Short Story

Before I copy and paste this, I have to give a reason as to why I'm doing so. This is not a good story. It is, however, the first piece of fiction writing I've done in an enormous amount of time. As such, putting it down in my blog is much like charting the first run you do after a year's break. I need practice, and I need to see how - if at all - I improve. So here, for all its flaws, it is.

The End

    This is the end.

I wish there were something new I could say about it, some great insight that a hundred thousand poets have missed over the course of human existence, but in the end it’s such an insignificant, unimaginative little thing.

We were in love. Now we are not.

You were never abusive. I was never abusive.  We fought, but only as ‘nice‘ people fight; acid splashes of words, fading to nothing over the course of time. How easily they were forgiven. The worst thing you ever said was that I was selfish. I probably said the same about you. Everyone’s selfish sometimes. We weren’t even interesting in our flaws.

I think we were passionate in the beginning, but even passion is ordinary. In the beginning, surely everyone’s stomach drops away at the lightest of touches? At that first, agonizing separation, surely everyone spends every waking moment with loneliness wriggling inside like desperate fish.

How did anyone ever think love came from the heart? It’s in the guts – the stomach, the bowels. Romance tends to veer away from guts. I suppose it’s down to the arrogance of humanity, wanting their most primal urges to be associated with beauty. Sexual love isn’t beautiful. Not in any way. It’s sweaty, sticky, irrational, animalistic. You can soft-pedal it by differentiating between sex and love, but even if you care about the person you’re writhing around with, it’s still as sweaty, sticky, irrational and animalistic. You just have more to talk about afterwards.

It’s all so boringly predictable.

We met. We were thirty-ish – old enough to have seen our fair share of broken relationships, but not old enough to be jaded. We were in different offices but the same building, and one year our Christmas parties over-spilled and we ended up drinking cheap vodka in your boss’s office. We talked for hours, until the sun came up and caught the motes of dust rising from the carpet. It was, actually, a beautiful sunrise. It caught the old stone of the buildings, touching them with pink until they glowed. We stood at the large window and watched, talking softly about ourselves.

Is there anything more satisfying that explaining yourself to someone? Even with an ordinary person it’s a joyous experience. When you find yourself with someone who coos with pleasure over every insight, matching it with their own like a child playing mental snap, it’s like a revelation. It fills you. I found myself trembling with the pleasure of it.

After that, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I tried to run into you at every available opportunity – a task made so much easier by the fact you were obviously doing the same thing. We started eating at the same awful café. Our work suffered as we threw caution to the wind, extending our lunch breaks as far as our colleagues’ patience allowed.

Eventually we went to dinner.

Eventually, we went to bed.

Then, for a long time, we couldn’t seem to stop going to bed. We would kiss for hours, missing the sensation so much that we’d dive straight back mere moments after pausing for breath. We went from careful, exploratory sex to astonishing, all-encompassing, perfect sex. We imprinted on each other - every curve and nuance learned. From there we could experiment, knowing always that if something was strange, something unpleasant, we could slip back into the familiar routine.

But experimentation takes imagination, and there’s only so much to go round. After a while the everyday nonsense of living intrudes, and in sharing bathrooms and illnesses, drudgery and exhaustion, habits and peccadilloes (none of them interesting), the heat begins to wane.

That’s where love comes in. If you love someone, warmth is enough. Warmth, in fact, is good. It’s comforting. Comfortable. It allows you to be relaxed, to shed outer layers, to be yourself. Perhaps, occasionally, you’ll remember how it was before and experience a pang or two of nostalgia – but it won’t be enough to send you into a world of glances with strangers, lingering drinks at the bar, tangled limbs and upheaval. You love this person. You’ve made a life with them. They know you better than anyone else in the world. The thought of starting again with someone new, someone who might not put up with your habits and peccadilloes, who might, in the course of an argument, call you something far worse than selfish  - no, that couldn’t be further from your mind. You are, at last, a Couple. You think in unison, often catching yourselves communicating in half-sentences. You know what, and what not to buy at the supermarket should you find yourself shopping on your own. You can choose each other’s meals off a restaurant menu, and it pleases you each time you get it right. In fact, you are so in tune with one another you’ve almost melded. Have you lost parts of yourself along the way? Perhaps. If so, you don’t mourn the loss. You’re better this way.

There are some people who love for the rest of their lives. They still feel their stomachs swoop, still have the imagination to experiment in bed. They play mental snap and ‘guess what I’m going to order’ and writhe and revel in the warmth of it all.

But not us. The game just wasn’t fun any more. We looked back and thought about love and saw nothing but the mundane. We’d done what everyone does. We’d experienced nothing new. For some people, that’s enough. For some, it’s success. For us, it was just one long, slow descent into sadness.

Love just faded into the background. No fireworks, no screams and broken crockery, no hate. If we wasted all those years, we’re not bitter about it. It’s just one of those things. Just the way life goes, sometimes. Just the end.

Short Story 2 - Mittens.

The Baby's name is Daisy. I have known her for 6 weeks, during which time I have been waiting for maternity. So far, it hasn't arrived. Nothing. I have a tiny stranger living in my house, sleeping in the little room once piled high with racks of wine and cushions, where James and I would curl up away from the world. It is her room, now, and there she lies: red and wrinkled as an aging apple. She has chicken pox, so the world has already made her angry.

I care for her. I make crooning noises as I dab her with calamine, rock her, feed her, kiss her, bite my lip until it bleeds. I do not have a beautiful baby. I do not wish to spend every waking moment in her company. As the shadows lengthen I know there are friends out there drinking too much wine, complaining about work over dinner. Here I am, gritty-eyed at six o'clock, staring at a squalling, itching infant. I would rather be anywhere but here.

I feel coated in guilt. I imagine it as an oily residue on my skin that no amount of washing can remove. How do I not love my child? I have never been a cold person. I have friends, family. Why does Daisy fill me with such dead indifference?

Dear God, will she never stop screaming?

I watch her, helpless. I have changed her, bathed her, covered her sores, sung to her, stroked her head. I act the caring mother with skill, and I know she can't tell the difference. When James comes home he will rush to her cot, gather her up like the missing piece of his soul and hold her close, but she behaves no differently. I watch as he settles her beneath his chin, Castle Dromore a comforting rumble in his chest. Sing hushabye loo, low loo, low lan, hushabye loo, low loo. I smile, arrange my features into doting approval, and all is well. I wish I could say I was jealous: of James, of Daisy. That would be an explanation, somewhere I could begin. I'm not jealous. I couldn't give a damn.

I know the faces I should pull, the words I should say, and I say them just as my own mother did. James hugs me, kisses me, makes love to me with awful grattitude. He is a man whose woman has carried his child. He brings me flowers, makes me mugs of tea, tells me to put my feet up, I deserve it. There was a time I'd come home from work to find paint all over the kitchen floor, half-finished canvasses piled by the back door, and James drinking single malt from the bottle. Bone weary, I'd scream at him. He'd laugh, yell, grab me, fuck me senseless, as the viscid paint smeared hands, thighs, intertwined fingers. After, we would lie spent and quiet, cocooned in each other. It was enough. Now he teaches art at a local school and I'm Daisy's mother.

Daisy has slipped into an uneasy sleep at last. I lean on the bars of her cot and look down, willing my heart to turn over. I see puckered lips, wet with spittle, and scarlet cheeks. Angry scabs speckle her cheeks and chin. In her sleep she tries to scratch, but I've put mittens on her hands: a barrier between skin and nail. It seems thin protection for one who can be hurt by a touch.

I switch on the baby monitor and slip out of the room. I plan on catching forty winks but find myself standing in front of my wardrobe, staring at the clothes inside. Those hanging up I barely wear any more. The clothes of motherhood don't need hangers; they lie crumpled on chairs, or stuffed into drawers. I reach out and touch my blue dress, the colour of summer midnight - low cut, floor length. I have worn it only once, to a company ball. I was given an award that night, but it seemed small to someone buzzing with secret joy over the life inside. I drank nothing, which Jane noticed (of course she noticed), and soon all the secretaries knew. Before the night was over there was no longer a secret to protect, and people's eyes changed.

Daisy mewls on the monitor, but quiets on her own. I reach out and take down the blue dress, stroke the silk with my fingertips. It catches on my rough skin. I am tempted to put it on, but I could never do it up over my flaccid belly. I go to the bedside table and take out a pair of nail scissors. I run the blade, once, over my thumb, then calmly attack the dress, slashing little holes until it's nothing more than rags. Then it seems logical to turn to the pretty sundress hanging beside it - much easier to destroy its floating gauze - and then my favourite, Chanel suit. It cost over three thousand pounds. I snip each button with a flourish, watching as they drop to the floor and roll in different directions. One vanishes between a crack in the floorboards. The others come to rest not far from my bare feet.

When the suit is nothing more than charcoal ribbons on the floor, I return the scissors to the bedside table and go back to the wardrobe. This time I reach up, stand on tiptoe, and bring down my old travelling suitcase. A faded baggage tag stabs the corner of my eye, causing it to water. Frankfurt. Typical. I lower the suitcase tenderly and open it, leave it lying like a gaping maw.

For several moments I stare at the wardrobe. I picture the clothes inside the drawers: cotton maternity dresses; baggy jumpers, easy to lift for breast feeding; elasticated jeans; vast, comfortable pants - white, pink, grey. These are the clothes I own. This is how I dress. I go to the top drawer and pull it open. The suitcase waits, open-mouthed.

The monitor crackles. Daisy gives a whimper, which crescendos into a miserable wail, and moves restlessly. Before I think I find myself at the cot, reaching down to her. I see at once she's hot, and lift her carefully from her grobag. She screams and waves her hands in despair.

"No, no, no," I croon, resting her against my shoulder, "no, no, no."

I lay her on the changing table and dab calamine on her spots. She tears the air with her cries, but calms once the cool lotion touches her skin. I pick her up. Her sobs dwindle to a sad little grumble. I look into her face as she nestles in the crook of my arm and she blinks up at me. She lifts a hand.

"No," I begin, but instead of clawing at her scabs she reaches up and touches my face. The mitten is soft and warm, resting against my cheek. Then she gives a little, hiccupping sigh and her hand drops. She turns her head, mouth working, and I feed her. She drinks only a little before dropping back to sleep.

I hold her in my arms for a while. I take her hand and gently peel the mitten over her fingers. I slip one of my own into her grasp and she grips tightly in her sleep. Her skin is warm and dry, her nails white against red. I notice, too, that her fingertips are slightly flared, like mine.

She breathes deeply, sound asleep. I slide the mitten back on and button it securely. I lay her on her back and brush a light hand over her head, watching as the hair floats like down.

I go back to the bedroom and pack my suitcase with the clothes I have destroyed. Then I take it down and empty it into the dustbin in the garden. Leaning against the peeling fence, with the stink of rubbish in my nose, I cry violently. Then I go inside and wait for James to come home.

Going Home - Short Story.

Two girls sat beside me on the train. I could tell what they thought of me from the way their eyes flickered. I reckon they could tell what I thought of them cause I never hid my sneer. Expensive long boots over tight jeans with designer fading on the thighs. A green shirt on one of them what surely cost more than I earned in a week. And there's me in my Cherokee jeans and fat girl jumper. Asda. One of them smiled at me but I never rose to it, only looked out the window and let my hair fall over my face.

They sat. It took them a while. Once they was settled they started talking. Loud. It sounded like their tongues twisted inside their mouths when they spoke. They talked about dogs. One of them handed over a mobile and said:
- Isn't this the cutest dog you've ever seen? The other goes:
- Oh! A-dorable! How old is he?
- She's four.
And then the second girl says:
- Is that dog or human years?
God help me, I never had a dog but even I know dog years go in sevens. Four years old human is 28 years dog.
Soon after, they started talking about "Uni" and how stupid their friends from home are for not leaving London. They're all puffed up cause they were brave and went away from Mummy's cooking.
- Why go to Uni at all if all you're going to do is hang around with the same old crowd? the dark one said.
- Yar, goes the redhead. Oh yar.

I would of liked to go to university. I was good at school. Best in my class and got good GCSEs. 6 Bs, 2 Cs. I had to fight to do 8 subjects, and Mr Trimble in Geography didn't know anything and couldn't keep control of the class. This one time Ben Jones stuffed him in the book cupboard. We all thought he'd get expelled for sure this time, but they never. His Dad said he had a legal right to an education so the headmaster couldn't do anything to him but give him a detention, which Ben never did. I never understood Ben. He's a smart bloke but he only got Ds and Es and left school straight after. Now he's a brickie by trade. It bores him half to death so he gets in fights at the pub - with yuppies, mostly, cause he thinks they take money out the pockets of real working men. He got his head kicked in by some bloke in a suit once. They ended up having a drink together. Ben goes Fair's fair, and they shake hands and have a pint. There's Ben trying to drink with his lips burst and a broke up nose. The suit guy took him to hospital when he wouldn't stop bleeding. Ben told us later he was part of the Mafia, but there's no way. He was just some bloke in a suit.

Don't know how I come to think on Ben after all these years. I've not been back home in twelve. It's them girls what made me remember school. If I'd gone to Uni I'd of got as far away from home as I could, but not so's I could make new friends - just so's I could run away from the old lot. Don't be ashamed of where you come from, says Dad - but why the hell not when I come from a place where Ben Jones is the local hero for kicking in yuppies when he could of done anything he wanted with the brains he got.

The girls have stopped talking now. The redhead is looking at pictures on her phone with a cosy smile on her face. There's something about her makes me want to hurt her. I don't know why. The other girl - the dark one - is using a pink highlighter on a book called Jurisprudence, and there are two more books beside her. The redhead hands over her phone and the dark one looks and laughs.
- So funny, she says. We were so drunk!
- I know! the other one says, flicking her hair so I notice. We were trying to be so sexy, dressed up as Asterix & Obelix!
They both laugh.
- Wasn't Ben a riot? says the redhead, and I get a chill of coincidence at the name. He couldn't come with anyone so he came as Superman and Clark Kent.
The dark one gives a shriek, remembering.
- He kept changing clothes! He was in the loo every twenty minutes! And that girl Catherine never realised there weren't two of them!
- Oh - my - God! giggles the redhead. She is so stupid!

They snigger for a while, then the dark one goes back to her book. The redhead stares out the window. She's already bored. She drinks fussily from a bottle of water, making little sighs between each sip. She studies her nails. She smooths her jeans. You can see she wants her friend to stop reading and pay attention but the dark one is busy with the highlighter again. In the end the redhead says:
- I'll get my book.
She goes into her handbag - one of them ones with a little Scottie dog as a tag, I forget the name - and brings out Nights at the Circus.
- This is so boring, she sighs.
I've read it. She's totally wrong. I'd love to tell her that, but I look out the window instead, watch the swoop of telegraph lines. It's no shock she doesn't like Angela Carter. Not exactly a deep thinker, is she? She's better off with Asterix & Obelix.

We're going through the countryside now, and it's green, green, green. There's a field with three horses in it and they're standing with their noses touching. Then one of them skitters and tosses his head and suddenly they're all racing round the field because the Spring is in their blood. It all happens as we flash past, but now it's in my head like a snatch of film. Maybe cause he's in my head already, it makes me think of Ben Jones.

Our class was taken to a farm for a field trip and there was horses there. Ben was so quiet. He just stood at the gate stroking the nose of a dark brown horse. I never saw his eyes like that, before or since. Like velvet, he said, but only I heard him.

Later, a kid called Travis put pepper on the horse's nose and set it sneezing and gurning, lifting its lip to show off huge yellow teeth. Everyone laughed - even Mr Chapman - but later, when the teacher wasn't looking, Ben punched Travis in the stomach and kicked him in the balls.

We're nearly there. One more stop and it's home - for me, anyway. The girls beside me are curled up, feet on the seats, like children. They won't get off where I do. They'll be going all the way to London and Mummy's cooking. I don't see girls like them at home. They wouldn't last 5 minutes. Blokes like Ben Jones would destroy them. So would girls like me.

With every clack of the wheels I can feel the city I was born to getting closer and closer. I read about black holes, how they draw everything in and then crush them into nothing. That's home. Home is where the heart is, Dad says, and it's true. My heart was crushed long ago.