Short Stories, Writing

Showboating

You think what you hated most about the party, though you would be hard pressed to settle on just one thing, was the endless parade of new couples.

They showboated their untested relationships as they walked around the room, smirking as if their lives were complete now this person had decided to put the weight of their arm, on the back of their neck.

They seem to drip with each other, melt into each other, screaming to their exes and estranged parents, ‘see I told you I was loveable,’ and once in a while they would summon you over, invite you into their private world, to drop hints about their new possessions, new sleeping arrangements and all the new vulnerabilities they had shared that morning. You would smile, nod, remember how lovely it had been at the start, then look for an exit. Continue reading “Showboating”

Short Stories, Writing

Hands

I read some poetry and prose out on at a short story night. This is the first time I have done such a thing, and it was terrifying.

me

My hands were shaking. I was wearing too much grey. I had torn a bit of my paper off to put chewing gum in without thinking. I read too fast. People were sitting in intimidating chairs. I started with a poem. I didn’t know how to write poetry. It didn’t rhyme. I had drunk some wine (lots of wine.)

But it went okay! Like, I think. I don’t know. No one punched me afterwards. Continue reading “Hands”

Short Stories, Writing

Show Boating

It is only now that you hate the showboating. The couples who scream ‘look at us, look at how truly loveable we are,’ as if their lives are only complete with the weight of an arm on the back of their neck, and aren’t you lucky to be let into that world albeit briefly as they drop hints about their new possessions. The public bickering is worse though, tearing each other apart like no one else can. You could tell these two, Tony’s cousin and her new beau, don’t stand a chance. The the biggest sign of a failing relationship is treating the other with contempt, and the thread she just picked off his jacket before telling him that’s what you get for being cheap is a sign of abject failure. They would be separated this side of Christmas. You funnel your way through the room. Moving from one side of the even to the other. Picking apart everything as you go. You stop by a mound of glistening meat, and you pick at it. You pick at the white bits within the pink, like they are skin.

Continue reading “Show Boating”

Short Stories, Writing

Women’s Own

She was reading a yellowed magazine in her doctor’s waiting room. It was filled with stock photos of people sitting in front of unpaid bills or windows smeared with rain, staring contemplatively into space. The people would look vacantly or despairingly at the piles of paper, through the glass, into the abyss. It bought out an odd feeling in her. Like she had missed out. It made her feel alienated or uninvited in a schoolyard kind of way. Continue reading “Women’s Own”

Short Stories, Writing

Recollections of Encounters with Lauded and Respected Artists by their less Notable Peers often Mention an Odd Quirk held by the Normally Enigmatic Figure.

The people who make money using their imaginations turned up in force at the opening of the chic Parisian hotel “La Fleur de Mes Reins,” last night. First to arrive was the conceptual artist who posed for photos with a daffodil in his hat, a cigarette in his mouth and a glass decanter containing the finest Single Hiland Malt Scotch. It remained firmly attached to his side all night, and likely long into the next day. Soul mate and muse to the conceptual artist, the writer, arrived shortly after leaving a trail of disposable white gloves in his wake. The gloves were replaced with each new person he met or room he entered, leaving behind such a trail of latex that the hotels previous and less ostentatious use was bought to mind. Continue reading “Recollections of Encounters with Lauded and Respected Artists by their less Notable Peers often Mention an Odd Quirk held by the Normally Enigmatic Figure.”
Short Stories, Writing

The Autobiography of a Noteable Female Poet

It is said that this notable female poet was born in the North of the country, but that is up for dispute. Her bones were found in the South of the country, but some suspect they were moved there by her last lover in order to displace suspicion they were responsible for her untimely death.

But whose death is timely or planned? I knew the poet moderately. We frequented the same dinners, the same cafes and the same reading circuits. Sometimes I got to perform my work before her, mostly prose about a childhood spent in warm foreign climates. I moved around a lot as a child. Continue reading “The Autobiography of a Noteable Female Poet”

Short Stories, Writing

Everybody’s free to wear fishing gloves

Stop fishing for compliments, if your not getting them it’s because that person does not want you to have them. Rather compliment them until they become awkward and excuse themselves to talk to someone else. Enjoy fun, but hover your bedroom floor once in a while, it’s covered in your hair. Only your hair. Don’t use your emotional intellect for evil. You are smart enough to know the tricks you play to put off the inevitable.  That relationship will die, the credit card will not pay itself, you will not loose weight through sit ups and love can be a trick biology plays on you.

Not always. Learn to tell the difference.  Indecisiveness is a sign of weakness. There will always be a better coffee shop further along the street and their will always be sushi but sometimes you have to make do. Hide your light under a bushel, bring it out on special occasions and not to validate your childhood. Your tastes are maturing and changing but you are never gonna be one of those girls who can tell an anecdote with thoughtful timing and correct detail, so store them up to be written down in the guises of other characters who are more articulate. Maybe learn to be more articulate.  Start embracing awkwardness and embarassments. Dance with mistakes and failings and move on. Move to the isle of skye and have a torrid lover affair with a fisherman who is far too old for you but the stories he tells as he lays his cod soaked fingers on your stomach.