Maroon

I had always hated the colour, even if my mother referred to it as ‘wine’. It was still yuck.
Changing schools was a frightening enough experience, but even worse were the pleated skirts. I watched from the top deck of the bus as the bigger girls swished and sashayed with skill beyond their years as they migrated towards the boy’s fence. Hemlines shrank. Girls danced. Boys showed off.
It was the colour of congealed blood. Some bright spark thought blue trim helped.
My worst day began before I’d stepped on the premises. The day I opened the crumpled plastic bag.
‘It will save money, ’Mum said.
Someone had cast off a hand knitted V-necked jumper. It sat limply at the bottom of the bag. It was a boy’s jumper. A woollen jumper. It sagged. It had pulls. It was too big. It smelled. It was mine. And it was maroon

Grotto

I felt secure on the eighth floor. I wouldn’t be bothered by children Trick or Treating but the scream did seem real and that was how I found myself on the next floor down, how I found myself calling my neighbour’s name.
‘Hello? Mrs Brownson? Hello?’
Her door was ajar by inches; I pushed it further and stepped on to broken glass. I called again but hoped she wasn’t there, the hair on my neck told me something I couldn’t see.
Thousands of coloured shards twinkled, shined and reflected as I crunched into her apartment. A myriad of bottle green, cobalt blue and brown merged and shone, prisms bounced and a kaleidoscope of colours blinded and I shielded my eyes. It was stunningly beautiful.
The kitchen revealed apparatus for blown glass. Some hobby. I spotted a clear vessel, a vase in the making, now broken, it was embellished with a smudged blood red pattern and I didn’t want to see more. I knew what lay on the other side of the counter.

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Park Life

I’m sitting watching. Watching the children run around screaming that awful high pitched squeal that hurts the ears. Watching as new coats are dragged round and round the roundabout with ticking buttons scuffing. School shoes being leathered. Waste of bloody money. Who is disappearing into the bushes? Why the frantic shouting? Oh bloody hell, fat mother has found him and is yanking his arm out of its socket. Silly little sod.

 Must get back to the old man and bounce on his knee like a kid.

Mahogany

Cutting, sawing, cutting, sawing. Save for the lone birdsong it was all she could hear. Then it stopped. He was coming back. Was he walking on crushed stone? There was silence before fourteen bangs of a hammer. She tried to blink, tried to close her eyes, tried to dislodge the duck tape and willed her breathing to slow. She needed to hear. She could smell leaves, wood smoke. Was he close? Footsteps and silence. Footsteps and silence. An engine started, it sounded like the pick-up he had carried her in. It faded and the frantic struggle for freedom began.
Held upright in the hardwood box hurt her knees; her clothes were caked in crap. She had to get a grip.

Drowning my Sorrows

I reached for the table but it slipped away. Elbowing the chrome chair didn’t work either, I tried to get a grip and it scraped away from me.  I sat on the kitchen floor and laughed. I laughed until tears ran down my face, I laughed until I hurt and watched the drips pool as one. I dipped my finger in, spread it into a smiley face.

  I crawled like a baby into the sitting room and tugged myself onto the sofa. What would the neighbours say if they could see me? Who gives a stuff what the neighbours think.  The idea of my big fat arse wiggling along the floor made me laugh some more, but not so heartily. Was that my blood? I licked my finger, I must have cut myself. I don’t remember. I don’t want to. Not now, I was enjoying myself.

Deliverance

Earth as hard as iron, water like a stone.  Sun with no strength, pale, washed out orb ready to extinguish, melt on the horizon. She pushed on through deep snow following Land Rover tracks across moorland. Blue, everything was blue; save for the orb. Salvation lay ahead. Ahead was release. All was still. Silent. No sound except the steady crunch beneath her feet.  And her breathing.  Rhythmic, alive. She was breathing.  A sheep stared, stayed stock still, she passed by. If she reached out the spell would be broken. She walked on. Ahead was sanctuary. Earth as hard as iron, water like a stone.

Disappointment

We enter competitions full of hope.  Deep down we know we haven't a cat in hells chance of winning.  But...a litttle bit of us does hope. The disappointment still hurts. I must cultivate a thick skin...funny that...I've been trying to do it all my life without success.  I don't think it is going to happen now.