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Niamh tugged at the cloth, again and again as it wound itself round her arms, then began to wind itself around her body as she twirled slightly to get it free from the trunk, and she let out a little laugh. How had she managed it? Yet her shoulders sank a little as she looked at the mass once it was all around her and at her feet. Not even a fraction close. Big enough maybe for ten, maybe twelve people if they were small. How many weeks, months, years before it was ready and could cover everyone?
Then again, with each passing day, people around her became twitchy with impatience and envy. Offers of money, dowry, charity, in exchange for the cloth. But what good would it have done then, if it simply sat at the foot of some cleric's bed, when the night outside was slippery with ice and snow? She paused, her fingers gripping a small section of the cloth. Again the idea turned in her mind. If she tore off a section, showed it around and assured them, folk had exaggerated, it was only ever the size of a tablecloth. She just had to make a little tear, through the middle. Her arms stayed wedged into her sides. It was too much like cutting into it's heart.
She gripped it tighter, then let out a shriek of surprise and leapt at a sudden clattering from the garden. Then forced herself to stop, her eyes screwed shut as amidst the noise outside she heard a heavy tear.
Perhaps it was the captivating glimpses of the sun reaching through the leaves, warming the path between the leaves, the lingering scent of bluebells, relaxing and drawing in anyone heading that way. Within a few paces, they'd realise, as Joe did now, that they were heading in the wrong direction. He was several minutes further away from home now than when he'd joined the path. He let out a laugh, amused that he'd let himself be so distracted as to lose his way, and turned round in the right direction.
He realised within only a few paces this time. He stayed fixed on the route home, but now he was walking backwards. He stopped walking, glancing at the trees around him, and briefly put his hand to his head to see if he had a temperature. Then slowly, holding out his arms to make sure his balance didn't waver, he tried to put one foot in front of the other.
Their form was still a shadowy dot on the horizon. We were at least three miles closer now, but still, no shape, no clear semblance of sympathetic life. Except the occasional spark of brilliant light whizzing up above the group, before stillness settled again.
I paused and leant forward with my rucksack as support to try to make sense of the shadows. There appeared to be movement amidst what my dry, aching eyes told me must be a group of them, six or seven maybe, and I held up my hand in a firm, clear wave. Maybe they waved back. If they were a 'they'. Maybe I'd just caught sight of the billowing of a discarded bag.
I turned to the rest of the group, reacting as I realised they were looking at me a little warily. Waiting patiently for the next instruction. Mutely concerned.
Phil enjoyed a moment stretching and rolling over without quite opening his eyes. There was plenty of time to relax before the drama. If experience was consistent, Mel would be pouring over the sports pages until they dragged him out the door, Wesley would be carefully packing his bag, and flicking off Ned's squawking alarm with a reproving shove to his feet at his insistence the vibrations were as effective as noise to any hearing man.
Phil glanced at his clock and realised everything might have collapsed before they even got started; not a whisper from any of them. He stumbled from his room, banging on each of their doors and calling to Wesley to get Ned up. He paused in the kitchen, surprised by the faint smell of bacon. A greasy pan jammed into the sink.
"Hey guys, you had breakfast already? Where's mine?"
His watch reassured him it was still only 7.
"Guys?"
He strode through the flat, pushing open the doors to empty rooms.
"What the fuck..." He searched quickly for his phone, and dialled Mel's number. Cheery twat answerphone message and a beep.
"You left without me?" he hollered into the phone, pausing as he realised they'd left their wallets and phones lined up on the counter.
He was absorbed as he peered through the glass to watch the pendulum, swinging through its endless trajectory. He shifted closer to avoid losing sight of it as people weaved their way towards the desk at the front. The opportunity was there; he could set his watch, say 30 seconds, and whichever side the pendulum was on when it stopped - yes or no - the decision would be made.
It was only as he began to set his watch that he paused with a rush of unexpected adrenaline, and realised he would have to choose which way was left, and which right. The rythmn of the clock must have permeated his subconscious by now. It was too late too leave it up to chance.
It had been three hours. Still Alvin lingered there, watching the flurry of activity that continued, the moment of his departure a brief drama that they all seemed to have quickly forgotten. He remembered the warmth of sitting there amongst everyone, then looked around at the trees ripped in all directions by the wind, howling around his ears.
He took a step closer and paused, watching patiently. He didn't know how, but every urge within him told him there had to be a way back in.
He'd been out of training for so long, each inch of hard earned definition had become soft and round; from behind, his buttocks rose up like two drifting hot air balloons. He didn't dare to glance over his shoulder in case the travesty of slumped perfection that was his figure was far more dilapidated than he had imagined.
As he shuffled along the street, conscious of each scrape of his thighs against each other, he noticed a figure hunched on a bench, the size and stature of an exhausted ox. As he watched the guy unwrap a double sized burger awash with mayonnaise, he suspected he had never had fitness to lose. He took a step closer, as the burger wrapper was quickly disposed of, and imagined himself saying the words. Any words. Like, how would you like to spend the rest of your harshly shortened life getting strong. He paused and took a step back as the man suddenly looked up and met his gaze.
The flan was almost exquisite; hours of wondering, imagining and assiduous planning portended a masterpiece. Thoughts of how it would taste crumbling on the tongue had become a waking dream. A chance to be the best at something, or at the very least, create something that was the best of its kind.
The first flash of a car light scoured across the courtyard, and she felt a fizzle of excitement in her stomach, behind her ears. She clicked the lock off the latch, and eased the door open so their noses would be filled with the irresistable smell of pastry. With a deep sniff, she smoothed down her hair. Then another sniff. Only a faint whiff of gardenia from outside.
Mack and Liz were already out of the car, at the bottom of the path with a cheery wave, bathed in the glowing headlights of the next car.
"Hello", she forced out with a ready smile.
"Hello, hello. So good to see..."
She quickly let the door close, automatically flicking the latch closed and scurried through to the kitchen. Not even a whiff of flan. She stooped forward and pressed her finger against the oven, rubbing the glass over the unlit 'on' button.
She could reach no higher than my hips, even when she stretched up her neck, searching for imagined treats with her up-curled lip. Beneath the fast sinking sun, an occasional breeze making the irises bounce against our ankles, I tore up a cleft of grass, offering it as if from my pocket. The shetland chewed for a while, fixing an intent gaze upon me, perhaps genuine indignance, that I must have baskets of apples somewhere in those pockets.
Jolene had told him that you found out a lot about what they really thought of you depending on what side of the boat they put you on - port side or star. The problem was, as he struggled along the cramped, damp-smelling corridor, he couldn't work out which end he was at. A brief glimpse of the moon shimmering cooly as he peered through a domed peep-hole. He was reminded of the previous summer when all his friends had dived into the shallow sea waters, the saltwater rushing up over their bare skin. He'd bombed in and darted around joining in their laughter for as long as he could, until his phobia wrenched him back to dry land, his blood pounding so loudly in his ears he thought he'd absorbed litres of the water.
Now he was surrounded by it, black and restless against the edge of the ship, bringing it into a list every now and again with a creepy creaking sound. He shivered and shoved open the nearest cabin door.
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writing since 2011 · 37 entries · 35 days shown up
each square is a day—lit means Sam showed up.
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the words Sam reaches for
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