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.
Showing posts with label On the Rocks. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On the Rocks. Show all posts
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
On the Rocks by Meg Burrows
On the Rocks is where we sat until the sun said goodbye to the day.
On the Rocks is what Aunt Zara says every time she goes to the bar.
On the Rocks is when Charlie Griston can no longer stand upright outside Benny’s.
On the Rocks is how some people see their marriage.
On the Rocks is here in the tumbler.
On the Rocks is that bloody seagull again.
On the Rocks is supremely wonderful feeling of euphoria looking out onto a deep canyon of unaltered bliss.
On the Rocks is what Aunt Zara says every time she goes to the bar.
On the Rocks is when Charlie Griston can no longer stand upright outside Benny’s.
On the Rocks is how some people see their marriage.
On the Rocks is here in the tumbler.
On the Rocks is that bloody seagull again.
On the Rocks is supremely wonderful feeling of euphoria looking out onto a deep canyon of unaltered bliss.
On the Rocks by Sam Smith
This shall be my last journal entry.
All members of my crew have either died of starvation or murdered each other in a fit of madness.
Their captain is all that is left.
Never have I sailed a ship for myself. The masts have been left high. The wind decides where we shall go.
An end on the rocks seems fitting for such a poor captain.
We were dead before the ship even sank.
All members of my crew have either died of starvation or murdered each other in a fit of madness.
Their captain is all that is left.
Never have I sailed a ship for myself. The masts have been left high. The wind decides where we shall go.
An end on the rocks seems fitting for such a poor captain.
We were dead before the ship even sank.
On the Rocks by Emily Chadwick
Darryl looked around at the girls on either side of him, grinning widely and holding up his glass.
“A toast, for all the beautiful ladies.”
The girls laughed and raised their glasses. All except for one.
“Why do they call drinks with ice ‘on the rocks’?” she said, tilting her head to one side. Dark beguiling eyes watched him from below long dark lashes.
Darryl peered at his drink.
“Ice is kind of like rocks?” He tilted his head the same way as her. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It makes me think of shipwrecks, and then I get sad. You should be happy when you’re drunk, right?”
“Unless you’re drinking because you’re sad,” a redhead to Darryl’s left put in.
“I suppose,” the first girl said. She put her glass down on the table with a loud clunk. “A toast then, to ships on the rocks.”
The girls laughed and raised their glasses again. Darryl excused himself.
“A toast, for all the beautiful ladies.”
The girls laughed and raised their glasses. All except for one.
“Why do they call drinks with ice ‘on the rocks’?” she said, tilting her head to one side. Dark beguiling eyes watched him from below long dark lashes.
Darryl peered at his drink.
“Ice is kind of like rocks?” He tilted his head the same way as her. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “It makes me think of shipwrecks, and then I get sad. You should be happy when you’re drunk, right?”
“Unless you’re drinking because you’re sad,” a redhead to Darryl’s left put in.
“I suppose,” the first girl said. She put her glass down on the table with a loud clunk. “A toast then, to ships on the rocks.”
The girls laughed and raised their glasses again. Darryl excused himself.
Monday, 7 May 2012
On the Rocks by Sara Travis
I bang about in the liquor cupboard, not caring who I disturb at this late hour. When you need a drink, you need a drink, you know? I rummage and discard the brandy, the vodka, the gin. I want the hard stuff, the good stuff, the stuff that’ll punch me straight in the gut, burn my throat and help me forget. I want the scotch, goddammit, where’s the scotch?
I find it, lurking at the back, hidden behind the rum. Sophia must’ve hidden it again. The stupid bitch, she’s always taking my stuff and hiding it, thinking I don’t notice but I do, I’ve known about it for ages, I’m just biding my time, waiting for the moment, the opportune moment to get her back and pound her skull into mush. Is that the right phrase? ‘The opportune moment’? It sounds right, but when I try to say it out loud the words come out in a jumble, I can’t get my mouth to form that long ‘o’ sound. Fuck it, who cares? I’ve only had a couple, and that last one at the bar went straight down my shirt anyway, some idiot who’d had one too many knocking me as he passed. I showed him, though. I’ve got the bloody knuckles to prove it.
The bottle clinks against the glass as my liquid lady friend chugs out. A little more. A little more. It’s missing something though, there’s something missing here. ICE. I need ICE. I almost shout the word as my mind clicks into place, and stuff a fist into my mouth to suppress my laughter. Shh, David! Sophia is sleeping, you can’t wake her, the fucking queen she thinks she is. God forbid you wake her and face her wrath. The gold bands around our fingers are the only thing we have in common these days, and even then it’s practically worthless. I screw around, she screws around, although I would definitely deny that in a law of court. Wait, no – a court of law. Yeah, that’s it. Heh.
I use the prongs to plop the ice into my drink because I’m classy, and classy people use prongs. Although when some of the scotch splashes out of my glass, I remind myself that classy people probably have butlers to fix them their scotch on the rocks when they come home at 3:00 am in need of a drink after a long evening of very heavy drinking. But like I said, that last one at the bar was wasted, really. So I’m owed this one. But before I have the chance to knock it back, I hear a sigh from somewhere behind me, and I know it’s her before I even turn around.
She’s stood in the doorway wearing her robe, arms folded across her chest and a look of utter contempt on her face. Who would have thought I’d marry a woman like that?
“Yes?” I say, although the ‘s’ sound at the end is slightly slurred. I like it though, and I drag it out a little longer, so it sounds more like, “Yesssssssssssh?”
Sophia grinds her teeth while she eyes up the stains on my shirt, and for a second I lose my balance and stumble forward. I’ve always said this house was built on a slope, but Sophia never believed me. But here’s the proof!
“When you’ve quite finished, perhaps you’d be so kind as to take the spare room tonight?” Sophia says, barely able to hide her disgust. “And then at least I’ll be spared a night of inhaling your rancid breath.”
I lunge at her, careful not to spill any more of my drink, and grab at her robe. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to sign the divorce papers when I pick them up from our lawyer tomorrow? Then at least I’d be spared a lifetime of your self-righteousness and smarmy attitude?” I try to glare, but can’t seem to focus on her face. She prises my sweaty hands off her robe, and staggers backwards.
“It would be my pleasure!” she hollers, before turning on her heel and dashing back up the stairs.
I cheer loudly as she leaves, and down my drink in one, rocks and all.
I find it, lurking at the back, hidden behind the rum. Sophia must’ve hidden it again. The stupid bitch, she’s always taking my stuff and hiding it, thinking I don’t notice but I do, I’ve known about it for ages, I’m just biding my time, waiting for the moment, the opportune moment to get her back and pound her skull into mush. Is that the right phrase? ‘The opportune moment’? It sounds right, but when I try to say it out loud the words come out in a jumble, I can’t get my mouth to form that long ‘o’ sound. Fuck it, who cares? I’ve only had a couple, and that last one at the bar went straight down my shirt anyway, some idiot who’d had one too many knocking me as he passed. I showed him, though. I’ve got the bloody knuckles to prove it.
The bottle clinks against the glass as my liquid lady friend chugs out. A little more. A little more. It’s missing something though, there’s something missing here. ICE. I need ICE. I almost shout the word as my mind clicks into place, and stuff a fist into my mouth to suppress my laughter. Shh, David! Sophia is sleeping, you can’t wake her, the fucking queen she thinks she is. God forbid you wake her and face her wrath. The gold bands around our fingers are the only thing we have in common these days, and even then it’s practically worthless. I screw around, she screws around, although I would definitely deny that in a law of court. Wait, no – a court of law. Yeah, that’s it. Heh.
I use the prongs to plop the ice into my drink because I’m classy, and classy people use prongs. Although when some of the scotch splashes out of my glass, I remind myself that classy people probably have butlers to fix them their scotch on the rocks when they come home at 3:00 am in need of a drink after a long evening of very heavy drinking. But like I said, that last one at the bar was wasted, really. So I’m owed this one. But before I have the chance to knock it back, I hear a sigh from somewhere behind me, and I know it’s her before I even turn around.
She’s stood in the doorway wearing her robe, arms folded across her chest and a look of utter contempt on her face. Who would have thought I’d marry a woman like that?
“Yes?” I say, although the ‘s’ sound at the end is slightly slurred. I like it though, and I drag it out a little longer, so it sounds more like, “Yesssssssssssh?”
Sophia grinds her teeth while she eyes up the stains on my shirt, and for a second I lose my balance and stumble forward. I’ve always said this house was built on a slope, but Sophia never believed me. But here’s the proof!
“When you’ve quite finished, perhaps you’d be so kind as to take the spare room tonight?” Sophia says, barely able to hide her disgust. “And then at least I’ll be spared a night of inhaling your rancid breath.”
I lunge at her, careful not to spill any more of my drink, and grab at her robe. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to sign the divorce papers when I pick them up from our lawyer tomorrow? Then at least I’d be spared a lifetime of your self-righteousness and smarmy attitude?” I try to glare, but can’t seem to focus on her face. She prises my sweaty hands off her robe, and staggers backwards.
“It would be my pleasure!” she hollers, before turning on her heel and dashing back up the stairs.
I cheer loudly as she leaves, and down my drink in one, rocks and all.
On the Rocks by Ben Hayward
He swanned slowly up to the bar with a cool swagger and a dirty smirk on his face.
“Could I have a scotch on the rocks?”
“Is that supposed to be a line of some kind?”
He seemed taken aback; it had been a long time since someone had challenged him in any capacity. He quickly recovered, maintaining his cool, and placed his hand firmly on the bar.
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Well Hastings is famous for its rocky beaches for one thing.”
Beads of sweat emerged on his scalp. He wiped them away and broke the mould of well-formed hair that covered his scalp. His yellowing teeth were now showing as he struggled to maintain his smile.
“Can I just have my drink please?”
“Sure thing, no need to get fusty, love. It doesn’t suit you.”
She looked behind to see if there were any bottles of scotch left, returning with a bottle of Jack-Daniels.
“That’s not what I ordered.”
“It’s all we have.”
He slammed the table hard, drawing looks from several onlookers.
“I am not drinking that Yankee trash!”
The barmaid gritted her teeth, biting down in a conscious effort to hold her tongue.
“Excuse me, sir, what would you prefer?”
“My order, for one thing.”
The barmaid looked toward one of her colleagues, making a vague nodding motion.
“I am sorry sir, the taps are dry, and we only have fizzy drinks left.”
“A second ago I saw you pour that guy there a pint!”
A burly man appeared behind him and took him by the arm. You could see a flash of fear in his eyes as he was led away from the bar.
“How may I help you Ma’am?”
“Could I have a scotch on the rocks?”
“Is that supposed to be a line of some kind?”
He seemed taken aback; it had been a long time since someone had challenged him in any capacity. He quickly recovered, maintaining his cool, and placed his hand firmly on the bar.
“Whatever do you mean by that?”
“Well Hastings is famous for its rocky beaches for one thing.”
Beads of sweat emerged on his scalp. He wiped them away and broke the mould of well-formed hair that covered his scalp. His yellowing teeth were now showing as he struggled to maintain his smile.
“Can I just have my drink please?”
“Sure thing, no need to get fusty, love. It doesn’t suit you.”
She looked behind to see if there were any bottles of scotch left, returning with a bottle of Jack-Daniels.
“That’s not what I ordered.”
“It’s all we have.”
He slammed the table hard, drawing looks from several onlookers.
“I am not drinking that Yankee trash!”
The barmaid gritted her teeth, biting down in a conscious effort to hold her tongue.
“Excuse me, sir, what would you prefer?”
“My order, for one thing.”
The barmaid looked toward one of her colleagues, making a vague nodding motion.
“I am sorry sir, the taps are dry, and we only have fizzy drinks left.”
“A second ago I saw you pour that guy there a pint!”
A burly man appeared behind him and took him by the arm. You could see a flash of fear in his eyes as he was led away from the bar.
“How may I help you Ma’am?”
On the Rocks by Lesley Whyte
They slipped away from the wedding party and into the night, leaving behind the white marquee bathed in golden lights, the merry guests, the music. They came to the edge of the cliff. He stood and looked out at the farthest reaches of the black ocean. She heard the waves crashing below them and looked down at the rocks, sharp and jagged shapes rising up out of the surf.
She clutched his arm, feeling a little giddy from the champagne. "What are we doing here?" she asked, unable to stop a giggle from rising in her throat.
She clutched his arm, feeling a little giddy from the champagne. "What are we doing here?" she asked, unable to stop a giggle from rising in her throat.
He placed his hand gently on hers to steady her, but kept looking out into the black night. The blacker ocean.
Behind them, the music stopped. She twisted around to see why. They were missing the throwing of the bouquet, but that didn't matter. She would be the next to get married. She had the cubic zirconia ring to prove it. He insisted it was a diamond, but she knew better and loved him all the more for wanting to give her a diamond.
"What are we doing out here?" she asked again. A cold wind whipped against her bare arms and face. She wanted to go back to the party. She wanted to go back to the light and the warmth of the party behind them.
"I can't do this anymore," he said finally. "I don't want to."
"What...what are you saying?"
"I'm sorry, Clo. I can't marry you."
"But...but you...we..."
"I'm sorry, Clo," he said again. He turned to look at her, but she could hardly see his face in the darkness. He kissed her forehead and then lifted her hand from his arm. He turned and went back to the party.
She watched him go, tears and the wind burning her eyes. She felt a sob rising up from deep inside her and turned back to the ocean. She didn't realise she had been twisting the ring around her finger until it slipped.
"No!" She fell to her knees, searching in the grass for it, groping blindly between the blades. And then she saw the rocks again. She striaghtened up. Suddenly, they didn't look so scary. They looked almost welcoming, like open arms rising up out of the ocean to embrace her and bring her home
Behind them, the music stopped. She twisted around to see why. They were missing the throwing of the bouquet, but that didn't matter. She would be the next to get married. She had the cubic zirconia ring to prove it. He insisted it was a diamond, but she knew better and loved him all the more for wanting to give her a diamond.
"What are we doing out here?" she asked again. A cold wind whipped against her bare arms and face. She wanted to go back to the party. She wanted to go back to the light and the warmth of the party behind them.
"I can't do this anymore," he said finally. "I don't want to."
"What...what are you saying?"
"I'm sorry, Clo. I can't marry you."
"But...but you...we..."
"I'm sorry, Clo," he said again. He turned to look at her, but she could hardly see his face in the darkness. He kissed her forehead and then lifted her hand from his arm. He turned and went back to the party.
She watched him go, tears and the wind burning her eyes. She felt a sob rising up from deep inside her and turned back to the ocean. She didn't realise she had been twisting the ring around her finger until it slipped.
"No!" She fell to her knees, searching in the grass for it, groping blindly between the blades. And then she saw the rocks again. She striaghtened up. Suddenly, they didn't look so scary. They looked almost welcoming, like open arms rising up out of the ocean to embrace her and bring her home
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