đź I am a student of English Literature and Creative Writing. In my spare time I channel my creativity into writing and baking... Or sometimes Iâm curled up in bed with a nice book or a cheesy rom-com dressed in mismatched pjs! đź
đź I am a student of English Literature and Creative Writing. In my spare time I channel my creativity into writing and baking... Or sometimes Iâm curled up in bed with a nice book or a cheesy rom-com dressed in mismatched pjs! đź
âMelissa, wait!â I call out. Her pink suitcase swivels as she turns around to face me. âI donât want you to go to New Jersey with Adam. I want you to stay here, with me.â She takes a deep breath. A crowd of people start gathering at my right, the faint blue glow of âGate 44â hovering above their heads.
âOh, AndyâŚWhy are you only telling me this now?â A man pulling a green suitcase joins the line she should be in.
âI was scared youâd reject meâ
âBut I'm on my way to create a life with Adam. And you want me to give all that away for you. Why?â
âBecause I love you.â
Her face changes, it softens with shock. âYou love me?â
âYes. And I donât care what I need to do to make it right. Iâll talk to Adam if you want me to. Iâll get you your job and apartment and car back. I will. Weâll make it workâ
âOh Andy!â she begins to run towards me. âI ââ
âCUT!â The shrill feedback of the megaphone pierces the moment. The director begins his rant: âNoah, youâre too nervous. Andy is supposed to be poised and confident, heâs positive that Melissa wonât reject him. Jade honey run towards Noah with open arms at the end; Melissa is overjoyed by his confession. I think we should try again.â
Jade turns to me and rolls her eyes. Sparkling green eyes tucked behind her long, red curls. This is why I was nervous. Jade is perfect. The way she laughs, the way she tells jokes. How her heart radiates kindness. This scene where I am Andy and she is Melissa is the closest I will get to confessing for real.
âPOSITIONS!â The director calls. They should really get a new megaphone.
I walk into my spot, every bead of sweat on my body dances as I move opposite Jade.
âACTION!â The megaphone screeches. I try so hard not to quiver.
âMelissa, wait! I donât want you to go to New Jersey with Adam. I want you to stay here, with me.â There is a faint trembling which clings to every word, hopefully the director will think it adds character.
âOh, AndyâŚWhy are you only telling me this now?â She responds with such grace and softness.
âI was scared youâd reject meâ
âBut I'm on my way to create a life with Adam. And you want me to give all that away for you. Why?â
âBecause I love you.â I say so sincerely, the tension lifts of my chest like a dove taking flight.
âYou love me?â She asks.
I imagine that weâre alone now, no airport, no whiney megaphone. Just her and me. I take a deep breath before I respond:
âYes.â
It wasnât completely dark. I could still see the red cups the jocks were drinking out of. The lights of the speaker flashing as the next throwback song started playing. I could tell that people were shuffling into one corner to dance, and in the other corner there was a girl sat all alone. Something about the dim lights made me feel comfortable enough to go talk to her. So, I did.
âOMG, I remember when this song first came out, I was like - 10â I try not to look at her face, just sit myself down beside her.
âYeah same. Life was so much better then. Is it weird Iâve never heard any of her other songs?â
âNope. Cos, I havenât either. But I am more into indie than popâ
âHaha yeah me too. Which artists?â
We spoke about music for a few minutes and when the conversation began to stall, I asked:
âSo, uh, who are you here with?â
âI was here with a friend, but she ran off somewhereâ
âIâm here alone. Though I know the girl who threw the party, she just texted me to come overâ
âIâm not much of a party person or a people person but Beth, my friend dragger me out hereâ
âIâm not a people person either. Theyâre scaryâ
âIâve always struggled with talking to people. I just â I canât do it you know? Like inside I'm this raging, confident talker but when I go up to people I â nothing comes out. I donât even know why I'm telling you this.â
âNo. Itâs fine, Iâm the same. I donât have many friends because of itâ
âAh I get you. I mean, Iâve NEVER been one of those people, even when I was a child, I could never make friends. I couldnât talk to people -â
âYou get sweaty and feel kind of faint. But I think we made friends as kids because we saw those people in class all the timeâ
âYeah thatâs true. This is probably the longest conversation I've ever had with someone I donât know.â
âMhmm me too. Unless like itâs for a job interview or something important like thatâ
âEven that I sit there so anxious that Iâll mess up and I never like, talk to them in a casual bubbly way like every other person seems to be able toâ
âI donât know how I'm ever gonna find love at this rate if I canât even make friendsâ
âHaha YeahâŚâ
I could see Beth waving at her from across the room. And I could feel the girl waving back.
âAh I think she wants to get goingâ She says
âYeah sure. It was nice to talk to youâ
âYou too. See you around. Byeâ
âBye.â I respond in a high voice. I didnât even get her name. Iâd likely never even see her again. But what did I expect that I would actually make a friend? I was kidding myself. I walked back over to the food table.
When the dust had finally settled over the battlefield, The Knight walked across the battered plain, leaving behind him a fresh set of footprints. Between his wounded hands he held an ornated wooden box which clattered slowly with every step forward he took. When he reached the palace, he took a final turn towards the mass of seething soldiers strewn in pieces along the battlefield, drew a whistling breath of relief and entered.
The marble floor was clouded by small streams of blood, fresh from when The Enemies had first invaded. Aside from that, the palace was immaculate. The pillars, proud they had remained untouched, stood tall with dignity. The ballroom curtains were intact. The dining room table was still bearing an abundant meal. Not a single potato was missing. The Knight cleaned his wounds with the alcohol in one of the chalices and helped himself to some stale bread.
He sat in The Queenâs seat. From there he had a great view of roasted pig in the centre. A silver head rose above the pigâs still head. The General removed his helmet tossed his dark hair about and sat in the seat directly opposite.
âWill she? â âThe Knight began,
âShe should be fine,â The General cut him off, âIf they get to The East in time, they can find a healer and save her. Could take months. In the meantime, though we need to do something about thatâ
He pointed at the wooden box next to the salad bowl.
âDo we need to find an heir?â The Knight asked him, stroking the carvings on the boxes lid. âI think she has some cousin living in The West. If our men travel by boat, they can get there by the end of the year.â
âWe have no men.â Then a pause. âAnd what happens when we declare an heir and she comes back? We cannot deal with another war.â
The General pulled a plate from the edge of the table and carefully laid potatoes onto it. The Knight watched with awe at how gently someone who had recently lost everything moved. âI will take this underground.â He gestured to the box; The General looked up from his potato art, âThey donât know that there is an underground. They will come back for it though; they are eager to have our kingdom.â
âAlright then,â The General responded with assurance. âYou can speak to The Royal Guard, but he himself must look after it. Tell him these are direct orders from me.â
The Knight nodded, picked up the wooden box and an apple and walked out of the dining room.
The Knight had decided against meeting The Royal Guard outside. He lacked faith amongst the mangled and battered bodies of his comrades. He would meet him in The Queenâs chambers instead; it was an appropriate place after all. When The Royal Guard finally arrived, The Knight could hardly recognise him. Where there werenât pools of dirt collecting on his face there were shallow cuts, sealed with walls of dried blood. Yet somehow, his bright eyes and high cheekbones still stood out.
âWhat is this about?â He had a deep, rumbling voice.
âI need you to take this undergroundâ The Knight thrust the box out, trying not to seem insecure.
âAnd whatâs in the box?â
The Knight drew a curtain over the lead window. His trembling fingers struggled to turn the key. He opened it a little. A thin, gold string of light escaped from the box. As he opened it wider, the small band of light eventually thickened into a circle. From the top, small branches of gold reached towards the sky but stopped and spread into fibres, bending towards each other. These points were sprinkled with diamonds as if it was sugar. Around the base itself, several carvings danced amongst purple gems.
âOh.â The Royal Guard had noticed there was still a long, glistening blonde hair stuck to the teeth of the crown.
The Knight Closed and locked the box. He slipped the key into The Royal Guardâs soft, unscathed hand. He lowered the box onto his palms as if were a coffin carrying The Queenâs body.
With a voice as bright as molten gold, The Knight commanded: âYou guard this with your life, understand?â
A door opened all of a sudden.
A small stream of light from behind
flowed into the thick darkness.
Smooth, sun-spotted walls ran in circles around me;
but when I reached out there was nothing.
And then â a beam of light! (Blue to wash my nerves away) Sliced the tension into butterflies; fluttering around a cauldron.
This morningâs weather report took me back. I remember the last time three feet of snow was supposed to suffocate the earth.
It was January 16th , last year. I was out, alone with my fatherâs Fiero and a bottle of flavoured vodka, sweet, inebriating strawberry. Iâd had an awful Christmas; my parents and siblings had a colossal argument about nothing serious at all. I was wearing the sweater my mother had knitted for me, hideous pool of black and red swimming around the terrifying image of Krampus. I shuddered whenever I saw myself wearing it.
I had driven to Walmart to waste my Christmas money on spicy crisps, lemonade, Sour Patch Kids and a reduced Yule Log. I threw them all into the back of the trunk when I got out, thatâs where I found the vodka, the pink label drew me in with a sweet song. I found myself carrying it into the driverâs seat.
I opened the bottle, waved it across my nostrils and put it up to my chapped lips. The strawberry taste flowed from my tongue to my throat like a river, it tipped out of my throat to my gut as if a waterfall. I shuddered. âNever againâ I said to myself, I never talk out loud.
I drove uneasily on the way home; the road was framed by naked trees scrambling for modesty in the snow. I made a wrong turn. I was supposed to go right. I hit the brakes, put the car in reverse and rolled back gently. The hairs on my neck shot up when I heard the THUD.
I tipped out of the car immediately after opening the door. I brushed the snow off my knees and the palms of my hands. I begrudgingly moved towards the rear of the car, breathing as clumsily as I was stumbling. Brown, probably leather boots, black denim jeans, knees obscured by a bright green coat with fur on the neck, a small stream of blood seeping into her neat, blonde bun. âOH MY! OH F***! NO!â She was probably a very nice, very pretty person whoâd have run to help me if she had knocked me down.
I force the guilt down my throat. It didnât matter what she was, at that moment, she was a prison sentence for me. I was old enough to be held accountable for being an irresponsible driver, but too young to drink vodka. I would get into trouble with the law, then with my parents, then with the news and finally, random strangers would make harsh judgments about my unfortunate accident. I couldnât let that happen.
I spasmed my head left and right frantically. I found a hollowed-out log, if I dragged the body into there, when the extra three feet of snow fell at 10pm as expected, sheâd be embalmed by a thick layer of freezing security. Sheâd be hidden, never found until the snow eventually thawed. I dragged her by the frayed ankles of her leather boots, and sweating the freezing air, I stuffed her into the log, forcing her further back.
I smoothed the snow over with my un-gloved and bloodied hands. Then, leapt back into my car. I wiped the blood clean off both my hands, dragging the tissue over each finger individually, with the motion of wiping a table, back and forth. Back. I drove out in reverse and made a right turn when I got back onto the road.
The three feet of snow fell earlier than expected at 8pm. I remember seeing sheets of snow falling out of the sky and thinking that getting away with my mistake would be easy. It was. But getting past the guilt wasnât.
They found her body in April. Her name was Alice Marks and she was a PHD student. They eventually declared it a hit and run and ceased the investigation. When it reached the news, we spoke about it once or twice at the dinner table. I was surprisingly good at keeping my secret.
I had forgotten to think about it as fervently as I used to until this morning. I saw what the weather reporter was wearing: a green sweater dress, red barrettes clinging to the loose hairs falling from her blonde messy bun.
Barrettes became blood. Clouded images of stuffing Miss Mark into a tree seeped into my eyes. I canât go out this winter.
âIf only,â I sigh, staring down at my shoes; stained with embarrassment. Once red stilettoes soiled by the obscuring mud, gathered in crowds at the toecap to laugh at my misjudgement.
Whispers of mud settle in footprints on the pavement, a crime scene for those who wish to investigate my failure.
âOh well,â I giggle when we reach the restaurant.
A perfect, purple rug waits to be polluted.
âIf only I had worn the right shoes to jump out of a tree in.â
Weeping; They sit curved in shame Knees pressed to the ground, Palms pressed together. Lips loosened By the sympathetic silence. They beg beneath inculpable breaths To have them. Those promises Their screaming hearts are destined. If only their prayers were more than Mere Whispers on the Wind.
(There is caesura and enjambment here which will help to read it as I would - if you want!)
âYouâre going to ruin your shoes,â He winces, holding a hammer in his soaked fist.
âTheyâre the only ones I have, I donât have any that are waterproof.â His response is overpowered by a fierce crack of thunder. His head whips back, he gestures at the square of wood parallel to my heel. I lean down to pick it up, every step I take closer to him is accompanied by a sucking, squelching noise. I am thankful that the temperamental darkness is obscuring his irritated face. âItâs worse to walk in these,â I tell him. It feels as if my feet are plungers trying to unblock a toilet, the water builds beneath my soles and seeps from the sides of my black, open toe ballerina flats, searching for salvation in the violent storm.
There are bullets of rain and seething swings of lightning filling the space for conversation. Finally, as heâs nailing the upper-right corner of the wooden square over the window frame, he says: âMum and dad have it good on that cruise right now, huh?â
I laugh. âI dunno, theyâre also surrounded by a pool of water,â
âThatâs true,â though âIâd rather be in the ocean than in this storm right nowâ
I move my hands over to the lower left of the wooden board, âYou need to hold it tighter,â he tells me. I move my feet closer to the pieces of shattered glass on the ground, the tips of my toes graze the broken pieces of window strewn around.
Kevin grabs the hammer again, then a nail; he leans forward, breathing deeply as the keeps the hammer hovering opposite the nail. Heâs trying not to be distracted by the cacophony of the storm. He gives a hesitant swing. A bright, enthusiastic bolt of lighting steals his attention; and the small nail is hammered into his index finger. An ironically timed burst of thunder follows, drowning out his profanity; timed to its exit, my numb hand lands between my jaw and cheekbone.
He just turns to look at me, stunned. There are beads of water falling from the tips of his curls, small rivulets flowing in the creases of his trousers; and bright red blood dripping from his impaled finger, all diffusing into the cold, shallow puddle freezing his toes. My cautious fingers curl around the handle of the guilty hammer; I slide it out of his hands into mine. I secure each nail into the exterior wall indifferent to the exigent thunder and lightning; and only turn to him once, to see how his insentient body juxtaposes the droplets of water racing off the sleeves and hood of his jacket.
I wasnât expecting my usual âgood morningâ to be succeeded by a scream, maybe I said it too aggressively? Maybe theyâre looking at me the way I see myself in my phone camera, it is hideous enough to summon a scream. Remember that Ke$ha song where the woman drops the pancakes? Yeah, thatâs exactly what my mother did.
Confused and slightly scared, I ask: âHi! Why are you screaming?â
Everyone around the table just looks at me, as if Iâm a new exhibit at a museum, âGuys?â I ask, the fingers of fear are tickling my throat. âWe good? Can I have a pancake?â
âI think youâre in the wrong house,â my father responds softly. I give a gentle chuckle. Heâs not joking.
âWaitâŚno... hang on,â Iâm fumbling for words now, âI am home. This isâŚI live here.â
Andy is shaking his head; he hasnât even eaten the colossal piece of pancake hovering below his nose.
âNoâŚI do,â Iâm trembling now, âI live hereâŚYouâre my mum, my dad, my brother -â theyâre following my index finger across the dining room.
âWhatâs my name?â Andy asks, I tell him. âHmmâŚYou couldâve easily guessed that by looking at my certificates thoughâ
âNo, I live here, my bedroom is upstairs. Look, Iâll show you!â The way theyâre all climbing the stairs, as if I could turn around and shoot them all any minute. âHereâ I wave my hand across the room, ushering mum and dad in. âSee, hereâs the lilac teddy bear we won from a travelling fair, it used to smell like plums, now it smells like off-brand detergent. And all the trophies from sports games.â
Mumâs holding the photo of our Africa safari, âThatâs. Us.â
My birth certificate is creasing between my dadâs fingers. I make a desperate attempt to convince him, âThose are your names, right? You canât fake a birth certificate.â
âWhat the fu-â I canât believe mum swore, she never swears. âIâve never seen this before.â She turns to face me, âOh honey, I know that all this isâŚbut Iâm not your mother, I donât know what this is.â
âBut I am your daughterâ I respond, âI know the most obscure things about you all, uh- Dad! I know that you only drink beer if the logo has the colour red in it. Mum. It takes you exactly 37 minutes to make your cherry pound cake, and, that when you pour wine you hold your right thumb against the glass so that you can fill the glass up to that amount, your right thumb, not left because your right thumb is longer! Oh! And, you only read the synopsis of each book featured in Oprahâs book club. Andy, I know what really happened to the PS4, I know what level your green Sackboy avatar was on when it happened, yes, Sackboy because mum, doesnât let you play violent games. See?â
Theyâre both looking at Andy now, brows raised. âGuys?â I ask.
