thoughts, facts, fictions; anything other than what I should be doing
by richard w h bray
The rock is layered.The rock is jagged. It breaks through the soil. It cuts down to the sea. The turquoise sea That takes the light From the sun And makes it different.
The vines cling Perilously To the rock. Their roots dig deep Searching Splitting Shattering Rock and soil, Looking for water.
The homes cling Perilously To the Rock. They become villages. Right down to the sea.
The stone sits, Set on rock. Perpendicular. Layers upon layers. Ochre, purple, Obsidian Pale.
Morning and evening are coloured with pastels.The sea, the clouds, the hills and mountains. And the sun. Sometimes faded, sometimes intense. But always pastel. Always vibrant. Never wanting.
The fog settles and all falls silent, hushed, reluctant to disturb the tendrils of mist. She softens her step, aware of the swollen quiet, unwilling to end it. There is the odd noise but never an echo, never resonance, never the expectation of an answer. The odd chirp, snap of a twig, rustle of a leaf, gurgle of a stream - they linger disembodied in the air, adding to the quiet and never breaking it.
She cannot remember how she got here. The fireplace and friends around it, the warm house and bustling kitchen are all obscured by the fog and the memory of their laughter silenced by it. It may have been minutes ago or hours.
Looking behind, from whence she came, she seeks a glow in the haze, the hint of a lit window or of a building.
Something.
But there is just the path, lined with hedgreow, and the odd shadow of a branch hinting at the trees obscured by the opaque vapour.
His room lay in disarray, clothes strewn here and there. Mail - opened and unopened - on the floor just to the right of the door. The curtains let a weak beam of the grey daylight through, sucking the colour from everything it touched. It wasn't so much illumination as it was a source of contrast against the darkness. He saw the jumper amidst a pile of others atop his unmade bed. It was black and thick-knit. Bobbles of wool clung from the elbows down to the cuffs. The turtleneck still had the indent from her chin.
He lifted it delicately, as if not to wake it, by the shoulders. The turtleneck fell forward, empty. He held the indent to his nose and closed his eyes, drawing in the air. His eyes stung and a torrent of bittersweet memories flooded back. Her scent remained and for that moment she was there.
Just for that moment.
He balls his hands into fists and plunges them deep into his pockets. His thumb rubs the knuckle of his index finger, desperate for some heat to come from the friction. The cold brings tears to his eyes. The mist of his breath lingers - there's no breeze to blow it away. When he inhales he can feel the tendrils of frigid air as they touch every corner of his lungs. His scarf is tight. He hopes it stays that way. He looks towards the end of the wooded trail and there is nothing.
The tears fall down his cheek.
He leaves them.
He won't take his hands out of his pocket.
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.
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."
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.
He hears.His breath. His heart. His blood, pounding his temples. He hears.
He does not see. His eyes are shut.
Behind them. Behind his breath. Behind his heart. Behind his blood, pounding his temples. Behind them she speaks.
And he does not want to hear.
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.
The smell of pine and summer dustThe sound of hooves The bird's call The birds answer The trumpet sounds He runs