About Me

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I was born in Surrey (England), brought up in Galicia (Spain) and currently reside in a small town in the North West of England... I've always enjoyed writing, scribbling away on scraps of paper and daydreaming whilst the world happens around me.

Saturday, 16 July 2011

The Encounter


He closed the door gently behind him. I stood locked in place, the backs of my bare legs touching against the soft bed covers. The room turned musky as his scent took over, the smell of the fresh sheets dissolved in my airwaves. I tried to focus on his hand, resting on the door handle, but then his hands lead to me thinking of his arms. Soon I found my eyes were drifting over his body, getting closer, almost there, a little further and I would meet his lips.
His dimpled chin hadn’t seen a razor in a few days, I wanted to run the palm of my hand over his stubble, feel the rough against my smooth skin. Then I thought about his lips again, his mouth, that stubble rubbing my exposed neck. He lowered his head, his lips parted, about to speak. He hadn’t said one word yet. Not since he knocked on my door, walked into my hotel room. If he were to speak now I would melt, skin and bones dripping to the floor, muscles collapsing and life ending. How I wished he would just speak.
His hand dropped from the handle, drawing my eyes away from his imminent voice. I reached behind me without turning, my hands feeling the surface of the double bed for a discarded packet of cigarettes. It was there, it touched the small finger of my right hand. I prayed there would be a lighter in the pack, the only other lighter in the room was in my pocket, and that had long been abandoned by the door along with the coat it belonged to.
My hands met in front of my unsteady body; slightly shaken they pried the packet open. Just the last one, the lucky one, was left. The lighter tucked away next to it. I tapped the cigarette out, and struck the lighter various times before I could get it to spark. Through all this he just stood, watching. Although I was not looking at his eyes, I knew how they would be staring. I took the first slow drag, the cigarette pursed between my lips, the smell of ash rising into the mix of scents already settled there.
Now that I could no longer smell him I felt braver and moved my eyes straight past his lips and looked right into his eyes. He looked good, better than I remembered. His hair was shorter, less wavy now. I used to run my fingers through his hair every night as I closed my eyes, the smell of his skin enveloping me. I could still taste him now, on the tip of my tongue, such a vivid memory it excited my taste buds.
Words still seemed to be perched on his lips but he couldn’t bring himself to speak them. I was unable to form words of my own to bring to the tip of my tongue, which was still too preoccupied with the taste of his skin. I thought of how I saw him before, his arms pulling me close, no secrets to be hidden from him. And then there was this, the distance that separated us, the smoke I blew out blurring his image as he stood unwaveringly before me, a self invited man.
There was an ash tray by my feet. I took a final drag and flicked the butt down from where I stood. My eyes had moved away from him for two seconds and when I looked back he was moving, towards me. The distance between us had felt like it was doubled by the months without seeing each other, yet he broke that gap in five easy steps. His arms rose as he reached me and his hands cupped my face as he pulled me into a kiss. This was a kiss to put all others to shame.
Fifteen months, not one word, and he came back for a kiss like that. The room collapsed around us. His mouth met mine with the perfection of a long term lover and the passion of a longed for stranger. His hands lowered down my back, the warmth of his skin seeping through the silk of my dress made me shiver, knowing what would happen next if I didn’t put a stop to it. I had wanted him back, thought about this moment, but something wasn’t quite right.
I tried to step back, but there was nowhere to step, the mattress stopped my movement short and I fell backwards onto the bed. He fell softly on top of me even as I struggled to make sense of the situation. I had too many questions that I needed answered, too much pain to be wiped away by a moment of passion. As my mind raced he pulled back, propping himself up on his forearms. He looked into my eyes and I saw the sadness he hid behind his smile. I reached for his hair, my fingers caressing the back of his neck and he pulled me close to his chest as I began to cry.
I was cradled in his arms, feeling guilty for falling apart. I still felt the soul devouring nausea that came to the surface since he had first gone. Seeing him was something I had imagined happening casually, maybe from across the street or at a cafe. I would smile at him casually, make casual conversation and casually not bring up his disappearance. I would most definitely not cry.

Monday, 4 July 2011

Spitting chickens - short story


Rain fell, cold and smelling like earth. It spat at my face like an angry chicken, with bad aim and little force but great determination.
‘This is it,’ I thought, ‘this is what it feels like to be an earthling. Resigned and brimming with negativity. Walking! Getting progressively colder and wetter.’ Then I stepped in a puddle. ‘Brilliant. If only the folks back home could see me now...’
This was not part of the plan. That had fallen apart shortly after landing, so dwelling on it seemed pointless. There were many sayings about best laid plans on this planet and they all lead to the same ending, plans suck. They go wrong, and you end up somewhere altogether different from where you wanted to be. At least there were many different ways to describe my situation, vocabulary was not lacking on this distant world. The small island I found myself stranded on had one word that best described my situation: buggered.
More than buggered, to be fair. On the checklist of things a being can be in life I was alone, stranded, and with no purpose to speak of. Not to mention me being a bit of a whinge fest. They say it’s not about where you end up, it’s all about how you got there. I got there with a whole lot of wrong steps, usually involving puddles and good hard slaps from strangers reacting to my lack of behaviour know how. Up ahead I spotted a lone woman walking with hunched shoulders and squinted eyes.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to the passerby, who jumped at my words, probably horrified by the idea of being approached by a stranger. I was most likely breaking some sort of rule of social conduct. It could end in a slap.
‘Yes?’ she asked, begrudgingly. And suddenly I wanted to make this conversation as uncomfortable for her as possible. Because I could. And to be honest, in Earth terms, I’m considered to be a bit of a bastard.
‘Well, I was wondering...’ I began, smiling in what I hoped was my best imitation of manic. ‘Could you, perchance, inform me. If it’s no trouble of course?’ my eyes focused directly on hers, people don’t like that, too invasive. The question, I do understand, was rhetorical. But to annoy one must push the boundaries of convention. So I awaited a reply, patiently.
‘Erm, yes... sure,’ eventually she gave in, nodding as her eyes searched the street, possibly for an escape or some other life form to push me off on to. There was none.
‘Well, as I was saying. Especially now I know it’s of no bother. Could you, please, let me know where the nearest pub is?’ the look of relief on her face could have been pictured and placed in the dictionary as a definition. I took out my camera and snapped fast. The relief soon vacated her face, giving way to concern. I knew this expression well.
‘What did you just do?’ the question popped right into the air out of her open mouth. Her concern visibly grew, making both of us wonder why she asked at all, really.
‘Oh, that. It’s for a project. Nothing really, it’s a failed project, but I pluck on!’ my attempt at cheerful made her back up a step. ‘So, as I was asking, this pub?’
‘Two streets down,’ her answer was quick. She turned around and crossed the street at a light jog. No slap. Glad about the outcome and yet disappointed the annoyance would soon leave her mind I set off in the opposite direction, towards a pub. It had been on my original list of places to learn about, as part of the human study program.
The pub. I’d been told it was a place to learn about drowning, glassing and some form of diving that required beer goggles. People had told me often to ‘go down the pub, get a stiff drink in you, that’ll loosen you up.’ After pointing out the contradictory ironies in their statement they usually insisted I go off and perform some sort of form of sexual act upon myself. The intricacies of which act I have yet to encounter so as to perform it correctly. However, this may aid in my loosening up, as I’ve been told something stiff is also required.
Social interactions on my home planet had never been much easier for me. Which, believe me, did make me wonder why they really sent me off to another planet in the first place. Really, I knew, they wanted to get rid of me. But still, as I had explained to the passerby, I was plucking on. Land on Earth, compile a dictionary of all human expressions and you can return home. There was no real hope of ever completing the task. Bugger.