I enjoy using the scanner

I like to entertain the idea that one day when I’m dead and gone with pages of my work lining my coffin because there are just so many of them, somebody will find my box of notebooks and try to work out what I was like. This is made especially perfect if I die in some tragic accident or suicide because I’m just too famous. Ah me.

But then I remember my notebooks look like this.

Oh and I am reading Dead Souls by Gogol. I was originally interested in a Slavonic studies course at uni. I decided to learn Italian instead of Russian though. Although I suppose I could always take it up next year. Oh, oh, oh if I took Russian, I already have French and I could do revolutions in History and I would be so awesomely pointless. The book is really quite good and at times surprisingly hilarious what with the mention of breasts ‘like I’ve never seen before’.

Two is the beginning of the end

There once was a little girl who was called Anastasia because she didn’t like the name her parents had given her. Anastasia wore the same teal dress everyday except Sunday when her mother stole it in the early hours of the morning and hid it inside the bowels of the washing machine. Anastasia believed it had once been a flapper dress and she spent long periods of time in front of the mirror, scraping her hair back to frame her face. She tried to cut her own curling layers around her cheeks but she couldn’t get them to sit right and her mother had been mad.

“Katie,” she sighed for that was the little girl’s name. Her mother never indulged her daughter’s preferences. “You can’t cut your own hair.”

“Why not?” She pouted over the offending strands in the woman’s palm. She had hidden them so well, behind the sofa where the cat slept. How had she found them?

“Think of all the poor hairdressers you’d put out of a job. They don’t even cut their own hair, they have other hairdressers to do that. You like Linda don’t you?”

Linda was the hairdresser down the road. Anastasia liked Linda very much. She always made sure there was a red lollypop lurking in the plastic bowlful for her.

“You don’t want her to be homeless like Kevin do you?”

Kevin was the young boy they saw outside the supermarket sometimes. He always had a smile and joke for Anastasia and Anastasia always gave him one of the five pences her granny sent her every week. She didn’t think Linda with her pretty nails would like to sit next to him so she backed down and handed the scissors over.

Merrily, merrily, merrily life is but

The bathroom is ship themed. The tiles that line the bottom half other walls are a swirly ocean blue. The curtains show ships and compasses and waves. It’s easy to dream in a setting that assaults me with its identity. And so my ship is made of white porcelain with dark brown panels. The water is still hot and bobs gently over my breasts. I slip further down and bring my knees up into the cold. I leave them out until they begin to shiver before sloshing back down, letting the warmth seep back. I long for the sea breeze against my skin. It’s a familiar longing that makes my skin crawl with inactivity. The water’s hitting my earlobes now. I cup my hands over my ears to make the radio a dull echo. The bathwater is still disturbed from my last movement and this new one creates a tide. The steady beat of my heart mimics the persistent sway and I close my eyes for a little moment of existentialism. I slide even further and wonder if I could open my eyes submerged. If I could block out everything but the stream of bubbles from my nose and just live, do nothing more. I almost chicken out as my bottom lip hits the surface but then I take a deep breath and dive.

Moments later I’m up spluttering water and spit down my chin. Water and I don’t mix well. The oily resistance of my fears force me to the top again and again. My drowning expedition has shattered all illusions. I am now bored stewing in cool water and a cleaning shift’s worth of dirt. I rinse my hair and lethargically step out of the bath. Wrapped up tight in the big fluffy towel I enjoy the last few moments I have shut up in this small space before the routine of endless moisturising must begin. The gurgle of the drain heralds the end and I reluctantly shuffle into the cold hall, leaving behind the steamy residue of my unfulfilled need.

Ísland

I was four
and one
quarter
with a thick
fringe of
dark hair
and a penchant
for cars
and cheesecake.
My favourite
top
was a red jumper
with a big white
cat face.
It had a button nose
and stripey
black
whiskers.
I wouldn’t make
the connection
between
my name
and the animal
until I was
sixteen
and three
quarters
with a
lazy boyfriend
but that’s
another
story.
We were on holiday.
My dad with his camera,
my mum: swollen bellied
and I.
We went to the moon.
Snow piled up high
above my head
I wanted to
dive
bury
drown
in all that cold.
Our car was
stranded
half in the
Arctic
half in
space.
Rocks and
dust
billowed out behind
traffic, those
family-sized
tanks with
four-wheel
drives
filled with
white
white
people
in thick
jumpers,
their platinum
halos swaddled
in wool.
I saw the
earth reject
the sea in
a boiling hiss
of a kettle
fountain.
Held my
daddy’s hand
and screamed
as the
water met the
sky
and formed
its own
clouds.
I sat in
a
bath of rocks
and mud
smoking hot
steaming my eyes
scared the earth
would reject me
too.
I ate
ice-cream
encased in
a chocolate
shell.
An innovation
of deserts
but not
as good
as room service
cheesecake.
Can we go back
to the hotel?
Pressing my
ear
to my mother’s
belly,
sticky fingers
tangled
in her
curly hair,
I talked
because I
never could
be quiet
back then
when I was
only
single
unique.
I told my sister what she was missing
blind in her cave
separate from the
landscapes
that pervade
my imagination
still.
I told my father he was silly
pointing his black box
at my face
and asking me to talk
when I had never
stopped
and he knew
I was
Catherine
Mhairi
Smith
and he knew I was
four
and
one
quarter
and we
were on
the moon.
He knew this
but he wanted me
to say it anyway.
All I told my mother
was
I want
I want
I want
until
I got.
And the sun
never set
on the
surface of
the moon.
I know
it’s true
because
I told me so
when I was
four
and one
quarter,
spoilt
rotten
replayed
on a
tv screen.

Oh no I have written a poem, don’t look and maybe it will go away.

Death
lights a cigarette
and stares at a
page
of her
regrets, listed
from missed
opportunities
to
actions
beyond
words.
She pulls the fingers of
her gloves
and taps
a passing
waitress on
the shoulder.
“Dad keeps the
gun
in the top
left
drawer.
Bullets
are with his
socks.
Aim straight.”
The coffee
is cold
and the sugar
stale
and Death has places
to be. But
first
a word
in the ear
of a busy
ness man.
“How many flights
high
does it take
to break
every bone
in your body?”
The cigarette
crumples
Death’s regrets
into a pile of
ash and
ink.
There’s too much
to do,
too much
to be.
Death is
a
creator. She makes
the present
the past
by looking
to the
future.
An old man trudges,
worn out by
the day.
Death takes his
arm.
“Why not sleep?
Imagine night
eternal.”
The page
now gone
and
so
the list is
scrambled.
‘dropped a kitten’
is up there with
‘broke his
heart’
but there’s
no time to dwell,
to reassemble
reassess
reassert the belief
that memory
holds no sway.
There’s a kid
loitering
by a car
waiting
for the coast to
clear. Death
has a key.
“Have you ever
wanted to
outrun the wind?”
Her biggest regret
needs no
order
to be
remembered.
She puffs away
considering
the ash that
blows with the
dirt
and the
sweat
and the
frustration
and the
hope.
The hope that
there will
be a
tomorrow
much like
today.
A series
of tomorrows
just like
today.
A mother
pushes a pram,
coos at a baby,
smiles at her
man,
laughs
with her
son who plays
with his dog.
Death
walks by,
wrapped in
old regret,
and
lights
another
cigarette.

Digging for fire (now with added rest of story)

Her skinny wrists were bulked up by a mass of bracelets and bangles. Tacky plastic and beads that shimmered like sunlight and rustled like leaves. Her hair was artificially darkened to the same kohl black as her eyeliner and her nails were chipped pink. I didn’t catch her name. It might have been Lorna or Laura or Lauren but it could just as easily have been Megan. Her smile was too wide, that was the first thing I noticed about her. It was too wide and her cheekbones were too high and her eyes got lost in all that mirth despite the carefully applied make-up to widen them. I want her eyes to be blue but I suspect they were brown. It’s a shame really if they were blue she’d look just like another girl I used to know. The resemblance would be uncanny.

She stared through the middle of us and thanked someone distractedly when a glass was placed in front of her. Long fingers twisted her bangles round her arm, first one way then the other, bringing attention to the prominent bones in her wrist. She didn’t say much. Smiled too wide and confirmed stories now and then when the guy next to her turned too excitedly. I couldn’t work out if they were a couple until he brushed his mouth along her forehead as he got up to buy another round. I shuffled along the bench towards her. I wasn’t sure if I’d have another chance to speak to her.

“I’m going to marry you one day.”

“Oh,” she wrapped her fingers one by one around a particularly large bangle. “That’s really sweet.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” her mouth was surprisingly small for such a wide smile I noticed as she let the smallest laugh slip from her throat. I pulled off the label from my bottle of beer and twisted it into a ring. As I slid it along the correct bony finger I stared her dead in her not-blue eyes.

“I’ll come back for you. Will you wait for me?”

She stared over my shoulder at her boyfriend struggling to carry too many glasses and shrugged her arms until her hands pushed a space between her thighs.

“Maybe,” she pulled one of her bracelets apart. It was one of those magnetic strings. It went around her wrist about five times. I watched her pull it off and click it back on but I didn’t count how many times she did this. Beer spilled over the table as her boyfriend slammed four pints down hard and I took the bracelet from her and twirled it round my own wrist.

“Maybe it is then,’ and I clapped the other man on the back as he sat down and brushed his mouth against her cheek with a look I couldn’t help but think was a warning to me. I lost myself in the crowd of the dancefloor on my way back to my own group of drunks. There was a smear of pink nail polish on one of the magnetic beads, marring the silvery black sheen. I wondered if it smelt like her perfume or her sweat or her shampoo. It was too cheesy a motion so I didn’t bother bringing it up to my nose. Maybe I’d try it later, maybe I wouldn’t.

“Bit of a bold accessory. Didn’t think you were the type,” Steve snorted as I approached and snatched the beer from his hand. Steve was my brother.

“What type would that be?” The beer was warm and my tongue wormed out between my teeth. He let me finish it before he bothered to answer. He never answers you immediately but waits until he knows he has your undivided attention.

“The fag type,” he grinned to show he wasn’t being a total ass but the truth is Steve is an ass.

“I stole it off a girl.”

“Hot?”

“Cute.”

“Pedo.” He left with this remark reverberating in my jeans and his friends pushed shot glasses into my hands. The burning liquid made me invincible. Steve returned with three goddesses adorned with glow sticks and make-up that smeared onto my skin with their sweat as the five of us writhed on the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of black hair pressed against a chest. Her eyes found mine and she paused for just a moment but I lost her with the swell of a new song. It didn’t matter. I knew she wasn’t going anywhere yet. I turned my attention to the blonde on my belt loops instead. There was still a lot of night to go.

I found her sitting on the steps waiting for a taxi. Her skinny arms shivered between her thighs and her thumbs were looped in the back of her boots. I flopped down beside her and she acknowledged me with a sniff. I draped my coat around her shoulders and kissed her hair. She slid her hand into mine and squeezed my knuckles together.

“I’m not the marrying type,” she practically whispered.

“Neither am I. Ever eloped with someone before?”

“Just the once,” she smiled at her toes. I pushed her back so she was almost lying down the steps and I kissed her red mouth. “Engagements are a lot more interesting,” she concluded to my chin. She was stolen out from under me and dragged forcefully into the waiting taxi. Her smile filled the back window as a fist grazed my cheek and I fell to the ground wailing and screaming that my nose was broken.

“Bastard! My photoshoot’s tomorrow! You’ve ruined my career!” I rolled around, clutching my face and crying about how beautiful it had been. He stood over me, with his neck craned to catch sight of my nose. He didn’t believe me yet. I screamed, kicking my heels into the ground. “My boyfriend’s gonna have a fit! I’m not witty enough to be ugly! Oh, how could you, how could you.”

Between my fingers I could see her step out of the taxi and try to tug her boyfriend away but he wouldn’t move. The bouncers had seen me before so they took the time to share a cigarette. I was gathering a crowd of smokers in fact, blowing ash down on me and wondering what would happen next. What did happen next went far better than I planned. This was the moment my brother fell out the door having lost his minor harem and most of his friends. He rushed to my side and knocked a tooth out of my adversary. I leapt up before he could do any more damage and kissed his cheek.

“Come on baby. He’s not worth it.” It was enough to disperse the majority of onlookers and sent the happy couple back into their taxi. She didn’t look at me until they were both strapped in. As I staggered down the street with my brother suspicious at arm’s length she rolled down her window and shouted in my direction. It might have been something like I could keep her bracelet or it had been a nice engagement while it lasted but it could just have easily been something like freak or fag. I can’t decide which I’d rather she said.

Don’t let me be misunderstood

Maria blinked several times to check she was really awake but the sun glaring through the open window was sadly real. She wondered where her curtains were but the search for a watch became more important. Without knowing the time she didn’t know how to react to anything else. She couldn’t find the elusive ticking accessory so she decided it was time to get up on her own accord. Warily Maria checked everything was in order. Sitting up didn’t make her head spin, yawning didn’t make her gag and the thought of starting the day didn’t make her want to curl back up in bed. She came to the sound conclusion that she was in fact not hungover. With a smug smile directed towards nobody in particular her toes winced to support her weight on the cold floorboards and she padded heavily to the kitchen. Habit made her overlook the man snoring on her couch.

She drummed her fingers on the worktop not quite to the same tune as the hum of the kettle as it boiled. She smiled into the muddy pile of coffee waiting to dissolve as she swung her hips a little and thought of dancing with strangers. She bit her lip as she thought of kissing strangers. She jerked the boiling water onto the floor as she thought of burglars with the sound of footsteps coming up behind her. Brandishing the half-empty kettle she spun on her heels to face a man she couldn’t place. He held up his hands in surrender and grinned with half of his mouth.

“You said I could crash.” He took a step further into the room and Maria’s spine curved around the worktop behind her. What should have been her morning coffee seeped into her thin tshirt. He laughed a little. “I’m Steph’s brother.” The kettle drooped towards her knees and she crossed the kitchen floor to hit him on the shoulder.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that.” The other side of his face joined in on the smile. “Where is Steph anyway?” Maria looked around as if her friend might appear and confirm his claim.

He shrugged sheepishly and stared pointedly at her mug. Conscious of being watched she tried to rearrange her kitchen and make more coffee unflustered. She tugged at the bottom of her shorts and wished she’d worn something longer. A surreptitious scratch of a thigh reassured her that shaving her legs late on in the previous day had paid off. Stretching her arms she tried to brush away the visibility of her nipples and wished the man behind her would go away or say something so she wouldn’t have to. Silently they watched the kettle boil, listened to the whumph of the sugar hitting the liquid and the clang of spoons hitting china. Grunts of thankfulness guided them down the hall to the livingroom but couldn’t develop into anything more. Her belly rumbled, her throat clicked and her thighs stuck to the leather of the couch. They slurped and sighed and coughed and as Maria watched her sugary spit form oily puddles on the surface of the coffee she didn’t notice the state of the room. The blinds had been pulled down, a sheet covered every other piece of furniture and strips of wallpaper curled and drooped from ceiling to floor. She didn’t notice this because her friend’s brother kept adjusting his position beside her. At first she supposed he was just uncomfortable or restless but she couldn’t help noting that every time he sat still again he was just a little bit closer to her thighs.

The clack of the key in the door brought Steph home and a welcome bustle of noise and chatter into the flat. Bags rustled as she called out a story about the weather and an old woman. As Maria twisted her neck to catch a glimpse of her friend she was convinced she felt his fingers caress the hem of her shorts but when she turned back his hands were wrapped around his mug and he was smiling above her head.

“Did you get everything you needed?”

Steph raised three fat shopping bags high and winked at her brother. They both emptied their hands and lifted Maria up together. They dropped her outside the front door and shut it tight on her wide eyes.

“I need to redecorate your apartment,” Steph explained through the locked wood.

Maria bumped her head against the door and strained to listen over her jumping heartbeat to hear the clatter and swish of her home turned upside down. She blinked several times to check she was really awake but the sun shining through the window in the hallway was sadly real.

“What?” was all she could muster before she sank to the doormat, swirled the last mouthful of coffee around the bottom of the cup and wondered where her watch might be hiding.

Please make a fool of yourself after the beep

The pauses between the tinny ringing in my ears is enough time for me to forget how to breathe. Please pick up is a heartbeat of panic. Please pick up. Please pick up. Please

“Hello?”

Thank every fucking god up there. It’s not a machine. If I screw up it won’t be recorded.

“Hi!”

Too enthusiastic. Pull yourself back girl.

“It’s me. Kirstie. It’s Kirstie.”

Clear your throat over that sigh. He could be tired. It could be the wind. A big ol’ breeze. Keep going.

“You didn’t call back so I thought maybe you didn’t get my message and then you didn’t answer your mobile and I hate to pester you at work. I mean I know you’re busy and I know, I know I shouldn’t be calling but I”

“What do you want?”

You. All I ever wanted was you. I mean how can one person think everything is fine and another not. How can it be so easy just to wake up one morning and think no. How

“I umm. I left a book at your place. You didn’t return it and it wasn’t mine you see.”

“What book?”

“It was a poetry collection.”

“I don’t read poetry.”

“Oh I know.”

“So why would I have it.”

“I was reading it at yours one time I was over. I looked everywhere for it. Can you check?”

“Sure.”

He’s gonna hang up. He’s gonna hang up. He’s gonna, say something!

“Coffee. If you find it maybe we could go for coffee.”

“I dunno, Kirstie. I don’t-”

He said my name!

“Oh if you’re busy it’s fine. I wasn’t meaning like anytime soon. I’ve got a lot on anyway. I meant you know sometime in the future. Maybe.”

“It’s not that I’m busy. I don’t-”

“Oh shit. I gotta go. You’ll let me know if you find my book right? I should really give it back to my aunt whose book it is. She got it out of the library. She’ll have to pay if I don’t get it back to her.”

“Yeah I’ll look but really I don’t think-”

“Uh huh thanks bye.”

That went well don’t you think. I think it went well.

Maybe I should email him. Just in case he forgets.

Or send him a text, though the signal’s funny in his house. He might not get it.

I’ll email him.

The rhythm of the tapping of the keyboard sounds out please don’t ignore me. Please don’t ignore me. Please don’t

So I finished my incest piece. I don’t hate it.

Gogo sense of achievement.

Teenage kicks

So I wrote this sometime this week and stuffed it under my pillow obviously to sort out the next morning. I’m writing an incest piece at the moment, taking a break from the fanciful frenchie who needs me in a lighter mood to do. I didn’t set out to write incest but that’s what happens. Anyway I think I intended this to be included but it doesn’t fit yet. I apologise for the lazy title but the song is in my head, now you can have it in yours.

With teenage subtlety I arched my back to bring my ass in tighter to his lap as we lay on the couch staring at the tv. He never said a word but stuck his finger in my mouth before it worked its way between my legs. My father always complained of the electricity we wasted by leaving the television on all day and my mother nagged about rotting our brains. We ignored them. We were busy enjoying that secretive edge only kids can know. We fully believed nobody could tell what we were up to under blankets and carefully positioned bodies and so they didn’t know. The important thing was to avoid capture but that was no fun if you didn’t take a few risks. It made winning all the sweeter if there was a high chance of being caught in the first place.

And everything after that is illegible. I must have fallen asleep. I finished reading On the Road and Breakfast of Champions. I’m determined to read good books this summer, really good ones that linger in my head when I’m waiting for a bus or brushing my teeth. Those pieces of literature that just pop up in your life well after reading them. So everybody hope I get a job and then I’ll be able to afford such enlightenment.