Tag: prose

As I draw open the curtains the morning light streams inside to warm and welcome. Yet it also highlights those grubby stains on the window and the haze of dust rising from the photo frames on the shelf. I watch those particles float and swirl around my memories, a universe borne from trapped moments in time.

I do not care for photographs. They are a stage of mimes, forced smiles cringing for the click. However, to welcome visitors photographs are obligatory, a sign of social inclusion and sharing of emotion, of happy times when all is pretty, porcelain dolls with emotions painted by a fine-tipped brush. My life is divulged in sweeping strokes on a plank of wood. Embraces, feigned laughter, snapshots of birthday cakes with frozen icing all mimic events long gone and mostly forgotten. My family and friends stand shoulder to shoulder like troops on display; ever regimented, never moving. I seldom cast my eye upon them, preferring instead to live in the present. Memories can bring smiles but not all.

There is a place my eye cannot see. It’s in the corner, shrouded in shadow. As my vision roams my pulse quickens and my fingers begin to quake. This is a memory locked away in the past. Why then is it not torn up or burned or cast away? If the Native Americans were right and a picture traps the soul then these two little spirits must never be harmed. Neither can they be diminished to the realms of darkness where all forced-forgettories become abandoned. It is only when I am brave and the fight yearns to be free do I glance from the corner of my eye. And what I see startles me.

They say the lens of our eye curves light to create an upside-down image. Everything we see is actually inverted. Our brain solves this issue by reversing the picture so all is well again. Just imagine – everyone we know is the opposite of what we see. The pictures on my shelf stand to attention with heads held high but from the corner of my eye, those two little souls remain inverted. Do the laws of physics refuse to enter that sacred, sorrowful spot? Has the Almighty reversed them to shield my pain? Or simply has my brain said No, best leave them to the nether world where I cannot venture and none can taint. For if reality is the right-way-up then those two little souls should rest in the upside-down; separate, lost yet found, and forever untainted by this cruel reality.

I stride through the dust and twist the fabric in my fingers. The curtains draw shut and the light disappears along with the memories of all worlds.

Cocooned within my duvet while the morning night refuses to dispel, I slide further in as the frost bites my ears. I’m between that sub-conscious state of space and place where only dreamy figures glide and slide. They try to breach my precious shell, ghosts of a former life scratching their fingers like icicles against my heart. I clamp my knees together and drag them to my chest. My womb is secure, I say. All safe inside. But they keep on scratching.

My eyes squeeze shut until they become fully open. There she is, lying on the cold side of the bed. A blonde wavy mass is swept back by a wicked smile. She bites her lip. A white fang leaves a trail of ruby red delight and my lungs hang for an eternity. She curls her finger and beckons me to her. It is all I want, all I have ever wanted, and she is here and she is now.

Yet as I rip away my shield I pause. The strands of her sandy mane are a trifle too yellow. Those radiant cheeks that beg to be smothered in kisses shine like the wax of a mannequin. The single nail that commands me to her is filed to a sharp point. One slip and it would draw blood. So I stay cocooned, safe yet sorry.

Her sapphire soul suddenly breaks its window and her fingers ball into a fist. All the warmth of promised love flows to the floor leaving a creature of unforgiving frost. The temperature plummets and I hug my knees to my chin, begging for the heat of sweet-salty sweat to return and not this torrid pool of slush. The banshee erupts and I cover my ears as the howl of a winter’s storm pierces me with a thousand shards. Blonde locks fade to black, glassy blue to hoarfrost white, rosy now redundant. She rises into the air and I scream as her icy breath blasts my face.

Only one escape now.

My frozen fingers threaten to snap as I drag the duvet up. The torment becomes muffled as I reach my inner sanctum. All is dark here. No light of the past can invade. No longer can I hear the living or the dead trapped within my self-made tomb. No one can impose my fortress of solitude tucked safe within the tundra of existence. Yet hard as I try I cannot smile for I know that if the tears would dare to flow they would forever fall as icy drops upon my breast.

The dull coral hue of the candle stands frozen in time. Its cinnamon scent burns my tongue like a brandy ball stolen from a sweetie jar. I trace the contours of the solidified wax clasped as waves within the glass. The smooth opacity is crudely overgrown by rough rubber and as the tips of my fingers dig in they are unable to pierce the unyielding resin.

I pull away as I hear the crackle of the wick is lit. The flame seems dull at first. But then the lemon fire is kissed by a tiger with sapphire eyes and the fire breathes, the heat lashing at the bristles of my beard as it licks my face. The tangy sweetness pervades my throat as the wax wakes from its cocoon to produce a pool of fervent fuel.

The tiger spits and roars trying to escape its cage, thrashing upwards in defiance. Its heat claws at my skin making me retreat. I stand in awe of nature’s raw urgency to live and consume simultaneously.

When at last the tiger whimpers as its final meal is devoured its life force withers, its ferocity falters, its heat dampens, and its roar stills. What was once a living beast dies and its ashes topple into a pool of sludge. But its smell still clings to my clothes never to be fully forgotten.

The bare bulbs studded around the mirror pervaded the gloom with their mellow light. Some had popped, the glass kicked under the table to join split red noses and a ripped green wig.

The mirror was cracked in the middle. Distorted reflections of the inner tent revealed discarded baggy bottoms dumped over buckets of confetti. The aroma of fresh popcorn had soured with the stale stench of tobacco.

An open bottle of cheap vodka overpowered the manure from the elephants outside. Their trumpeting merged with the roar of the lions but both beasts’ cries could not penetrate this space. Ripped Polaroids of the children straddling Tina’s back dangled from the moulded fabric of the tent. The jars of make-up once held a rainbow of colours but now resembled a quagmire.

The entrance flipped open and in staggered Coco. He belched and dragged the chair back to drop and sit.

Another afternoon. Another show.

And the show must go on.