an atypical conversation

her "You screwed it up." him "How? How did I screw it up?"

her "You screwed it up because you don't get it."

him "That's why. I asked how." her "You told her. You're never supposed to tell her."

him "Tell her what?"

her "You told her you liked her. You just came out and said it."

him "Of course I told her. I'm bored of all the bullshit. The waiting, the teasing, pretending not to care. I liked her. I told her. What the fuck is wrong with that?"

her "Everything. It goes against nature."

him "Nature? Fuck you. This isn't a fucking Friends rerun. If I like someone I should be able to tell them. It's honest. It's being upfront. It's not insulting someone by feigning disinterest and ignoring them. It's not pandering to some stupid and primitive 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' bullshit.

her "But that's how it works."

him "That wasn't how it worked with us."

her "And now there is no us."

He looked at the whisky glass and took a small sip. It didn't burn enough, so he gulped and felt the fire at the bottom of his throat and the sting of tears.

him "No. There isn't."

her "You have to learn to play the game. Be selfish."

him "It's not a game."

her "It is."

him "It shouldn't be."

her "That doesn't matter."

him "It does. It's who I am. It's a matter of principle."

her "Principle? You're not going to get laid because of principle? You're going to be alone for the rest of your life because you disagree with the unwritten rules of dating?"

him "Yes. Because it's got to work out. Eventually."

her "That's what you said about her. "

He closed his eyes and held the empty glass to his forehead.

her "You just don't get it."

bus ii

The bus stopped and he raised his head. He'd not been asleep, just dreaming. The sign outside said Tulsa. He smacked his lips and grimaced at the taste. Maybe he had been sleeping. Maybe his dreams led him to sleep. He knew it should be the other way around. With the punch of pistons the door opened. He watched folks get off. Some walked around, stretching their legs, others grabbed their bags and wandered towards the terminal. He closed his eyes again but could not sleep or dream without the engine's hum.

drawing room.

Why? The word echoed through the room until drowned out by the snaps and pops of wet logs on the fire.

He had no answer and instead looked out the window. Beyond the glass the forest allowed no light. Mere hints of green, faded, consumed by grey and black revealed nothing to him. The dark hint of the forest blurred and his reflection sharpened. He squinted, taking a moment to recognise himself.

He could not say. Because he did not know.

bus

In his mind, the girl was there. She stuck her tongue out and thumbed her nose at him, face scrunched and mocking. He responded with crossed eyes, flared nostrils and bared teeth. Her face unscrunched, taken by giggles. The bus pulled away and he waved at her from the back seat. She waved back and rode her bike in the other direction.

There was nothing out the window but the road disappearing. With his index finger he drew invisible pictures against the glass. Surreal scenes against the backdrop of the great empty space surrounding him and the vessel that carried him.

He forgot where he was going.

The girl was over a thousand miles ago.

after the horns (later, after the beginning)

He felt the air cling to him as soon as he entered the room. It enveloped him, tendrils of swimming smoke, filling his mouth and nostrils. A cough grew in the base of his throat. He held it there as his eyes started to water. Behind the perfumed tobacco and sickly lamp oil lingered stale beer, rotgut gin and the foulness of the unwashed. Some eyes turned to him, none with interest. He walked to the bar, eyes red and throat raw.

part of something else.

She clicked her heels three times and nothing happened. The trees scattered in every direction, filtering the sun from above, splitting the light into needles and pins. They danced across the forest floor in the breeze, highlighting the fallen leaves, moss, twigs other bits that made up the tree's carpet. The breeze did not touch her; the trees took it all for themselves. For her the air was soft, comforting. She took two steps and looked around again. No different. The same trees, still scattered. A deep breath, a smile, and she stepped forward again, walking among the dancing needles of light and murmuring trees in their gentle breeze.

rain dog

Everything is wet. Clouds sit low, pouring out their innards towards earth, never to empty. The rain falls, not in drops, but in a continuous stream, like a morning shower. Everything is heavy.

The lab sniffs at the edge of a puddle, eyes on the perpetual ripples left by the torrent. Her hair's matted to her body, shining in the dreich light. She laps briefly at the murky, disturbed water and backs away. She's alone on the road. The hedgerow on either side glistens under the downpour. She trots off, a streak of black against the grey, seeking shelter and food.

A beginning.

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.

beach i

He wiggled his toes in the sand, feeling the cool grains slide between them. His clothes smelled of bonfire, his hands streaked with coal. The sea sat still. She walked among the rocks the tide revealed, stepping lightly, eyes on her feet then back to the horizon. Once or twice she looked back to the beach, to where he sat.

His eyes watched her, and nothing else.

Night walk.

The cat walked along the sidewalk. It was fast, but not obviously so. Once in awhile its eyes caught a streetlight and flashed with emerald luminescence. It was not hurrying, but it was fast.

It traversed the large ficus roots that tore through the sidewalk in front of the abandoned school without bother. The leaves above whispered in the warm breeze. Once in awhile the cat stopped to peer through the link fence, into the awkward grass. Whatever caught its attention did not keep it long, and once again the cat walked.

The man was not hurrying, nor was he fast. He staggered along the sidewalk. He thought the street empty.

The cat saw him before he saw the cat. It stopped, its back to the fence. The moon emerged and cast its pale light on them both. The man paused, knowing he was watched. He looked down and saw the green lanterns appraising him, curious.

He smiled. The street was not empty. He crouched, with difficulty, and held his empty hand towards the looking lanterns.

The cat sniffed and then walked towards the hand. It dragged its whiskers and face against the outstretched fingers. From the earth came a purr.

The man smiled and spoke, slurring the evening and his life to the small feline that rubbed its face against his hand. He wept, tears ran down his cheeks but still he spoke and smiled and still the cat purred. Once in awhile the cat would stop and look at him. He would stop as well, his smile fade. A small meow and once again the routine would begin, the story of his life continue, the weight of the past pressing against him.

From the awkward grass came a noise. They stopped. The cat looked away towards the grass. The man held his breath. He stood, unsteady, and watched.

The cat walked along the sidewalk. It did not hurry, but it was fast.

a piece of morning

Morning approached with a sliver of silver over the trees. They looked at it and drank, their words spoken quietly, to no one in particular, to all of them, hushed but lyrical and somehow in tune with the growing birdsong that surrounded them. They sat on damp steps and felt no cold. Between words the silence filled the gaps and the birds seemed quieter. The wine went down bitter and sweet. The occasional beer bottle popped and hissed. A few said they needed their beds, but did not move. Couples snuggled close, some for the first time. The sliver of silver grew, pushing back the sack cloth. With the light came more birdsong and the buzz of all things waking.

Some fell asleep before the sun, some afterwards, all in the new morning, their glasses and bottles half full.

in the middle of something

She looked at him. Her brows crinkled slightly, her eyes a question. They didn't speak. She pushed her hair back and brought her knees up under her chin, stocking feet slipping between the cushion of the couch. He saw a small hole on the left shin of her jeans. He thought it an odd place for a hole. He thought of her stocking feet getting dirty in whatever mess had gathered between the natty cushions on the sofa. He looked from where her feet disappeared at her ankles to the hole in her jeans and back again. The mug in his hands was cold. Her mug sat on the floor next to the couch, empty. For a moment his eyes slipped up to hers. They hadn't moved. They asked still. Noise filtered through from the rest of the flat, an awkward soundtrack.

She spoke. "So."

He sighed, and regretted it. He put the cold mug down next to hers. "So."

He looked at her.

The Tree (a work in progress)

James poured the boiling water into the mug with the picture of a gorilla and squeezed the teabag with the back of a small spoon. Dark clouds swirled and spread from the bag throughout the steaming water, permeating it. He stared at this progression without thought. He stirred and then let go of the spoon, reaching for the handle of the fridge. The doorbell rang, a single chime. The noise dragged him from the routine. He paused, working out where he was and where the noise came from. It took a second. His shoulder brushed a painting on the wall of the narrow hallway as he walked to the font door. A floorboard groaned as he leaned forward to look through the window. The door creaked.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

James tried to sound irritated. He succeeded. There stood in front of him a small group of people of varying ages. They looked indignant. The foremost of them, a young lady in torn jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and one of those neon yellow cycle waistcoats, seemed to be the leader.

The waistcoat irked James.

It was 1030 on a sunny Saturday morning.

She cleared her throat and fixed her eyes to his. He held his breath. She was striking. Her face was sharp, hawk-like, offset by large, ghostly blue eyes and framed by cropped raven black hair.

"We're here about the tree."