The point has come where I have to seriously start thinking about... Yep, you guessed it - THE FUTURE!!! A daunting prospect.
I am currently tapping the keys of my rather perfectly formed new laptop to the beat of Aerosmith's Love in An Elevator, (not a rare occurrance might I add!)But the life that, over the past three years, I have come to know so well, where sitting in my dimly lit room listening to 90's Rock, clad in a T-Shirt I got free from Walkabout's 'Snakebite Sunday' (yes it does exist) in the middle of the day is acceptable, is soon to be a thing of the past.
In the first year of Uni my Peter Pan mentality helped succesfully eradicate any possibile thoughts or conversations about jobs, graduating and 'The Real world.'However, now, the idea of earning a decent salary as opposed to scraping together the peanuts I earn at my part time job with my ever-diminishing loan, the prospect of coming home at 5pm and NOT having to think about an assignment deadline/scheduling in hangover days around assignment deadlines/overdue library books/wondering whether the festering pile of washing-up left to rot on the crumby surfaces in the kitchen will be there to greet me when I get home are all quite attractive prospects!
Three years at Uni is definitely long enough! Now it is time for a new chapter in my life. One that involves structure and routine. Forgive me if I'm boring you, or perhaps enraging you for not being grateful for easy I've got it by expressing a desire for the routine and mundane. But that is what I really feel I'm ready for...
Now there's just the problem of graduating and finding that dream job. The Journey continues...
Thursday 28 February 2008
Best Served Cold
A Dark Short Story...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
The rain is deafening me, beating hard and relentlessly against the thin and fragile panes of the phone box. My ankles are damp and cold. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, in any direction; I am completely alone in a ghost town. But I feel safe; I am alone, just close your eyes breathe in through your nostrils, out through your mouth, in the nose out of the mouth…
The date is September 13th. It is 2003, and the time is 2.37pm exactly and it is a Sunday. My name is Jacob Peter Spencer and I am 24. It was exactly 3 months ago that I met Katie. Katie’s eyes: deep and brown, so dark I would often get lost in them; melt into a euphoric silent, safe place. She had a way of tucking her fine caramel hair behind her tiny ear when it would fall in front of her amazing eyes, blocking my view of the windows to her mysterious soul. She saved me. But that was then…
On a mild June day I was feeding a sparrow in central park. So trusting it was. Fragile and naïve, and solely dependent on my donation: a morsel of bagel. I liked it best this way, just me, independent, ‘I don’t need anyone else’ I thought. Remembering my home town I shuddered and was cold. Quickly I swallowed one of my tablets. “They help me, I need them” I reassured myself, exhaling deeply and shutting my eyes. The sparrow fled, isolated again. Pulling my sleeves down around my hands and hugging my knees to my chest was my instinct, a reflex action. I could not bear to recall what happened, but erasing my past- impossible. She made me jump! A soft comforting palm rested on my shoulder, delicate fingers gently but firmly pressing down. “Excuse me, are you alright?” A soft voice questioned.
And that was how I met her.
That moment seemed to last forever, when our eyes met and I froze. “Is it ok if I sit with you? Its just I saw you were alone, and well like I guess I think you look like you could do with a friendly face?! Sorry, it’s Katie! You are?” she glowed extending her arm towards me. I suppose looking back it was too good to be true. Who was this girl? Why would she talk to a guy like me? “Jake” I answered. “Um uh…” I started before she cut me off: “Sorry if you want me to go I’ll just…” “No, no stay. Please. Talk with me.”
I will never forget That Day. Katie was like no one I have ever met before. Have you ever met someone that you are just in total awe of? Who you never tire of listening to? Is always willing to listen to you, when you think there is nobody left? That was her, and more. In the park we sat for hours. Time passed in a daze and all the while I thought to myself ‘this is not happening, it’s a dream’. We talked about so much. I was so lonely, if only she’d have known. But she understood me in other ways, ways that mattered. A friend. It was only when her cell shrieked a shrill sound she left. Gone suddenly, but not forgotten. I had to see her again. She must want to see me too I figured. Why would this amazing woman have spent the entire day listening to me? Caring?
That night, in The City That Never Sleeps I was alive. I drew. Her face was etched in my memory like a photograph. Sketching carefully I recalled those eyes so fascinating, delicate nose, rose blush cheeks.
The next morning I walked back through those trees, sun filtering between them, rays streaming onto the path. I sat on the bench again. And waited. And thought. And she came. The ecstasy that erupted inside me when I set eyes on her again was immense. “Hey!” She chirped merrily as she noticed me, like a bird at dawn. “Fancy seeing you again!” she joked. If only she knew what she meant to me. “Wanna grab a coffee before I get to work?” she suggested with a trace of Manhattan drawl. I obliged. Sitting in the corner of Starbucks sipping on a caramel macchiato, I was ignorant to the activity, the buzz all around. I was safe.
She left me that day.
It started to rain, small droplets splashed on my nose and I looked at the puddles around me. A web glistened in the corner frame of the window panes, a beautiful prison, a trapped fly.
It was a Thursday when saw her for the last time. I hadn’t been sleeping. Where was she? By now anxious to see her, desperate, I started out of my chair, when I froze. She hadn’t seen me, but I saw her. I watched. She kissed him. She kissed him again. Her beautiful face illuminated like an angel. But my heart pounded stronger, harder tearing out of my chest. Hot tears burned my cheeks. Why? Who is he? It was unbearable. It happened in a blur, flashes. I remember swallowing a fistful of pills. My head throbbed. She was mine. Mine! Not anyone else’s. I needed her. “Why?! I Don’t understand!”
She shrieked and yelled but I was deaf to her pleas. The rage! How could she have done this to me? Why?! I tossed her like a rag doll into my dark, stale apartment. And then I left her. Alone. Like she had left me. I turned the key and departed. Calmly, coolly. My sketch, her reflection. Her only companion in that room. Cold. Nobody knows where she is. But me.
The rain is ceasing. I thumb the small key in my hand so hard my palms are raw. And I let it go. Released. It falls down, dropping as if in slow motion, striking the grates of the drain cover, and then gone, forever. Placing a pill on my tongue it melts.
My bittersweet poison...
Circus of Horrors
A Dark Short Story...
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Circling the sandy arena, (for the hundredth time,) placing each step delicately on top of last night’s horseshoe-prints, ‘The Magnificent Marty’, plain old Pete to most, ached over his pathetic existence.
“What the hell am I doing here, at the age of 27?” he asked himself.
“Oi! Pete! Get a move on, show’s on in 2 hours and Sharon needs you in make up soon.”
Pete waited for the answer to his own worthless question but the answer didn’t come. Remembering that time at school on careers day his future seemed so bright, glossy and exciting. Mr Collins had always assured Pete he had potential. “Could really go far you tried that bit harder.” Or so it seemed. But that was then. And now, an eternity later, reality had hit hard. Pete hadn’t spoken to Dan or Jay or any of the lads from back home in over 8 years.
Memories of times long gone turned to deeper thoughts and thoughts to questions. There were so many unanswered questions. Recalling such a simple, taken for granted piece of his life he was genuinely thankful to his mum and dad. To himself, he reflected.
“I can’t blame them. I’m not an ‘I blame the parents’ sob-story.”
Pete strangely yearned for some excuse, someone to blame for the way his life was going. Or not. “Going nowhere fast”, as he more recently than ever had put it. A broken home, an alcoholic dad, a victim of a lifetime of bullying maybe? At least having some disaster to blame this mess-of-a-situation that Pete called ‘life’ would ease the daily shame and self loathing felt by his obvious inadequacies.
“You deaf or somefin?! Come on!”
Suddenly and sharply disturbed from his anxieties Pete turned and bitterly traipsed through the terracotta dust, erasing the arched imprints he had previously so carefully trod.
In the trailer, watching a battered clockwork alarm, both dancing arms finally reached twelve, stretching on invisible tiptoes it seemed, and the clock pinged. Pete didn’t flinch. Noticing that the painted aeroplanes decorating the timepiece were starting to flake away, revealing the rancid and rusted tin beneath, suddenly Pete was burning inside. His realisation of the unavoidable decay of time upon his treasured childhood clock was too much. Unwanted and long ignored memories from childhood and innocence began to plague his mind. It was odd. He didn’t want to dwell on what had been, what had gone, his regrets and yet he needed to. Pete’s breathing became audible, strained. Like a junkie confessing their addiction for the first time, the only way he could come to terms with his life crisis was by facing it.
Carefully, Pete crafted a scruffy fag, sparked an ancient Zippo and teased the end of the cigarette with the dancing flames. Sucking the nicotine goodness into his veins was his therapy. Silent. Motionless, he sat.
Jade, his ‘beautiful assistant’ entered the trailer loudly, lugging a large black sports bag in tow, a scant sequin and Lycra creation on a tatty hanger in the other hand.
“Oh hi Pete. Give us a light babe, cheers.”
“So how’s things?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
“I’m so not up for tonight y’know? Just one day off that’s all I want” she continued.
Aggressively stubbing out his half smoked cigarette, Pete left the trailer. Showtime drew ever nearer.
Hearing the stadium fill with an expectant crowd was one of the things that still indistinctly drove him, the noises, the buzz, the energy of the crowd. Poking his head around the dirty plastic-coated canvas he noticed an early arrival, a little blonde boy, seven maybe eight. The kid’s face was a picture, the sort of thing you’d see in a Butlin’s magazine! But not to Pete. The expectant grin was lost on him, redundancy overwhelmed. No swell of emotion, not this time. No half smile crept onto his lips. Nothing at all. Just numbness.
Some time later, the drum roll he knew so well accompanied the dazzling spotlights and the crowd was gradually hushed. The rotund ringmaster, whom Pete had long detested, proudly took the floor, his thumbs arrogantly hooked in his high topped trouser pockets.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your viewing pleasure, allow me, ‘The outrageous and audacious, Duke Archibald ’ to welcome you to a visual spectacular! A dazzling show brought to you by Culpepper’s Travelling Circus! For our first act may I proudly present Tania and Tracy, the tip-toeing, talented Trapeze-ing twins!”
The crowd roared cheered and clapped with delight as they marvelled at the balance and trickery displayed on the high ropes and swings as the performers floated weightlessly mid-air. Pete slumped, unimpressed, in the dank folds of the damp-smelling canvas which made his grotty unwanted home. Staring sharply toward a full length mirror tilted awkwardly against a tent rope, Pete observed his reflection. Starched shirt, gleaming black boots and crimson tails were his attire; visibly pleased with himself he straightened his spine and smiled sinisterly revealing a glistening row of teeth. Out of nowhere, Tony, AKA ‘Bozo’ the head clown seemingly floated from the darkness and towards where Pete was stood. The comedian’s face was different tonight, the curl in his painted scarlet lip strangely twisted, the black cross over his eye darker than usual and tainted.
“See you out there big man! Have a good show” the clown unexpectedly chirped, slapping Pete’s back almost too firmly.
“..Er yeah okay…”
Disturbed and yet now weirdly exhilarated at the thought of taking the stage, Pete the showman proceeded to make up, where he too would apply his persona, a façade to deceive the unwitting audience. Ghoulishly illuminated by a flickering bulb Sharon skilfully applied dark brushstrokes to Pete’s upper lip. His eyes were unusually still.
Night had fallen. With minutes to go until his grand performance Pete carefully drew his tools from their heavy dented case. The slim silvery blades glistened between his gloved fingertips and with painstaking accuracy; a rehearsed flick of the wrist, the sword was tossed and caught by the handle expertly. He was ready to perform.
In the arena the hot atmosphere, despite a forced tolerance for it, had always been uncomfortable for ‘The Magnificent Marty.’ Tonight was no exception. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, he bounded into the arena and under the spotlight.
With stranger vigour than usual, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ introduced himself to the expectant audience.
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I will need a volunteer for my performance! May I have a volunteer please?”
Hands, young and old shot up enthusiastically reminding The Showman of his vulnerable clock and its keen arms. Momentarily Pete’s flair wavered. But his volunteer had already been selected. Scanning the crowd warily, the blonde boy Pete had noticed earlier was located. The mic crackled.
“Hey how about you my friend? Yes, you in the striped shirt. Would you like to come on down?”
The crowd, as hoped spurred the child on, whistling to encourage him. As he peeled himself from the dirty plastic chair that had seated so many hundreds of bums in its time, and approached the limelight Pete’s heart pumped harder.
“So then. What’s your name young man?”
“A… Andrew” he managed; a rabbit in the headlights.
Directing the child with great ease and panache the showman helped Andrew into the neatly painted box of yellow and red stars. Pete cushioned his performing accomplice’s head gently, with a white gloved-hand, as if supporting a newborn’s soft skull, preventing it oh-so-gently from banging down on the hard wood. Sliding closed the wooden peephole with a splintery screech the boy was encased in vulnerable darkness.
“And now my beautiful assistant Jade”
Hollywood grin upon her face, Jade masked her annoyance at having to work and elegantly passed her master his beautiful weapons, one by one. Sliding the platinum coloured blades precisely through the pre-cut holes in the painted box the audience gasped in awe at his magnificent skill. With such steadiness, despite incredible adrenaline the performer approached the climax of the act.
“And now, boys and girls for the final sword…maestro, drum roll please!”
With overwhelming arrogance the swordsman plunged the blade deep into the box, tilting his wrist with such speed that even Jade his glamorous assistant for four long years failed to notice his planned mistake. His eyes now wider open than ever, with a new clarity absorbed the worshipping followers as they stood for ovation, his appearance rejuvenated and exuberant. As he relished in his awestruck applause, grinning overtly, ‘The Magnificent Marty’ ignored the single crimson stream emerge from the box, staining Andrew’s decorated coffin.
Quick Break
At 10am the sun was already blazing high in the cloudless sky of Cabarete. The past nine days spent there had browned my skin pleasantly, freckled my nose prettily and warmed my hair to honey-colour. I was happiest in hot climates. Slipping his hand into mine, my small fingers recognised Jeremy’s weathered palms. It was time to go. Putting on my gritty flip-flops we left the cool air-conditioned room to face the day’s heat.
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
The door slammed heavily behind us; there was no turning back now. Our friends greeted us with a smile that I mirrored. I could sense their excitement. Pattering through the terracotta reception area the warm sea breeze enticed me. Then I saw our mode of transport. I sensed the driver didn’t share my apprehension, as he sat tall and proud upon his rusty steed. “You expect three of us to fit on that?” I thought. I expect my face showed it too.
Balanced cautiously we set off at speed. Negotiating the dusty tracks that Dominican’s liked to call ‘roads’, the faint smell of fumes and melting sun-cream combined in my nostrils making me pleasantly heady. The sunshine brought a smile to my windswept face. Altogether, the bumpy ride was strangely soothing, and my eagerness to reach our destination mounted with every pedestrian we overtook. Finally the nasal whine of the bike faded like a fleeing mosquito and the hot rubber tyres crunched to a halt under the shade of a palm.
Now, I had never been one to say ‘no’. I had always liked a challenge. After all I had been scuba-diving in Borneo, tried wakeboarding in Dorset, jumped waterfalls in Thailand and white-water-rafted in Malaysia. No, I was no wimp. Hell, I’d even had two tattoos! But today was different. Today I would be surfing in the Caribbean. There was something challenging to me about this prospect. More pressure. Perhaps it was the mental image of the posters adorning Jeremy’s walls depicting ‘tunnels’ and ‘tubes’ and surfer ‘dudes’ that frightened me? “The waves at Encuentro reach six feet most days,” he’d excitedly told me. Or was it the fact that he was a trained kite-surf instructor? Or maybe it was just the memory of the first time I had tried to surf coming back to haunt me. Either way, the prospect was excitingly daunting.
“Everything happens very quickly in surfing, so you have to be prepared,” Jeremy said, out of nowhere. Emerging slowly from the safe of the cool shade, I crept toward the surf shack. The wooden hut roofed with reeds and surrounded by long-boards housed various lycra rash-vests and torn rubber reef-shoes. A young French guy approached me. His eyes were creased at the edges, making tiny white ravines in his weathered skin. “I’ll get you a board,” he said. So we began.
Being a mere 5”2, I was assigned a tiny board compared to the giants my buddies were given. Gripping the oversized board’s waxy surface under one arm, we approached the beach. “Remember it’s a strong reef break, so don’t detach the board from your ankle or it’ll smash,” Jeremy warned. Furrowing my brow in the face of the glaring sunlight, made brighter by the glistening blue ocean, I witnessed waves taller than I crash powerfully like shattering ice, tumbling one after the other. It was at this moment Jeremy decided to mention: “Encuentro beach is not the best place for a beginner really. The wave break is so quick” Brilliant. Now he tells me. Struggling awkwardly through the thick sand in my rubber booties, I could feel my arms warm and redden already. We had reached our surf spot.
No longer fear, this was sheer excitement. Splashing through the small torrents in the clearer waters, the rock beneath my feet surprised me. Golf ball sized purple urchins littered the ocean floor, making for a treacherous clamber– thus the unflattering footwear. At last I was out of my depth. Heaving myself onto the waxy board and lying on my front was easy enough. The struggle came with trying to catch a wave! Surfing involved a lot of waiting, I discovered. Breaking my neck to spot a ‘good wave’ whilst my skin was roasting and eyes stinging was painful. But I ventured on. Wave after wave came and went rhythmically; each time I fell the sea tasted saltier, the sun burnt stronger. But Jeremy urged me on, “It’s something you have to be patient with.”
I was ready to quit. But then, out of nowhere an almighty wave was surging temptingly, just metres behind me. I remember saying to myself “you can catch this one.” With all my strength I began to paddle, and as it neared I could feel the board forcing me up and forward. With a quick twist I positioned my feet one before the other and slowly rose. At that moment I knew I’d done it. The feeling of balancing on this powerful pull of nature, made my face beam with pride.
My run lasted until the wave crashed into nothingness, eradicating the means of my achievement. Trudging back onto the beach, wet hair in face, my friends cheered in celebration of my long awaited victory. Ellie: one, Ocean: nil! The rush of catching that wave was the highlight of my trip and beat white-water-rafting any day!
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