thoughts, facts, fictions; anything other than what I should be doing
by richard w h bray
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.
Mist and rain. Shapes appear and fade in the middle distance. Everything is muffled. The only echo is silence. It is a dream, or the memory of a dream. The damp stone pier shines with the dull reflection of the cloud and mist around. The water laps it gently, without rancor, deceiving, hiding its size, the vastness of sea that stretches out beyond the haar that clings to its calm surface. The walker heads to the end of the pier, looks out to the mist and sees what he wants - there is nothing else to see.
The girl stared at the glass for a moment before picking it up by the stem and lifting it to her lips. She sipped it with a kiss. A light smear of lipstick remained on the glass as she set it on the table. Her eyes flickered for a moment, but locked on him again. He saw the flicker. He wasn't meant to, but he saw it and he felt himself slipping. He read everything into it, everything that was there and wasn't. He saw the night disappear. He gripped his bottle of beer and swallowed. His eyes shut for a moment.
She watched him and sipped with a kiss again.
Her eyes didn't flicker a second time.
She hummed to herself. No tune in particular, just the odd snippet of melody. Her own personal soundtrack. Sometimes it turned to a whistle. The trail turned north and then east with the wind gentle from the west, lightly pressing her back and tussling her dark hair around the sides of her face. She shoved her hands in her pockets. The air hummed back with a cacophony of countryside sounds. The rustle of hedgerow, the waves of grain, the scurry of small things and the odd bird call gave her a backing track. Her beat up trainers kicked the odd pebble into the tall grass. The wind calmed and the sun emerged from behind the perfect cotton ball cloud. She took her hands out of her pockets and tied her jumper around her waist. She kept humming and whistling.
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.
Tendrils of windswept sand snaked towards the waiting sea. There was no surf, just ripples and rivulets streaked across the steel blue, pushing back against itself. The tide advanced in spite of the wind. It crept up, filling the small canyons in the sand that it left in its last retreat.
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.
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.
He was thirsty, but the water wasn't wet enough.He drank and drank. His mouth was sandpaper still. His skin felt brittle. It could crack with a touch. His eyelids scraped his eyes with every blink. He winced at nothing. He winced at anything.
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.
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.
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.
Bong? No thanks, I've already eaten.
Huh?
Nevermind.
The room shudders and swims a bit. She walks towards the stairs and takes a seat on the lower steps. A small sip from her plastic cup. Warm lager. A grimace follows.
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.
The guitar player speaks the lyrics in a whisper that fades in and out. The snap and crackle of the bonfire drowns his voice, but not the chords. They're not perfect. A string missed, here and there. He stops and picks up the whisky bottle. They all look at him as he swigs. They speak in hushed whispers when they speak at all. Mostly they stare at the fire and drink. Once in awhile someone will add a log, or a discarded piece of furniture.
Some wander towards the sea, to skip stones on the flat, black water or sit on the cool rocks, away from the heat and ubiquitous sand.
They stay as long as the booze lasts, and sometimes the sun joins them.
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.
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.
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.
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 sun's rays caught the dust in the gallery. It looked like mist, not light. He stepped and watched the particles' eddies and currents swirl, affected by his movement for only a moment before taking their own course once again. -------
The vivid horizon stood crisp against the sky, the hills and peaks sharp, the cumuli perfect. The middle distance was hazy, wrinkled with heat and lazy dust and the odd flotsam in the air that floats indefinitely throughout summer in the country.