. Not after champagne. That was some fortuitous willpower; holding my stomach against the sway of the taxi, feeling it rise up, but not giving in. I always think of a brass band playing to take my mind off it.
Then I think of the coots that drink it all the time. It’s a leisurely thing, but so is chinning four shots of Tequilla in a row, no lime. I guess I’ll never really understand.
Friday, 4 May 2012
LATE ENTRY Fireside by Matt Tomlin
Jane could smell burning. It wasn’t the beef casserole she was slaving over, she was sure of it. A quick inspection of the kitchen showed no signs of burning foodstuffs. Paul had said something about lighting the fire. In a frenzy, Jane abandoned her kitchen utensils, sprinting to the living room as fast as the obstructing furniture would allow. Images of the cream carpet ablaze and streaks of fire assailing the walls entered her head. Even her daughter Emily, lulled to sleep by the strangling fumes, lying motionless, surrounded by flames.
Flying into the living room, with her hands holding her to the doorframe, Jane gasped.
The room wasn’t ablaze. It took a moment for the adrenaline to fade, for the panic to subside before Jane could instil a calming breath.
“Mummy?” Came the innocent voice of Emily. Little Emily, breathing, alive.
“I can smell burning; honey, are you alright?”
“Yes. It’s smelly though.”
“What is, darling?”
“Percy is.” Emily stated simply, pointing to the fire. Jane walked into the room, her eyes fixed on the fireplace.
“Emily!” Jane cried, throwing herself down onto the carpet.
“But he’s an ugly teddy!” She justified with her brutal, yet honest reasoning.
Ugly he might have been, but Percy is, was an old bear, Jane thought as she watched the teddy crumple under the weight of the flames. Not from her mother, nor her grandmother, but her great, great grandmother. That was three corpses that would be turning in their coffins tonight.
“Stefanie told me too. She didn’t want to catch his ugliness.” Emily said. Jane eyed the pink furred teddy huddled in her daughter’s lap. She couldn’t return her gaze to the fire. Percy was gone, after all those years. All those tempestuous nights with Percy snuggled beneath the bed sheets to keep the generations safe from the scary weather. Never again.
“Mummy?” Emily asked as Jane stared into space. “Don’t let dinner burn!”
Flying into the living room, with her hands holding her to the doorframe, Jane gasped.
The room wasn’t ablaze. It took a moment for the adrenaline to fade, for the panic to subside before Jane could instil a calming breath.
“Mummy?” Came the innocent voice of Emily. Little Emily, breathing, alive.
“I can smell burning; honey, are you alright?”
“Yes. It’s smelly though.”
“What is, darling?”
“Percy is.” Emily stated simply, pointing to the fire. Jane walked into the room, her eyes fixed on the fireplace.
“Emily!” Jane cried, throwing herself down onto the carpet.
“But he’s an ugly teddy!” She justified with her brutal, yet honest reasoning.
Ugly he might have been, but Percy is, was an old bear, Jane thought as she watched the teddy crumple under the weight of the flames. Not from her mother, nor her grandmother, but her great, great grandmother. That was three corpses that would be turning in their coffins tonight.
“Stefanie told me too. She didn’t want to catch his ugliness.” Emily said. Jane eyed the pink furred teddy huddled in her daughter’s lap. She couldn’t return her gaze to the fire. Percy was gone, after all those years. All those tempestuous nights with Percy snuggled beneath the bed sheets to keep the generations safe from the scary weather. Never again.
“Mummy?” Emily asked as Jane stared into space. “Don’t let dinner burn!”
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Velvet Ribbon by Matthew Tomlin
The grand piano in the corner of the drawing room had the entire room’s attention. Lady Lorene was running her fingers along the immaculate white keys, the notes from the instrument melding into a rapturous composition. It was sultry. Her bare shoulders held the light from the chandelier, her porcelain skin glowing. They moved as much as her fingers did. She rocked back and forth, her lusty eyes sweeping across the room, her scarlet lips sliding into a smile as she noticed some low hanging jaws, wide eyes. Lady Lorene’s rich, curly hair cascaded down her back, swaying with her movements. It was difficult to tell what was more entertaining; the lady’s looks, or her mastery of the piano.
A deafening applause signalled the end of Lady Lorene’s performance. Slowly she walked back to her seat, drinking in the attention even as she swished her hair upon being seated. A low chatter filled the hall; who would be next?
Unexpectedly, a young woman stood up at the back of the audience. Nobody knew her. I didn’t know her. She was thin, dainty almost as she approached the grand piano. Cautiously she took her place, her plain black dress remaining motionless as she moved. It covered her shoulders, and her arms. I think I heard Lady Lorene sigh.
I studied her as she took some breaths. She was thin, slightly frail. Her fingers were almost like moths, flitting in the air as she flexed them. She seemed oddly pale. She wasn’t like Lady Lorene at all.
Her hair. It wasn’t suggestive at all. I thought it could have been luscious; it was quite long. It would have flowed nicely, billowed out across her back, like the wings of a swan. I spotted a velvet ribbon, the ends hanging down from the bow either side of the ponytail. I was transfixed. Little girls wore ribbons in their hair because they were pretty. Was she pretty? She wasn’t sexy. She’d made a choice not to be sexy. I wanted to pull it out, watch her hair fall; it was so long, so straight.
I was so distracted I didn’t realise she had started playing. A slow, high end melody that tickled my ears. Then a gradual journey down the piano, down to the lowest note I anticipated... but then she took off in a shower of swift, high notes, foreshadowed by the condemning tolls of the low notes. The ribbon floated as her head shook ever so slightly, her column of hair wiggling along her back. Her fingers moved so deftly, like butterflies courting. When I caught sight of her eyes, a rich turquoise that took me to thoughts of a warm, tropical ocean, I was lost.
As soon as the chime of the last note resonated along the strings, I was on my feet, my hands thundering applause, my heart suddenly racing. If I wasn’t so entranced by her turning towards me, her long hair swaying behind her as our eyes locked, I would have noticed Lady Lorene’s scowl boring into my skull.
A deafening applause signalled the end of Lady Lorene’s performance. Slowly she walked back to her seat, drinking in the attention even as she swished her hair upon being seated. A low chatter filled the hall; who would be next?
Unexpectedly, a young woman stood up at the back of the audience. Nobody knew her. I didn’t know her. She was thin, dainty almost as she approached the grand piano. Cautiously she took her place, her plain black dress remaining motionless as she moved. It covered her shoulders, and her arms. I think I heard Lady Lorene sigh.
I studied her as she took some breaths. She was thin, slightly frail. Her fingers were almost like moths, flitting in the air as she flexed them. She seemed oddly pale. She wasn’t like Lady Lorene at all.
Her hair. It wasn’t suggestive at all. I thought it could have been luscious; it was quite long. It would have flowed nicely, billowed out across her back, like the wings of a swan. I spotted a velvet ribbon, the ends hanging down from the bow either side of the ponytail. I was transfixed. Little girls wore ribbons in their hair because they were pretty. Was she pretty? She wasn’t sexy. She’d made a choice not to be sexy. I wanted to pull it out, watch her hair fall; it was so long, so straight.
I was so distracted I didn’t realise she had started playing. A slow, high end melody that tickled my ears. Then a gradual journey down the piano, down to the lowest note I anticipated... but then she took off in a shower of swift, high notes, foreshadowed by the condemning tolls of the low notes. The ribbon floated as her head shook ever so slightly, her column of hair wiggling along her back. Her fingers moved so deftly, like butterflies courting. When I caught sight of her eyes, a rich turquoise that took me to thoughts of a warm, tropical ocean, I was lost.
As soon as the chime of the last note resonated along the strings, I was on my feet, my hands thundering applause, my heart suddenly racing. If I wasn’t so entranced by her turning towards me, her long hair swaying behind her as our eyes locked, I would have noticed Lady Lorene’s scowl boring into my skull.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
High Society by Matthew Tomlin
Richard had a headache; the kind that makes you grip your head in public. Maybe it was his body finally having enough of the smog that melded into the city air. Maybe it was the clammy brother of this air; the underground draft that signalled the arrival of the train. Regardless, Richard was half shoved into the capsule that opened up in front of him, the people around him having no concern for his creaseless grey suit and leather bound briefcase.
His hand seized up.
Glancing back to the platform while being herded into the corner of the carriage, Richard grimaced when his possession was absent from the place he had left it. Tax returns, board meeting minutes, contact details, company income charts, invoices… All gone. His job might be too. There was no better place to wallow in self-pity than the London underground. Pressed against strangers; two of which were blasting sounds Richard wouldn’t call music from headphones, and one who clearly needed much stronger deodorant. And a young woman that was staring at him.
Not in the mood to avert his gaze for just anyone, Richard stared her down.
“You dropped this?” She muttered, her soft voice nearly lost to the bass that thumped from the nearby headphones. From the tight space around her, she revealed a leather-bound suitcase. Richard was frozen for a few moments before an incredulous smile lit up his face. Awkwardly, and without breaking the woman’s gaze, he wrestled his arms free from their confinement. Only when his fingers wrapped themselves around the handle did he allow himself a sigh.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
The woman smiled in response. Something inside Richard clicked. Nothing more was exchanged between them except a few glances and the occasional grin. A final flash of those gentle blue eyes signalled her departure as she was washed away by the throng of Londoners rushing from the carriage.
Richard’s headache had subsided, but once his key slotted into the lock of his apartment, It started again.
“I don’t understand why you don’t just get a taxi.” A low, refined voice called as Richard entered his home. Lavishly designed though it was, none of it was to his tastes, but hers. “And our holiday’s been moved two days forward so we can attend Gillian’s 30th, I knew you wouldn’t mind. Four hundred and fifty pound cancellation fee is all.”
“Evening.” He grumbled, waltzing past the intricate glass coffee table that was too good to have coffee at. He pulled open the silver door of the fridge, letting the cool air soothe his head.
“Oh, and we were offered an investment into a solicitor’s firm, so I went ahead and booked a meeting for you. Tomorrow evening, 7’oclock sharp.” She sighed lightly, her sickly voice filling the room as she remained coiled up on the designer sofa.
“Good.” Richard replied. Taking a bottle of spring water, he sprawled himself over the breakfast bar, washing away the smog that clung in his throat.
“Don’t you want a cuddle, pet?”
Ooh, that high pitch. Unscrewed his sanity it did.
“No.”
“All I want it a minute with my man after such a hard day. I never get anything that I want.” She whined. She whined. And she whined.
Richard stood abruptly, striding across the room. As he came upon the coffee table, he raised his foot. Before his girlfriend could express her confusion, the sound of shattering glass set in. She shrieked, covering herself as the shards hurtled towards her. Once settled she glanced to see Richard’s leg, glistening red over his black trousers, standing in the middle of the coffee table.
“I’m going to hospital.” He said coldly, the adrenaline holding pain at bay.
“I-I’ll call Dr. Martin-“
“I’m going to hospital, now.”
To a hospital, to be treated like everyone else. Not to have priority, or to be swathed in luxury. Maybe the nurse would have blue eyes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)