a hush

in , , ,

Her shoes whispered to the cobbles as she walked. They were damp, and she could feel them slightly gritty beneath her feet. They were not smooth, or slippery. She liked that. Her hands dug into her pockets for warmth, her right fingers wrapped tightly around an old key. She held it like a talisman; it comforted her. The collar of her black coat was pulled high, a scarlet scarf tucked tightly to her neck. She felt cozy as she walked, even as her breath steamed out and dissipated into the cold air around her. The sky crept close to the ground, dark clouds lumbering slowly from west to east. The town around her sat quiet and empty. The houses and streets were lit but silent as her shoes whispered to the cobbles and her right hand squeezed the key. 

The whispering stopped when she came to the doorway of a house that stood right where the cobbles stopped and the tarmac began. She drew the key from her pocket, the metal warm from her grip, and slipped its teeth into the tattered looking keyhole. Her breathing stopped for a moment, and she closed her eyes as she turned the lock. It was stiff for a moment, but the tumblers then gave with a satisfying 'chunk' that echoed across the cobbles, pushing back against the silence around her.

She exhaled, but then held her breath again as she turned the brass knob and opened the door.

dry

in , , , ,

He sat alone, embraced by the barren room. They had filed out slowly, each at a loss for words. They shook his hand or gripped his shoulder, but could not quite bring their eyes to meet his. Their eyes found instead the rug-less floor and empty walls and the middle distance. After they left and the echoes of the shutting door faded behind them, he walked into the kitchen and to the sink and washed off the handshakes. The bubbles slipped between his fingers and down the drain until the water ran clear and bubble-less. He felt as his hands blushed red and tingled in the hot water. The handle squeaked as he turned off the flow. He flicked the loose water from his fingers to the floor but didn't bother to dry them.

There were no more hands to shake.

With his wet hands he grabbed a tumbler and filled it half way from a fresh bottle of whisky left by one of the handshakers. He sniffed it and didn't wince too much.

The floorboards between the kitchen and the sitting room whined a bit as he stepped through.

The chair wasn't very comfortable but he sat anyway and sipped his whisky and stared at the blank walls. They were pale, blue, and unremarkable. In one of the corners on the ceiling an old cobweb looked like ancient ash.

He sipped and held it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing the burning liquid and long, slow breath. They were gone and he could surrender, finally, to the last few months. His face tightened around his eyes and cheeks His breath shortened. He gasped a few times and sighed.

No tears came.

The blood in his temples throbbed. Eyes squeezed shut, head lifted skywards, face in a grimace.

No tears came.

There was no relief. It all lay too deep, pressed down and buried.

His chest lurched. He curled forward and covered his face with his hands and tried to dry heave his tears through. His face bright red, brow bright red and glistening, but his eyes were still dry.

The months before would not move. They rasped inside him. He breathed again and sipped his whisky and let it burn.

walk in white

in , , , ,

The snow crunched and squeaked beneath his tattered boots. He felt his ankles and shins tense, this way and that, keeping his balance. Once every hundred or so yards a foot would slip, and he would steady his weight by grabbing the dry stone wall to his right. Each breath he felt fill every space in his lungs, the air viscous, creeping through the network of tubes, channels and chambers. His face stung on his cheeks and the borders where his lips met his skin. He could feel the hairs in his nostrils turn brittle and feel as though they would shatter with impact. Tears grew in the corners of each eye, brought forth by the weather. Or that's what he told himself, anyway.

bonfire skeleton

in , , , ,

She looked among the charred wet remains. The blackened circle surrounded by damp sand. Green glass, melted, deformed, twisted into abstraction lay buried in part under the ash. She saw no smoke but she smelled the memory of it. Her fingers ran through her hair and grains of sand fell free, their landing a whisper. She shivered slightly and put her hands in the belly pocket of her hoodie. Her hair fell in front of her eyes but she didn't bother brushing it aside. About 10 feet away slept a boy. Or maybe he was just passed out. Half his face was covered in sand and his mouth was open. She could hear him breathe but tried instead to hear the sea.

The sky above her loomed low. She felt she could touch it. It brightened though there seemed no source for the brightness through the cloud. It sucked the colour from all around her. The sea lapped and looked of slate. It seemed a dead dawn.

A half-empty bottle of port sat in the sand a few feet from the scorched patch. She sat down next to it and peered down its neck, judging the remains. A small sip, to see how it sat. A deeper sip. It was sweet and hot in her mouth. It burned a little as it went down. She gasped and her eyes watered. She laughed at herself. Composed again, she looked out to the slate sea and the smattering of rocks that peaked through the high water, studying the ripples as they spread out from the stones.

A half-burned plank lay next to her feet and she picked it up and threw it into the pile of ash. Another sip. She felt a drop of rain and then another. She looked up, as though she needed to know from whence it came. It was a light drizzle, and it made a light hiss as it hit the water. She looked towards the sleeping boy and the rain did not move him.

Another sip and she stood and brushed in vain at the sand, trying to dislodge it. The rain fell harder.

She looked again towards the sea and stared and drained the last of the port.

Then she turned around and walked away, leaving the scorched sand and the sleeping boy alone in the rain.

an old road

in , , ,

He slings the handles of the duffel bag over his shoulder and slips on his headphones. The sky hangs low but it's dry and mild. There's no breeze, for a change. He pulls his hat down low and turns the volume up a little. The ripples lap the harbour walls but he doesn't hear them. The handles tug on his shoulder and he shifts the weight a touch. Within the bag sit a costume, a shaving kit, some other bits and pieces he might need along the way. He looks out towards the sea and pulls out the earbuds. The odd gull hovers ahead. The boats sit quiet. The tide's receding and the lobstermen are nowhere to be seen. He hears the lapping now, and a gull squawk or two.

He's been here before. He turns up the road he's walked so many times. He hugs the duffel with one arm. It's uphill now, and steep. He puts the headphones back in and chooses a song, something with energy.

quiet sea

in , , ,

Sometimes he felt the sea too quiet. It lapped the butterscotch sand with a soft whisper next to him. He closed his eyes and the whisper gave no hint as to the vastness of it. His feet sank slightly. Cool damp seeped through his trainers. He clenched his toes against the cold and opened his eyes again. A fine ripple crashed and raced a foot or two up the beach. There were no stones to skip. He couldn't bring himself to look harder for any.

The sea whispered and he wanted it to shout, and to shout back at it. She wasn't there with him. He crossed his arms and kicked a haggard clump of seaweed towards the water. He remembered the concentric ripples as her perfect skimmers danced across the opalescent water.

That was a different sea.

His feet sank again as he stood still, feeling the chill touch of the whispering water.

She wasn't coming back.

walk away

in , , ,

He placed his empty pint glass on the bar and watched for a moment as the foamy remains of the head slipped down the glass and collected in the bottom. A nod at the barman. A thanks, a short one. The bar filled up. The regulars sifting through the awkward doors and taking their usual seats. Laughter rose from the table in the corner, where he'd been sitting. He didn't look back.

At the door he let a couple of familiar faces fall into the pub before sliding out. A gentle rain met him with a soft hiss as it hit the cars and cobbles. He blinked at it and heard the laughter again. The doors shut behind him and he stepped down the two short steps. He blinked again and there was only the hiss of the rain.

on toast ii

in

'You're wet. Soaking in fact.' He sipped the tea softly, with a whispered slurp. Brewed strong with one sugar and a dash of milk. It warmed him from the inside, reminding him how cold he'd been.

'Yeah. Got caught in the rain. It was nice.'

'I watched you. From the window. You sat in it.'

His bit into his toast with a satisfying crunch. He grinned as he chewed.

'Just felt like it.'

He wiped a crumb from his mouth with his thumb. They heard it, the percussion against the windows, the roof. There were bursts that shook the building, or so it seemed. The noise of the rain drowned out the howl of the wind. Almost.

She tugged her bathrobe, closing it tighter, the roar of the torrent carrying a chill.

'Hot shower?'

He said it with a mouthful of toast, his face pale with the cold wet. The corners of her mouth turned up a touch.

'That sounds perfect.'

on toast

in , , , ,

He didn't mind the rain. It peppered him, the tiny droplets settling and disappearing into the fabric of his shirt. He noticed it. He tried feel each individual drop as it landed on his head. Not to count, but to give each one its due. It occurred to him for a moment to seek shelter. He wasn't far from home. It came down heavier. He sat and felt the dampness rise through the seat of his jeans. The drops lost their individuality, becoming a rhythm. A hum. Before long it was like sitting in a shower.

But with no hot water.

He raised his head towards the sky, squinting to keep the drops out his eyes. He felt them race down his face, his cheeks and chin, matting his hair to his head. He tasted it. Stuck his tongue out like a child and for a moment focused only on what hit there.

It came down heavier. He looked down and saw his flesh through his clinging, saturated shirt. Shook his head and felt the waterlogged strands of hair whip to and fro. Standing he looked skyward again. Deep, bruised clouds looked so close he could touch them.

His key stuck in the lock for a moment, then a click. He felt a drop of water on his chin dislodge and fall.

She looked at him in the doorway, cocking her head to the side. In her right hand a mug, steam lifting lazily up; in her left a plate.

He grinned at her. She shook her head and smiled back, almost a laugh.

'Tea and toast?'

'Yes, please. Butter and honey on the toast, please.'

hazy

in , , , ,

The giggles, the uncontrollable giggles gripped them until tears fell and their faces hurt. The boy with the beard grabbed the rugby ball and performed a strange dance while the blonde girls giggled and drew pictures. The deaf boy played guitar and the bald man pounded the bongo out of rhythm. They sang and poured wine. They ate ginger cake. They giggled.

And still he felt alone.

A beginning.

in , , ,

The forest hushed but for the sound of breaking pine needles beneath his feet. Nothing breathed. The noise left a vacuum. The absence of sound filled his ears. The boy stepped forward again and nodded towards the tree stump. Atop it sat a squirrel, rusty, suspicious, tail curled over the top of its head. Its black eyes marked the child.

He took another step.

A horn sounded in the distance, piercing the air, filling the vacuum. The squirrel was gone.

The boy froze.