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Short Stories written in the Spring of 2015
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LOWER THAN THE TABLE
as soon as he steps through the door he can smell it. it lingers in the air, clinging to the walls and the furniture as though it belongs to the building itself, is part of the architecture. to his right, just past two coats, hangs a postcard of what looks like paris. standing in the tiny hallway he feels unusually tall. he peels of his boots and searches briefly for a good place to put them. there is none. he places them carefully in the corner of one of the door frames, peers around it, over maddy's head, looking for sophie. deeper in the room sophie hangs back, shoulders a little lopsided, hands together, hair wispy over her shoulder. their eyes meet. pushing past maddy he hugs her and the sharp contours of her frame press into him. she is like a bird, small after winter. it's so good to see you, he says. sophie smiles.
the sofa is low, much lower than the table. sophie stretches out her legs, crossing them at the the ankles, wriggling toes in green socks. maddy perches opposite. i've been trying to work freelance she says, peering over between a laptop and a vase of plastic flowers, but i've only had one job so far. luke is paying the rent, paying for everything. she shifts in her seat, pulls her sleeves over her hands. i feel quite bad, she says. the room is more like a cell. grubby white and a low ceiling. half torn envelopes and empty plastic packaging cover most surfaces. there is one shelf on the wall. it hangs crooked. a cup in the shape of a grinning cow nestles among the debris. he turns to sophie. how are you, how is everyone, he says. she leans back into the corner of the sofa. yeah, i'm ok. my sister's in morocco on her trip of a lifetime. she stops, eyes betraying her distance. would you like some cake maddy says or some tea. what kind of cake, he says. chocolate cake. sophie brought it. yes. he follows her the five steps into the kitchen. tea cartons are pile up in the corner nearest the door, partly obscurred by boxes of cat food. i'm donating these maddy says. nigel won't eat them. he's too fussy. he laughs. she apologises about the mess. we've just been shopping she says.
how was your performance sophie says. he explains, skipping details. tired of repeating himself. maddy brings the tea. a cup with cartoon sparrows on it for sophie, a ceramic mug for him, an intricate blue pattern inside. beautiful mug, he says. yes, its caren parker says maddy. he nods. mmmm. he does not know what maddy is talking about. holding her cup in both hands sophie leans back. do you still speak swedish, he asks her. a little. i've forgotten most of it. it's been a while. she laughs. she sips her tea.
maddy places three large plates with three small slices of cake in front of them. sophie finishes her slice before he is even halfway through his. he watches his fork slice through the icing. he doesn't much like cake. he takes a bite. i'm in an internet battle with this bitch from leeds maddy giggles. you what, he says. websites, maddy says. we have the same name so sometimes her website is above mine in the search engine. i've been clicking on hers to make it go down. right, he says. he sips his tea. the desk in the far corner of the room in front of the window is covered in papers, scribbles, drawings. no colours. just off centre there sits a plate. whatever liquid was once on it has dried leaving a residue shaped not unlike a cuttlefish. this is the first job i got maddy says, handing him a book bound in green. i only use pen and ink. nice, he says, flicking through.
we're moving house says sophie. he turns. really. when. we're not sure yet, soon. that's exciting he says. won't you be sad to leave it maddy says. won't you think it's wierd to imagine other people living there, living right there where you grew up, using those same rooms. won't you think about who might be sitting at your corner of the table and whether they'll find that engraving you discovered in the outer wall and won't you find it strange. sophie cocks her head, smiles slightly. no not really. there is a rustling under the other sofa, the one with its back to the table. nigel's blue eyes stare at him from the shadows. he stretches out a hand. he draws back. i'm just trying to find the list says maddy, rumaging in the bookshelf. he and sophie exhange a glance. what list, he says. the list of the names of all his family, they have show names, they're really funny, one of them is called dionysus, maddy says. he looks at sophie. they laugh. there is a crack in the white paint of the table running all along the edge of it. he wonders how long it has been there. we should go camping, he says to sophie. her eyes lighten. again she tells him about that summer when she worked in the ukraine. i'm sorry i never replied to your letter he says. i started one and then i lost it in the move. maddy shuffles back to the table. i can't find it, they're really funny though. oh, says sophie.
the light from the lamp is very white. bouncing harshly off the walls it creates strange shadows amongst the books and cups and empty packaging, creates strange worlds between their shapes. sophie yawns. there is scraping noise from the floor near the kitchen. i can't stand the smell maddy says. sometimes he poos so that there are lots of tiny little bits. once i counted fourteen bits of poo. maddy giggles. sophie looks at him.
leaving, he opens the door to find his boots no longer neatly together but strewn across the floor. he picks them up, puts them on. down by the bottom of the radiator there is a pile of small kitchen knives covered in dust. i want to photograph them before i throw them away says maddy.
BREATH
last night (i had gone to bed early) i felt the springs give under the pressure of her body. i traced the careful silence of her movements. her arms, knees, shoulders softly disturbing the air between their contact with the mattress. i lay very still. she lay down. shifting one, two, three, four times she settled. close. i lay tense, attempting to gage the distance between us. my right hand nestled under my head, my hair splayed out half convering my face. her breath spreading out over me. suspended i absorbed her. unable to sense just how close she was and burning to discover it i admit i glanced. warily and then, seeing her eyes shut in their half moon curves, lingering. i felt her feel it or i tell myself i did. a slight self-consciousness in her breathing, a shifting then a pointed stillness. then she moved away.
i write at the kitchen table. dull brown wood shows through beneath worn black paint. she moves around making tea, a hot water bottle, opening the door of the little room with the sink, her back all the time turned to me. her head remains static, following the direction of her feet. the gush of the tap, the resounding click as the kettle settles back onto its base, the clatter of the door handle. every move noisy, obvious. leaving the room without a glance beyond her stride she is gone. the whirring of the fan from the restaurant downstairs punctuates the darkness.
some days later there is a hardness in her eyes, a distance i cannot fathom. she holds her teacup tightly in one hand while i stand with my weight on one leg, my head tilted half towards the window. i start to speak and then stop. with my right hand i re-arrange the daffodils. my movements are awkward, clumsy, instrusive. the flowers' scent settles heavily in my brain. there aren't many candles left i say. she stares out past the sillouettes of leaves outside the window. the leaves aren't moving. steam rises slowly from her cup. how was your day? i say.
i am undressing when she enters the room. she is tired. she has been working long hours i know. as she crosses the room she looks at me sideways. we lie in bed. we talk about the day. she turns the lights off.
it is in the early hours when i realise that her arm is on mine. heavy and resting. i breathe. after a while i move, turn on my side, nestle my leg against hers. i sleep. later she turns over and shifts her back close to mine. i sense her floating in a state between sleeping and waking. breaking,shifting, seeking, the dance continues until morning.
over breakfast we laugh and talk of imaginary lovers, we talk of daffodils and sunshine. as i leave my cheek rests on her forehead perhaps just for a moment too long.
THE VISION
the train rolled away just as she put her suitcase down on the platform. re-adjusting the strap on her rucksack she looked up, looked around. a blue plastic bag floated down the brink of the platform. it rustled lightly, bouncing, twisting, jerking in the breeze; dancing with the edge.she watched it until it became entangled in a stray luggage trolley. she exhaled. the yellow lamplight shimmered dimly on the grubby once white floor. she noticed a scuffmark that vaguely resembled a horseshoe. from where she was standing it lay tilted on it's side. not unlucky then but not exactly good luck either. a breeze caught her face and she looked up just quick enough to see a swallow's tail flit past. for a moment a strange light, perhaps a softness flickered on her eyes. the swallow dissapeared high up in the curved iron roof beams. she wearily bent down to pick up her case and the click of her heels reverberated through the arches. the paint was peeling and dirty but still the same green. she started as a train rushed past her, through the station and not stopping. as it thundered away the wind following in its wake loosened a few strands of her auburn hair. she stood for a moment cloaked in a silence that hung heavy like damp clothes after a long hike in the rain. she closed her eyes and listened. she listened for a memory, a welcome. she listened for shouts and rushing feet and laughter and whispers.
we're closing the station now.
her eyes flew open to reveal a man in a high viz vest, an earring, and eyebrows of the kind that appear as if they might, someday, crawl off the bearers face to begin a new life in the amazon.
he stood and watched her as she walked, quickly now, towards the entrance. it yawned above her, a dark and ugly mouth framed by the white jagged teeth of the archway. the high pitched click-click of her shoes became a duller tone as she stepped through and out into the street. hesitating, she turned her head to the right, just enough to see that he was still standing as before, still watching. sharply she turned left. her suitcase swinging heavily by her side she was swallowed up by the lights of the city.
FIVE OF THEM
each one brought with it the same satisfaction. even a new thrill, the slightest bit different to the time before. to begin with he had been unsure whether it was the anticipation or the actual sensation of the moment that was the greatest release but, after many days out in the garden, he had come to see that both held equal weight. all things considered, today had been quite a good day. the sun had appeared from time to time, tickling his nose and his eyelashes but he was pleased all the same. the garden was in order. the leeks healthy and the carrots in straight rows, their light green fronds swaying up against the dark leathery cabbages. he wondered sometimes whether they minded, the carrots i mean, whether they perhaps felt threatened by the cabbages presence, whether they felt vulnerable and whether he should, perhaps next spring, plant them in a different row. but each year when springtime finally came he could never decide whether they would in fact be happier nearer the fence, or by the shed on the other side of the potatoes. but the shed was old, half rotten and looming crookedly. and on the other side of the fence there lived a goat so it seemed to him that neither of these places would offer any real improvement. as he chased a thieving sparrow away from the tomato seedlings he asked himself whether, were he to die, he would prefer to be crushed by the insect riddled structure of a building or to be eaten. he thought for quite a while, seated on a small three-legged stool, oak, made by his grandmother, running his thumb over the rust on the handle of the watering can. a centipede advanced ahead of him. just along the line where the earth changed colour from dusty path to vegetable bed. he decided that perhaps it would be better to be eaten if whoever was doing the eating went about it the proper way: head off first, no pain. or at least minimal pain. a short burst before the world became darkness and he became stew. a building on the other hand...no. imagine! the tumbled structure probably wouldn't kill you, at least not immediately. at least not a building like his shed. and then you would be buried, probably - injured, definately. and waiting. just waiting amongst the insects, shards of long forgotten lives and disgruntled spiders. no, better - much better to be eaten. he scraped out some rust that had caught under his thumbnail and flicked it through the fence. sunlight glinted in an upper window to the right of him.fourth floor. moments later it was pushed up, pushed open and a girl, no, probably a woman, appeared laughing. peering at the sun through half-closed lashes she laughed again. as he looked up, craning his neck, she dissapeared inside and the window slid down like a guillotine. he cursed. he had dropped his watering can. now he had a wet foot. he very much disliked having wet feet. he glanced up again at the sky and, noting that there were no very grey clouds and a substantial amount of blue to be seen, sat again on the stool and preceded to take off his shoe, then his sock. it was as he was reaching diagonally behind him to hang sock and shoe on a fence point to dry that he saw them. five of them. making their way oh so slowly, audaciously towards the carrots. the light groan complaining of the ache in his back withered in his throat. his arm hung suspended, the sock in his hand dangled and danced. wind direction: north westerly. he let it fall as he rose and flop listlessly in the dust. his gaze fixed he backed away towards the shed, wincing slightly when his one bare foot found sharp objects hidden in the dust. the sun seemed to glare. his hands stretched out behind him, reaching, fingers crawling in the air. ah, the window ledge, now slightly more to the right. nails scraping lightly through the grime he found the nail. the furrow in his brow relaxed a little as he closed his fingers gently around its long shaft flecked with golden red rust. he breathed in its weight, the sinews in his arms flexing. his eyes remained intent. armed now he could feel the blood pumping in his ears and he put his bare foot forward. then his other and in three strides he was there.
joyeously he watched it writhe. slime oozing from its naked uneven body and dripping down, down, down. just before it was to reach his thumb and forefinger he removed it with a dockleaf. Depositing the little coffin at his feet he defty speared the next.
having finished he stood, straight and breathing deeply, the sun's glare now welcome, warming. with his left hand he plucked another dockleaf growing under the fence, and carefully wiping the nail brought it back to its niche on the ledge. he moved quickly - collecting all five of them with a trowel, adding them to the bucket with the others. his sock and shoe long forgotten.